Author: Mrs. Completely

Bird Flipping, a Birthday Party and a Hospital

My parents turned 80 this year and, as befitting such an accomplishment, my older sister organized a combined Birthday Party for them.  At least I think it was just her, but it may have included up to two other sisters as well (there are 4 of us after all).  I never thought to ask and now I feel slightly horrible because I had no responsibility other than showing up at the best restaurant in town at 2:00pm.

It’s slightly more than 400km (250 miles) from my house to the best restaurant in Barrhead so I had to use math, my fingers and reverse counting to make sure my arrival was early enough but not too early (Dad’s a stickler about timing).  So it went kind of like this:

  • I have to be there at 2:00pm so I had better be there at 1:30pm.
  • It takes about 4 hours to get there so….12:30, 11:30, 10:30, 9:30……
  • Give yourself an extra half hour for traffic jams, speeding tickets and assholes who drive the exact speed limit in the fast lane.…..9:00am.
  • I’ll put some make-up on and since I haven’t done that in like 8 months I had better give myself a good 45 minutes in case I have to start all over at least once (and I did have to start over once)……8:15am.
  • I need 20 minutes for a shower (thank Gawd I don’t need to shave my legs because that would have added another 15 minutes to my prep time)…..7:55am.
  • I’ll make the coffee and it can brew while I’m in the shower…..7:45am.

I ripped through every article of clothing I own on Tuesday in an effort to find the perfect combination of nice but not too nice – it’s a Birthday Party, not a Royal Wedding.  After two hours, one crying fit, one rage against the designers of womens clothing, eloquently fat-shaming myself and a serious consideration of just showing up naked….I found an outfit I considered understated yet classy.  To be honest, it included Yoga Pants because 9 hours in a vehicle wearing dress pants makes me cranky.  The shirt was nice though and I found an old pair of Opal earrings that were perfect.

I went to bed Tuesday night knowing I had everything under control.

And I really did have things under control.  Right up to the moment I hit the highway.  You see, I was driving The Viking’s truck, not my Rav 4.  I couldn’t take my vehicle because The Viking found a crack in one of the tires and some scuffs on the rim.

Him:  Did you hit a curb?!

Me (avoiding eye contact):  No.  Why?

Him:  The rim is scratched, and the tire has a big crack in it!

Me:  What?!

Him:  Did you let someone else drive your car?

Me:  No.  I mean Yes.

Him (giving me the stink eye):  Was it Junior?

Me:  No.  Yes.

Him (very loudly but not yet loud enough for him to call it ‘yelling’):  You let Junior drive your car?!

Me:  Yes.  I mean NO!  NO!  I didn’t let Junior drive my car.

Him:  …..

Me:  Oh for fuck’s sake!!  Yes I hit a damned curb!  Twice actually.  The first time it was bad city planning, and the second time it was Mim’s fault because she distracted me by talking while I was driving.

So.  I was driving the big 1-ton dually and it has significantly more horse-power which turns me into a shouting, fist-shaking, finger-flipping, hair-tossing Harpy.  I’m the sweetest driver on the planet when I’m driving my RAV, but Tina the Truck brings out the worst in me.  And someone taking 20 minutes in the fast lane to pass someone in the slow lane drives me bananas.  In the following 2 and a half hours I was forced to flip the bird to 4 drivers.

via GIPHY

And then one other driver flipped the bird at me.  As a matter of fact, they almost missed their exit so they could flip me the bird and that made my day.  You have to admire such commitment.

I was telling my one sister (she drives the big transport trucks) about my finger flipping and she said she’s had to use both of her flipping fingers so much they’ve become Arthritic.  She showed them to me.  “See?  Look at that poor little fucker.” (pointing with her other flipping finger).  True story.  A cautionary tale, if you will.

Due to construction and two freight trains my half hour buffer was toast, as was my early arrival allowance and I was forced into passing several vehicles that I normally wouldn’t bother with.  I could just see my father waiting at the door to the restaurant, tapping his watch.  “Cutting it a little fine, aren’t you Lor?”  So, imagine my surprise when I arrived at precisely 1:54pm to find no one was there.  Please, dear Gawd, don’t let me have the wrong day!  I asked a waitress and she assured me there was a reservation for 10 at 2:00pm.  But that’s only 5 minutes away and no one has arrived.

As it happened, everyone in the family is much better at nailing the time perfectly because at 1:59pm Mom was carefully exiting my older sister’s vehicle while everyone else was waiting for 1:59:59 before stepping into the building.  Well…..I think that’s what they were waiting for.

Guess who wasn’t standing at the main doors tapping his watch?  That’s right…..Dad.  We all milled around wondering what could possibly have kept him from making inappropriate comments to waitresses, arguing with his daughters and being the center of attention?  Those are the main sources of his life’s joy so it caused mass confusion in the herd.

It turned out he had to be taken to the hospital.    He wasn’t doing well and we were all quite concerned.  Thankfully, he was fine – an infection and some COPD – and after annoying his roommate and, more than likely, annoying the nurses for two days, they sent him home.

As for my drive home, it was far less eventful because there wasn’t any pressure to be perfect.  No one was at home tapping his watch and shaking his head.  The Viking was happily playing computer slots and enjoying the solitude when I finally got home.  And…..he had a kiss on deck.

Annual Health Review

I had an annual ‘Health Review’ today.  I’m not a fan.  I’m not sure why – there is nothing truly horrible about them but somehow I feel the same way about Health Reviews that I feel about any other sort of review.  Like the ‘Let’s review what you should have done under the circumstances’ or the ‘Let’s review why this didn’t work’ or ‘Let’s review your underwhelming performance at lawn mowing’*.

No one wants to give you a review if you’ve been great at something.  No one ever said, ‘Let’s review how you won that Gold Medal at the Olympics’ or ‘Let’s review how you delivered that baby in the back seat of your taxi’.  They don’t review that at all!  They give you a medal or an award or name a street after you.

At my age, a Health Review begins before I ever make it to my Doctor’s Examining Table.  They send me to be drained of blood, to pee in a small jug and this year a new kind of fuckery called a Stool Sample. And, to make it as inconvenient as possible, you have to go to the Lab to get the kit to get your stool sample so you can bring it back to them when you arrive for the other tests.  And if you don’t want to sit in the waiting room for 23 hours you have to make an appointment, so you only have to wait 12 hours in the waiting room.

This year they made me recite my full name and birth date before they would drain my blood.  I asked if this was a trick or something?  What if I get the answers wrong?  Will you not drain my blood and accept my warm jug of urine?  Apparently, it helps them make sure my body fluids aren’t confused with anyone else’s body fluids but what if that other person’s body fluids pass more reviews?  That would be to my advantage, wouldn’t it?

The Blood Drainer wasn’t amused.  She took all my blood and told me my Doctor (Janna) would be ‘in touch’, but that was a complete fabrication because my Doctor never calls me.  The admirable Natalie, of Front Desk Fame, calls me and tells me when to present myself at the clinic a week or two hence.  I didn’t bother to explain this to The Drainer though because I may have already annoyed her.

As it turned out Natalie called me the following day to say Janna wanted to see me.  Stat.  Thank Gawd I didn’t annoy The Drainer as much as I could have because Natalie sent me for more drainage.

Long story short….Janna started throwing around words like ‘Sugar’ and ‘Diabetes’.  She sent me to see another Doctor (Buki) who sent me for more drainage.  Now I have two Doctors who will, in all likelihood, give me more ‘reviews’.  And Janna demanded my presence today for the regular Health Review that I’ve been dodging for 3 years, because I am more than just my Back and my Diabetes.  Apparently.

After the preliminaries of weight and height, she reviewed my tests, said my blood pressure and cholesterol were great, my heart was a machine and my lungs were stellar.

Me:  Yes, but what about my stool sample?  Did they find anything really interesting in it?  Like a tooth or a gold nugget?

Her:  No, but if there had been any gold in it the Lab Technician would have kept it.

Me:  That’s probably what happened – that Technician looked shifty to me.

Once I was on the table, she went straight to work in the murky depths beneath the sheet.  She’s chatting away about vacations and stuff, but suddenly stops and says….

“Huh.  Your vagina goes to the right and it’s tipped back.  That’s a bit challenging.”

via GIPHY

I’m not sure what I should have said to this.  Several ideas popped into mind:

  • Maybe it’s Strategic Evasion Maneuvers. I almost fell this morning, maybe it was my vagina making a hard right turn.
  • Maybe it’s shy. It’s not like it gets out to socialize very often.  It’s more like an introvert really.  Or….
  • Maybe it’s just a willful and contrary orifice determined to get a bad review.

Whatever the case, after a moment of rummaging she said, “Oh!  There it is!”

When I told The Viking about my vagina, he didn’t seem surprised at all.  He must have known it all along but deliberately kept that fact to himself.  Next time I have a Health Review, I’ll be asking him the state of my vagina so I don’t have any more surprises.  He’s more familiar with it than I am, after all.

So.  To review:  My heart, lungs, blood pressure and cholesterol are fantastic, but I don’t get an award.  My pancreas got a terrible review and is now a subject of ridicule and Organ Bullying.  And my Mammogram gave the boobs an A+.

Still no award though.

 

*I deliberately mowed the lawn terribly because my Mom said, “Don’t do any chore for your husband unless you want to do it forever”.  So, when Stanley asked me to mow the lawn I mowed the lawn….kind of like a crop circle before crop circles became popular.  Now that I think about it though, I should have received some sort of award or recognition for the idea of crop circles because it would have countered the resulting ‘review’ of my lawn mowing skills.

The Cats Are Pissed and The Viking gets a Brain Freeze

The Viking and I decided it was time to simplify our lives.  And then we promptly went about making our lives 100 times more complicated.  This involved making two 2500 km (1553 miles) trips to Lake Havasu City in Arizona within the space of a month and an additional trip to Mount Vernon, Washington.  All of this to sell our humungous Toy Hauler and buy a smaller trailer that has more living space.

There were cross-border inspections, and taxes and mountains of forms to fill out.  It’s been crazy, but at least we hit the peak and are heading back downhill.  Not a nice, un-catastrophic slide downhill, but more of giant, out-of-control run with arms flailing and girly screams.

The cats quit talking to us after the second trip.  Even Teddy – who normally loves me to pieces – isn’t giving me the ‘love eyes’ or purring – he’s just giving me wounded looks over his shoulder as he goes to Junior for his loves.  Izzie, on the other hand, transformed into an evil, angry, clawing succubus.  She’s already half feral on her father’s side and our absence gave her an excuse to completely embrace the wild side.  We managed to pull her back from the brink with several discussions, all of which involved her dangling by the scruff of her neck.*

There were good times during those dark days, though.  We got drunk at a hotel swimming pool and I fell off a chair.  To be fair, the chair was compromised before I ever sat in it.  A group of lady Norwegians on the other side of the pool were totally prepared to help me, but The Viking managed to get my laughing ass off the cement.

I made friends with a salesman at an RV dealership who appeared to really like my boobs.  Under normal circumstances I would be a bit offended, but the poor guy was so bedazzled he sold us the trailer waaaaay below what he should have sold it for.  My boobs saved us about $5000.  I let him have a hug as a consolation prize.  As for the boobs…..it’s about time they started to earn their keep.  Bras are expensive!

On another note:  This is a cat with a brain freeze.

via GIPHY

 

 

 

 

And this is The Viking with a brain freeze.

 

 

 

And here…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And here….

 

 

 

I think we offended an elderly couple in a restaurant with our goofiness, but it’s okay, they were old and if anyone asked them to pick us out of a line-up I’m confident they wouldn’t recognize us.  Unless The Viking has a Brain-Freeze while they are looking.

We still aren’t completely Simplified but there is progress.  Our First Anniversary was last weekend, so we took our new-to-us trailer out for a spin and I have to say that it’s wonderful.  More than wonderful actually.  It’s brilliant.

Only a couple more items and we will be almost hassle-free.

 

*Please don’t get all shocked about this.  Izzie was taken from her mother when she was about 5 weeks old.  We almost had to get rid of her because she was a monster – attacking and biting and scratching everyone.  It was only the intervention of a couple other well-socialized cats and dealing with her bad behavior like a mother cat would do that saved her. 

Dear Me,

It’s okay.  Go ahead – have a moment.  Hell, take three, because you deserve it.  I can’t think of anyone more deserving than you.  Of course I’m biased, but I’m sure everyone would agree with me.

So, you had a little meltdown last week, got drunk and bawled for 6 hours – it happens to everyone at some point.  No need to beat yourself up.  In fact, you should pat yourself on the back for keeping the whole affair relatively quiet – you didn’t do it in Wal-Mart did you?  You didn’t wear a T-Shirt with your full name and address on it, right?  See?  That’s something to think about.

And no one took videos, did they?  Yes, I know you had headphones on and your back to the room, so it would be almost impossible to be certain, but there was only The Viking and Junior around and The Viking wouldn’t take advantage, now would he?  Junior…..well, he does have a cell phone glued to his hand, but I can’t see him adding insults by posting your drama on Face Book.  Remember?  He loves you.

Yes, he does!  It just felt like you were alone in the world.  You have a ton of people who love you and care for you and are now looking at you like you’re a fucking lunatic.  How did I know what you were thinking?  Because you aren’t the only one who has dropped the burden momentarily and then had to face the people who have seen you at your absolute worst.  It’s an embarrassment but it won’t kill you.  In fact, those witnesses are now frantically scouring their brain trying to find a way to help you.  So, just let them fucking help you!  They feel like shit because they didn’t think they needed to pay attention as closely as they should have.

Small problems accumulate until they become overwhelming mountains that block out the sun.  You aren’t imagining anything that isn’t real.  It totally is real!  Stress changes the way your brain performs; neurons and electrons, hormones and proteins behave differently, your body functions at a slower rate – these things are out of your control.  All you can do is recognize the signs.

Did you just tell me to fuck off?!  I’m trying to help you and you tell me to fuck off?!  It’s not all bullshit.  Seriously?!  You think life would be less stressful in prison?  A convent?!  Do they even exist anymore?  And if they do exist don’t the nuns have to work all day and pray every 3 hours?  You have difficulties getting up for 9:00 in the morning.  Yes, you do.  Don’t shit a shitter.

Fine.  Prison it is.  You would get 3 meals a day and I suppose you might be able to spend the rest of your time with adult coloring books.  You won’t have to pay bills or make meals or run errands either.  There might even be a library and I would assume you could take online university courses.  Or not.  How the fuck would I know what you would be allowed to do?  Do I look like a hardened criminal to you?!  I think it’s safe to assume that you can’t pick your meals from a menu and they probably don’t have fizzy water on tap.  I don’t know if you can bring a TV from home or if cable is available in your cell.  And, it’s highly unlikely they would have a Nail Technician or a Beauty Consultant on staff.  No.  I’m not calling Martha Stewart.  Besides, she’s American and would have very little knowledge about the Canadian Penal System.

Speaking of which – how do you know that you won’t get assigned to kitchen duty anyway, with a big broad who makes shivs out of turnips?  What if they make you go out in the yard in the rain?  What if they make you eat tuna salad on enriched white bread?  What if there are no private showers?

You might even have a cellmate.  Well, I suppose you might be able to arrange Solitary Confinement – if it’s an actual thing here – but then you probably won’t be allowed to take your coloring book and pencils in case you decide to poke an eye out.  You might be lucky to get a beat-up copy of The Odyssey by Homer to keep you amused.

Yes…. you would get caught up on sleep but once you’ve accomplished that…..well, what then?  I suppose you could work out.  Maybe there would be a yard somewhere, full of weight machines that you can just start bench-pressing 350 pounds and sweat like…. like…. a dude bench-pressing 350 pounds.

Are you really certain that Prison life is for you?  True, you would have very few responsibilities and money wouldn’t be an issue because Conservatives love their prisons, but there is a lot of downsides, the least of which is the big broad that makes shivs out of turnips.  There is the problem of getting invited to prison as well; you can’t just show up and check yourself in.  That would be the Looney Bin.  I understand that the entry requirements are much less stringent, so there is that…..

They don’t make you have public showers and you might not have a cellmate in case someone decides to poke someone else’s eye out with a pencil.  Your art will have to be done with pastels and crayons while Nurse Ratchet fills a syringe with psychedelic drugs and critiques your work though.

So, after all of this, you are right back where you started from – a lunatic not yet in an asylum.  Just go to bed for a couple of days and ‘adult’ next week.

Also, thank The Gawds that you have The Viking and you aren’t sitting alone in your dark closet.  Okay….you might still be sitting alone in your closet, but at least The Viking will check on you occasionally.

Precision Ketchup Application Device

You might not know this, but Ketchup has become public enemy #1 around here.  Well, not the Ketchup exactly, but the squeezable Ketchup jug.  I don’t know the person who designed the squeezable jug with the bum-hole in the lid, but he/she should know that The Viking isn’t a fan.

Obviously, French’s or Heinz’s jugs weren’t designed for Vikings.  There’s no finesse, no attention to detail, no compliance to Danish standards.  How is The Viking supposed to put the exact amount of Ketchup on his Hot Dog with a brute jug that is designed to put the maximum amount of Ketchup in the shortest amount of time?  It takes significant force to open the bum-hole and then Ketchup explodes from the jug like it was launched from a fire hose.  That’s no way to apply a delicate amount of Ketchup.

A Danish Hot Dog is a masterpiece of flavors, from the wiener to the sweet pickles to the deep-fried onions.  A massive glop of Ketchup completely ruins the delicate balance and makes The Viking shout and occasionally throw the entire Hot Dog in the garbage while verbally abusing the designer of said Applicator at the top of his lungs.

The Danish Hot Dog requires a warm, crusty bun, an authentic European wiener, a consistent, thin line of Ketchup down the center of the wiener, followed by a thicker but still consistent line of Remoulade.  Finely chopped onions top the condiments, then Agurkasalat (Danish sweet pickles and only Danish sweet pickles) and the fried onions crown the masterpiece.  Any slight anomaly is an epic disaster.  The onions must be chopped incredibly fine, the Remoulade at the peak of freshness, the bun crusty – not soggy (dear Gawd, no sogginess!).  It’s a complex and finely tuned balance.  Putting a man on the moon is easier than making a perfect Danish Hot Dog.

Necessity is the mother of invention though, so The Viking pondered the situation for several years until one day a light bulb appeared over his head while we were having lunch.  He was violently shaking the Remoulade container to get every last bit of the delicious condiment out of the small, perfectly round hole in the lid.

“Waaait a minute!  That hole is the perfect size for Ketchup Application on my Hot Dog!!  What if we washed out the Precision Remoulade Applicating Device and made it into a Precision Ketchup Applicating Device!?  Not only is the hole size perfect but only the slightest pressure provides a glorious line of delightful Ketchup.”

And…..he doesn’t have to verbally abuse the bum-hole anymore.  It’s a win-win.

On the other hand, I admired the person who invented the plastic jug with the bum-hole lid.  I washed it out and saved it for future use.  That future arrived yesterday when I made a lovely salad and Cider Vinaigrette.  I immediately thought of the decommissioned Ketchup jug as the perfect vessel for my Vinaigrette.

I dished salad onto my plate, gently added grated, 2-year-old Canadian cheddar and picked up the Precision Cider Vinaigrette Application Device.  I squeezed the jug softly, careful to not over-vinaigrette.  Nothing came out.  I squeezed it just a touch harder.  Nothing.  I added more pressure.  That damned bum-hole was tight!  I was getting nervous so squeezed just the slightest bit more.  Suddenly, the bum-hole opened, a beautiful arc of Vinaigrette launched over my plate, over the table and laid down a precise line across the kitchen floor.

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!”

Oops!  The Viking, sitting in the family room with his plate, heard me and wanted to know what was wrong.

“Nothing.  Nothing at all.  Just eat your dinner.” 

Because there is no fucking way that I’m going to let him know what a damned catastrophe that stupid Ketchup jug is!  He’ll laugh for most of the coming week!

The moral of this story:  Jugs with bum-hole lids are never to be trusted.

Cadavers, Lots and Lots of Cadavers

 

Before we get into the number of Cadavers afflicting me, I must confess, that after only 2 words in this blog, I had to use Spell Check.  That’s how smart my brain is today but, let’s be honest, ‘Cadaver’ is a tricky word – is it ‘ver’ or ‘vre’?   In American English it’s ‘ver’ in British and Canadian English it’s ‘vre’, so it’s no surprise that I find it difficult, along with ‘theatre’, ‘neighbourhood’ and ‘centre’.  And Spell Check is losing its damn mind right now, underlining most of the words in this paragraph in blood red.

But that’s not important right now.  Cadavers are important.  Namely, the cadaver/s that are in my car.  And I’m absolutely certain it’s cadavers because I was blessed with a cadaver in my bedroom a few years ago because a cat brought a mouse in the house, chased it around and then lost it behind a mirror in my bedroom.  It didn’t take long for maggots and then massive flies to create a fucking nightmare in my bedroom 6 weeks later.  I get faint just thinking about it, too.

Junior’s first car had a mouse die behind the fan and the smell was disgusting.  I was still married to Stanley and he had to take the fan out of the car to retrieve the holy stinker.  I’m sure he feels faint just thinking about it.

And then we had a mouse in our Fifth Wheel trailer.  We dragged the damn mouse all the way from Calgary to Arizona where it died.  What little sympathy I might have had for the little thing to die so far from home was quickly lost.  I thought it was smelly garbage.  We cleaned the entire trailer from top to bottom but still the smell smelled.  Then we found it under the sink and behind the water filter.  The Viking used a flipper to poke more smell out of it before he managed scoop it up and discard it…..and the flipper, too, because there is no way that flipper can be used for anything other than removing cadavers now.

So, knowing what I know about the smell of cadavers, my car has become a torture chamber.  We can’t find the cadaver to exhume it from the car and thus make my car safe for human habitation again.  We’ve look everywhere, sniffing like bloodhounds, under seats and behind door panels.  It’s not in the heating/cooling system either.  We put two cats in the car hoping they would point where the cadaver is but, being cats, they were more interested in being anywhere else than there.  So.  What. The. Fuck?!!

And then yesterday……..

……

……

……the smell was gone.  What does that mean?!!  Does it mean that maggots are preparing themselves to become an infestation of bloated black flies that will likely drive me completely and permanently insane?  Will they wait until I go for food and then hatch all at the same time while I’m driving which will make me exit the car immediately and without stopping, probably vomiting as I hit the pavement?  Would insurance even cover that? Or maybe it fell out when I was whistling along Stoney Trail?  I did hit a couple of good bumps that might dislodge a cadaver from the engine compartment.  Ideally, that would be the best outcome – leaving the cadaver to ferment in the middle lane of the freeway.

Unfortunately, I can’t be 100% certain that the cadaver is no longer my problem.  How long does it take for a mouse to turn into the minions of hell?  I’m sure Google can come up with something:

Eggs hatch within 24 hours, and house fly larvae emerge. House fly larvae, or maggots, appear similar to pale worms. Their sole purpose is to eat and store energy for their upcoming pupation. Larvae feed for approximately five days, after which they find dry, dark locations for pupal development.

Gawd!  I have to wait 3 more days for Hell?  Today is Friday, then Saturday and Sunday……..so sometime late Monday or Tuesday.  I won’t take any chances and will refuse to drive the car between now and then.  Sure, The Viking will snort at my sissy-ness but he’s not the one that will be engulfed in huge, disgusting, bloated flies in a confined space.  Just the thought makes me nauseous.

I’ll just have to steal The Viking’s truck – a one-ton dually.  He’s pretty good at protecting himself and his things because he was quite the wrestler back in the day, but I have been practicing Tai Chi.  It will be a face-off in the driveway, an aging wrestler and a sloppy Tai Chi-er.  And it would be prudent to stand about 10 paces apart, so no one gets hurt.  I’m not expecting this to be a lengthy undertaking.  Three moves each, with rests in between, so about a half hour.  There will be energy drinks on hand, so we stay hydrated and Cliff Bars to keep up our carbs.  Maybe an ambulance on standby or is that just a little over the top?

As for my car, if there is an infestation in the car, I’ll just have to burn it down to the axles.  Because if I’m honest, I’ll never feel the same about my car ever again.

I’m A Fucking Idiot!

I’m an idiot and my idiocy has taken me down the same damned black hole I’ve been in many times before.  You would think that I might have learned from the experience, but it seems not.  Even my horoscope tried to tell me not to meddle.  Did I listen?  Nope!  Because I’m a fucking idiot!

It happens like this:

  • Someone is crying like their heart has been broken into a million pieces.
  • I try to comfort with soft blankets, cookies, hugs and movies.
  • The crying subsides.
  • Being an observer from the sidelines, I try to encourage and empower.
  • They seem to appreciate the message.
  • They appreciate everything I’ve done.
  • They slide back into their situation, again.
  • I express concern.
  • They tell me that now I’m making them feel guilty which stresses them out more so they vow to avoid me for the foreseeable future.
  • I cry buckets for days until The Viking picks me up, dusts me off and helps me grieve.

And there it is.  The complete hot mess.  Someone goes happily on their way, stress-free, and someone hides in their closet for a week.  Repeat.

Except….FUCK THAT!!!  It’s time to start protecting my soul instead of throwing it out there for any dog to drag its ass on.

 

via GIPHY

I haven’t been able to write a damned post for over a month because I’ve been too invested in a bloody debacle that has catapulted me into a full-blown Depression.  And it’s affecting more than just a post – I’ve been bumping into walls and running stop signs as I’m frantically trying to find a solution that no one wants in the first place!

I’m sure there is a Life Coach out there that would tell me I’m not responsible for anyone else’s life, even if I created it years and years ago.  I can’t make their decisions, I can’t change their situations and I can’t solve their problems.  The only thing I can control is me and how I react to these situations.  At the end of every crisis, I’m always standing there like a fucking idiot as I’m being pushed out of someone’s life.  My inner voice is screaming “I thought we talked about this!  You weren’t going to help!  Gawd!  You’ve gone and shot yourself in the damned foot AGAIN!”  The outcome couldn’t be worse if I intentionally engineered it to be an epic failure.

The thing is…..this post isn’t about them at all……it’s about me and how I stupidly deal with these situations.  I’m here because I’m a fucking idiot that is always trying to help when that’s the last thing they actually want.  I’m my own worst enemy and I would be better served by keeping to myself and hope I never get that call in the middle of the night.

TRUTH BOMB:  Their life is exactly as they want it to be.  If they didn’t want their life to be the way it is, they would change it -with or without my help.  So, stop being a fucking idiot and leave them to figure out their shit.

Now, I’m moving forward, trying to put the whole steaming, foul mess out of mind.  I’m making a point of learning the lesson this time though.  No more attempts at assistance.  I promise.

I have no subject for an amusing post (sorry about that) because I haven’t found anything amusing for over a month.  But, I’ll get outside today, maybe take a walk.  I’ll attempt to distract myself and focus on The Viking and me.  Surely, I’ll feel better in a few days.  I’m already feeling better than last week.

Next post will be much less serious.  I promise.

 

 

Who’s In Charge Around Here, Anyway?

Sleeping peacefully.

Bladder:  Um…..I know you’re sleeping and I don’t mean to be a bother but I’m very full right now.

Me:  Really?  I’m having a great dream.

Bladder:  Yes, I know.  It’s just that the kidneys are being totally douche-y.

Me:  15 minutes.  Just give me 15 more minutes of sleep.

Sleeping.

Lower Back:  Can I bother you to change your sleeping position?  This one is killing me!

Legs:  And punt the cats!  We’re getting cramps.

Neck:  I could use a change, too.  You don’t want to be a Pain in the Neck cliche.

Bladder:  I can’t wait anymore!  If Nose decides to sneeze, you’ll have to bring in a HazMat Team.

Me:  For fuck’s sake!  Fine!

Go to the bathroom without opening eyes and then back to bed.

Feet:  Nice!  The bed is still warm.

Brain:  Remember that time when your sister broke your new Barbie’s legs?

Me:  That was like 45 years ago and you’re bringing it up now?!  Go back to sleep!

Trying to sleep.

Brain:  You know, that Barbie was your favorite toy.

Me:   Seriously!  I don’t give a shit about a fucking Barbie doll.  Go. Back. To. Sleep!

Brain:  It’s 8:30; you should be getting up anyway.

Me:  No, it’s not!

Left Eye:  He’s right.  It is 8:32.

Me:  Fuck!  I’m getting up.

20 minutes later.

Stomach:  Why isn’t there any coffee in here?!

Me:  I’m working on it, already!  Shit!  Now I forgot how many scoops I did.

Brain:  Don’t ask me.  I’m still pissed about your Barbie.

Flops in computer chair and scrolls through FaceBook.

20 minutes later.

Stomach:  HEY!  Where is the coffee?

Right Ear:  I haven’t heard any burbling or grumbling from the coffee maker.

Me:  I’m going.  I’m going.

First slurp of coffee.

Mouth:  Oh my gawd that tastes good!!

Stomach:  Finally!  This whole thing works better when The Viking gets up first.

3 hours later.

Stomach:  I’m finished with the coffee.  How about a Sausage McMuffin with Egg and no cheese?

Mouth:  I second that motion!!  I fucking love those things!

Brain:  If you left now, you could be home with a dozen Sausage McMuffins with Egg and no cheese in 15 minutes.

Me:  Nope!  I will not think about that delicious sandwich – I’m trying to lose a few pounds.  We are going to have an apple and a piece of aged cheese.

Mouth:  I do like the apple and cheese thing but, to be honest, I like the McMuffin better.

Me:  WE ARE NOT GETTING SAUSAGE McMUFFINS WITH EGG AND NO CHEESE!

20 minutes later.

Stomach:  Well, now I don’t have enough room for a Sausage McMuffin with Egg and no cheese.  That’s very disappointing.

Mouth:  I’m disappointed, too.

Brain:  Me too!

Me:  Whatever.

3 hours later.

Mouth:  It’s been a while since you’ve eaten.  Any chance of getting that McMuffin?

Me:  Nope.  You have to wait for supper.

Stomach:  Aaaagh!  But I’m hungry!

Brain:  Did you hear that?!  I think a Dodge Diesel just started up in your stomach!  You shouldn’t eat trucks, lady!

Me:  It’s not a truck – it’s Stomach being crabby.

Brain:  I don’t like that sound.  It annoys me.

Stomach:  I’m starving down here!  Do something, Brain!

Brain:  I’m trying but she is being obstinate.  And my thinks are getting slower.

Stomach:  This is an urgent situation.  I have to pull energy from these fat cells just laying around here.

Me:  That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day, Stomach.  Also….you all are just Hang-gry.

2 hours later.

Me:  Brace yourselves – it’s dinner time.

Mouth:  Yes!!  Finally!

Mouth:  Uh!  What was that?!  That tastes like a vegetable!

Stomach:  What?!  A VEGETABLE?  What kind?

Mouth:  I think it’s a carrot.

Stomach:  I thought you hated carrots.

Mouth:  I DO!  She’s become evil.  It’s carrots but it has butter, which I like, and sesame seeds, which I like.  I don’t know what to do.

Stomach:  Spit it out!  Hurry!

Brain:  No can do!  I’ve been brainwashed since childhood to never spit out food.  That would earn me a finger thump on my head from Dad.

Stomach:  Gawd!  You are such an ass!

Ass:  Leave me out of this.  It’s not my area.

Brain:  I can’t help it.  Dad had big fingers and those thumps hurt like hell.  I’ve been programmed to avoid those situations.  It’s a Pavlov’s Dog sort of thing.

Mouth:  Somebody make up your mind.  I can’t just chew this shit forever.

Stomach:  Intestines, big and small, prepare for invasion!  We have Carrots!

Mouth:  Holy Fuck Fuck!  Aaaa!  There’s cabbage, too!!

Stomach:  Cabbage?  What the hell is she doing?  Abort!  Abort!  I will send that shit right back at you, Mouth.  Cabbage ferments into methane gas and makes things unpleasant down here.

Mouth:  I can’t.  I’m already swallowing.

Stomach:  Shit!  I’m sending this straight to you, Intestines.  It’s a nuclear bomb for me.

Ass:  Would you please stop with all the ‘Shit’ references?  I’m trying to sleep here.

Intestines:  You won’t be sleeping for long.  Cabbage and carrots are heading your way.

Ass:  What’s the ETA?

Intestines:  Gas will start arriving within the hour and the carrots and cabbage within 3 hours.

Ass:  Really?  How exciting!  I love gas, especially cabbage gas.  It ferments quickly and I can play with it for hours and hours – even after the cabbage and carrots arrive.

Stomach:  This isn’t my area.  I’ll leave all that to you and the Intestines.

3 hours later – pre-sleep review.

Brain:  So, that was a terrible day.  The only one happy was Ass.  We have only one chance left to get any enjoyment before we sleep.

Mouth:  Do you have a plan?  Please tell me it’s a Doughnut Plan.

Brain:  Nope.  It’s a Potato Chip plan because we have those in the cupboard.  I can put the thought into her head and if Mouth starts to drool a bit and Stomach grumbles, there is a good chance we can put a stop to the ‘Diet’.

Me:  Shut up!  Y’all are the reason we’re fat in the first place.  It’s time to pay the piper.

Brain:  Does that mean there is more cabbage and carrots in the near future?

Me:  Yes.  And it’s your own fault.

Brain:  Why aren’t you blaming Eyes?  They are the ones that are always too big for Stomach.  We have no control over what you eat.  That’s Hands, Eyes and Mouth’s doing.

Me:  Wrong.  You, Brain, are in total control of cravings.  That makes you the Evil One.

Brain:  What?!

Eyes, Mouth, Stomach, Intestines and Ass:  Bastard!

Me:  All of you – quit your whining and go to sleep.  If you’re good, I might entertain the idea of French Toast for breakfast.

Sharing is caring

I’m Plotting My Revenge!

I’m feeling a little under-appreciated lately.  It’s all “Izzie don’t do this, Izzie don’t do that.”  Mom and The Viking are getting perilously close to infringing upon my personal liberties.  They don’t harass Teddy like this.  I completed a thorough experiment that proves I get yelled at 38% more than Teddy.

Yesterday, The Viking had to blow the snow off the sidewalks with his Leaf Blower.  It was cold and a little windy and very unwelcomey outside.  Teddy and I were sitting in the office window, watching the snowflakes dance.  And then, The Viking started up the Leaf Blower.  Teddy was there one moment and gone the next, leaving only a smelly fart behind.

Of course, Mom hurried to calm him down.  She gave him a love and then brought him back into the office so Teddy could see it wasn’t some sort of Demon from the depths of Hell out there but The Viking in snow gear.  She failed; getting two accidental scratches on her boobs for her efforts.

Mom told me to help him calm down, so I put him in a headlock and body-slammed him like the sissy he is.

“Izzie!  For fuck’s sake!  Can’t you just be nice?!”

No.  He’s a big Scaredy Cat and an embarrassment to the family.  We’re Vikings for Pete’s sake!

Teddy found a folded blanket on the sofa as his favorite nap destination.  I think that spot should be in my collection of spots and not Teddy’s.  I tried slapping him off it and then giving him my most lethal gaze, but he wouldn’t budge.  Why does he have to be so damned stubborn?  It’s like he’s spending too much time with The Viking!  However, after several failures, I approached him innocently with my sweetest face and lay down behind him and licked his head.  I soothed him into a nice nap.  Then I started wiggling and squirming and pushing until he fell off the sofa and I spread out.

“Izzie!  For fuck’s sake!  Can’t you just let him have one spot for himself?!”

No.  Survival of the fittest and I’m am so much more fit than he is.

The Viking bought a battery operated, spin-y toy and let Teddy play with it first.  He batted at the feather toy that flitted around the base while The Viking made me wait for my turn.  Teddy was so cute, following the feather back and forth and back and forth and then I decided “Fuck that!” and jumped over The Viking’s arm, pushed Teddy out of the way, grabbed the feather and pinned it to the carpet.

“Izzie!  For fuck’s sake!  Can’t you just let him play with something before you kill it?”

No.  I think I’ve established that I am smarter than Teddy even on a bad day and if I allow Teddy to set the bar on the intelligence of a toy then I’ll never get anything better.  How about a Play Station?!  And, by the way, I haven’t slapped a customer in months!  That’s worth a “Good girl, Izzie” at a bare minimum.

So, I planned a mini family meeting in the bathroom while Mom was peeing.  It’s really the only time I can get her undivided attention.  I laid out my evidence on the 38% scolding differential between me and Teddy and how it can affect me further on in life.  I could be damaged mentally……

Teddy!!  Slap! slap! slap!  I’m doing the talking!  Why are you even here?  Don’t you have a piece of floor to sleep on?!

 …………………okay, where was I?  Oh, yes.  I could be mentally damaged and become cranky and miserable and no one wants that, now do they?

All my effort in the presentation were for naught though.  Mom gave me that flat stare that never bodes well.  That night, she picked me off Teddy’s blanket by the scruff of my neck and put me in my 51st favorite sleeping place.  Then she put Teddy on the blanket!!  And he promptly went to sleep!

I’m plotting my revenge now.  And it will be epic.

 

Caring is sharing.

Look What The Cat Dragged Home

I’ve been trying to be less of an Introvert lately.  You know, like visiting people and …… well, visiting people.  It’s not really working out for me because the first person to come for a visit wouldn’t leave when I was done visiting.

I should have known better when he came to the front door bearing a big-assed can of coffee.  I was so focused on being appreciative that I never thought about the ironic consequences.  I don’t even know him – Izzie broke into his house and refused to leave until he gave her treats – but I, personally, don’t know him any further than my apology regarding The Queen of Mean’s home invasion.  I’ve only spoken to him once and couldn’t even remember his name.  It’s Peter – I had to ask.

Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have invited him in the house, but it was cold outside and I’m a responsible user of utilities.  And the coffee; how do you deny a guest coffee when he brings it as a gift? We were at that awkward point where you either invite him in or slam the door in his face and I couldn’t do that because coffee(!) and my fucking cat invaded his home!  Had I known we would be trading Home Invasions, I might not have accepted the gift or extended the welcome quite so fast.

Once inside, I gave Peter a cup of coffee and set a new pot to brew.  The Viking was busy hanging a television on the wall in the bedroom, but he popped out to chat for a bit.  After 45 minutes or so he went back to his job, leaving me alone with Peter.  To entertain him.  All by myself.  She’s not just my cat, you know, Viking!  And speaking of the cat, she just curled up on the side board behind Peter’s back and had a nap.  That’s the thanks I get around here.

I filled Peter’s coffee cup 5 times.  By then, I was just listening without responding (aka encouraging).  The Viking went out to blow the snow off the sidewalks around the entire block and came back home and Peter was still here.  I stood up and started to putter around the kitchen, putting things in the dishwasher, tidying up, that sort of thing and Peter still sat at the table.

via GIPHY

I stopped the refills after the 6th cup.  I was starting to get the feeling that he might be moving in and the coffee was a House Warming gift for us.  He said his house had finally sold and made a point of letting me know he was between residences.  “We have a tiny house, Peter, and you are a big guy!  AND we only have one bathroom!” 

This is the reason I’m an Introvert in the first place, Peter!!!  It doesn’t feel good, it feels like we’re hostages without a ransom demand.  Fucking Izzie!

He wouldn’t even use the bathroom, so I could escape to the garage and barricade us in with a snowmobile.

He must have some sort of space age-y bladder that can hold more than 6 cups of coffee for an insane amount of time.  I considered sneaking my cellphone into the bathroom and calling 911 – Help!  We’re being held hostage by our cat’s home invasion victim!  That would never work anyway because there is no law about how long a guest can stay unless it becomes a Squatter Violation but that takes months!

In the meantime, he’s going on and on about his failed marriage 11 years ago and how much money it cost him and why the political system was the foundation upon which his divorce was built on.

via GIPHY

I realize that he just wanted someone to talk too but I ran out of patience 2 hours ago.  Besides, I’m not even a friend!  I’m just a woman whose cat burglarized his house!

I put the cream back in the fridge after three and a half hours, put his cup in the dishwasher, turned the lights on and said, “Wow!  It’s getting late.”

via GIPHY

I took a moment to wonder if I’m just being selfish, but then I looked at the clock and decided, “Fuck that!!  My entire afternoon is gone! And just because Izzie held him hostage doesn’t mean he can hold us hostage or think he can move in with us – two wrongs don’t make a right, Peter!

The marathon finally ended after 4 hours and 49 minutes – just shy of the 5 hours Izzie held him hostage.  I locked the front door behind him and sagged onto the closest chair.

via GIPHY

Izzie wandered past without looking at me.  “No more dragging humans home!  If you must be a burglar, make sure you aren’t followed.  Seriously.  Do I have to make you watch Gone In 60 Seconds?”

I’m just going to chalk this up to bad luck and a learning exercise.  First things first – I need a front door with a one-way mirror in it and a trap door for those who make it past the front door before showing their true colors.  And then I’ll just go to the visitor instead of them coming to me.*

 

*This does not apply to my 4 top friends.  You can still come for coffee any time for as long as you want.  I’ll make a blanket tent in the family room and have a bowl of Jell-o powder so we can lick our fingers and stick it in the powder (don’t knock it until you’ve tried it).  Sure, it will stain your finger but how important is that compared to the fun?!  Right Judy?