Category: Conversations

She’s Naked. Again.

I was semi-happily catching up on paperwork Friday afternoon when Izzie popped through the cat door and started bellowing at me. Seriously. She shouts everything. Unless she’s apologizing and then it’s little croaks, but mostly, she bellows.

“Hey, Izzie. How’s it going?” I have to acknowledge her arrival, or she doesn’t stop.

Shouting.

I bent down to give her a little love and discovered that she was naked. “Where is your collar?!”

More shouts.

“It’s brand new! And it was beautiful! All those sparkly rhinestones!”

More shouting.

“Stop shouting already! Gawd!”

She launched herself into my chest-ular area and gave me the stink eye.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the one who lost your collar.” I said, as I was scratching her under her chin. “I suppose I need to go look for it?” Sigh.

I went out to the garage to tell The Viking that Izzie was naked and to keep a look out for her collar. His response was classic. “AGAIN?!”

I nodded and Izzie shouted.

I took a look around but there was no sign of her collar. Someone would return it though. They always do. Everyone within a 3-block radius knows Izzie and where to go to get an apology.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang. “Hello?”

“I’m at your back door and I have Izzie’s collar.” Izzie’s boyfriend. The guy that has been on a year-long crusade to steal Izzie’s affections from The Viking.

Weird. Why didn’t he just ring the doorbell or knock like a normal person? He was literally standing right in front of the door. When I opened it, he shoved Izzie’s collar at me. “I almost had to go to the hospital after I tried to put that collar back on her.” He sounded annoyed.

“Awww…did you bleed?”

“Yes!”

“Well, thank you for bringing the collar home. Apologies for your bleeding.” Izzie is sitting innocently beside me watching her boyfriend’s outrage.

It was difficult to feel any sympathy for this ballsy homewrecker. It’s not like she hasn’t slapped him before, because she has. Many, many times because it’s been a journey*. I suppose he just got cocky when she took a few treats from his hand like he had won the popularity contest. A contest that he bragged about winning directly to The Viking’s face. He obviously over-played his hand and now had the audacity to come to our door, all annoyed because he just realized that the joke was on him.

“She was crawling on my quad and must have caught her collar.”

I couldn’t help myself. Honestly. I tried to be gracious. For a full two seconds. But he had bragged to The Viking’s face, and that can’t go unanswered.

“That’s not what Izzie said. She’s been shouting and name-calling since she got home. It’s almost like she’s blaming you for the loss of her collar.”

“WHAT?! Why would I take her collar?”

“Hey. Don’t get testy with me. You and her have some sort of dysfunctional relationship that involves peeping tommery and food. So, how would I know what you would or wouldn’t do?”

“That’s ridiculous. If I wanted her collar, why I would I bring it back?”

“Like I said, how would I know?”

“She spends every afternoon with me, you know.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

“She usually lets me pet her and eats treats out of my hand.”

I shrugged, still not sympathetic. “Yes, well, she’s notoriously fickle. I’ve spoken to her about it, but it’s like she doesn’t care. Besides, you should consider yourself lucky that she hasn’t stolen your vehicle or a major appliance.”

“Well, I brought back her collar.” He started walking away, unimpressed.

“Thank you for your trouble.”

Suddenly, he turned around. “Just out of curiosity, does she cuddle with you?”

I laughed. “Yes! A lot more than I would like sometimes.”

“She doesn’t scratch or bite you?” Incredulous.

“Of course not. We’re family.” Just to show off, I scooped Izzie up, flipped her on her back in my arms, and started scratching her chin. She tipped her head toward Gregor and gave him a smile. She must not like his attitude.

I went to see The Viking in the garage. “Izzie slapped Gregor and there was blood.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “She did?”

“Uh, huh. And he was annoyed.”

The smile grew. “I feel so bad for him.”

And then we laughed and laughed and laughed.

We never should have doubted Izzie. It appears that her usual routine of crime has become boring and she needs to up her game. Emotional warfare is just the next logical step, I suppose.

*If you aren’t current with the boyfriend drama, click click here.

I’m Too Lazy to be a Criminal

The Viking and I have computers sitting right beside each other – it’s a marriage-saving strategy so we don’t have to share. Everyone knows that there are limits to love and generosity when it comes to time on Facebook and YouTube.

In my downtime, I like to listen to documentaries on YouTube while I play Solitaire – it helps me to unwind – but because The Viking is sitting right next to me, he is forced to listen to whatever I’m listening to, and sometimes it’s a problem.

If I’m learning about the Hittites and their social hierarchies, The Viking usually just tunes it out. On the other hand, if I’m listening to expert opinions on western expansion, or the decline of the middle class, he becomes extremely interactive. Curses and shouts, to the point that I can’t hear the video over Viking political views. The cats usually rocket out the cat door to escape the heated and sometimes lengthy debate between The Viking and YouTube.

In order to protect YouTube’s feelings and the judgemental dagger stares from the cats, I’ve narrowed down the safe topic selection to……murder/crime.  Thankfully, YouTube has an extensive number of channels offering as much gore and dodgy motives as a person could hope for.

After months of videos, it occurred to me……

Me: I don’t think I can be a murderer. There is far too much work involved.

The Viking: If there was no work involved would you reconsider?

Me: Hmmm…..you know, there have been moments…..but, even if no work was involved, I would still have to be a good liar in case someone started asking questions and we both know that I am a lousy liar.

The Viking: …

Me: What surprises me most is how willing these criminally minded people are to work so hard for so little personal gain. This guy, for instance – he just wanted some weed and whatever cash he could find lying around his girlfriend’s house. He ends up going to a great deal of effort to murder her, then clean up the blood, replace the carpet, dismember the body, dig holes in various remote locations to bury the body parts, and then manufacture a fake alibi. That’s a lot of work. AND, he had to do it all in like 6 hours. I can barely de-bone a chicken in 6 hours.

The Viking: …

Me: Also, have you noticed that everyone involved in solving a crime is given the title of “Forensic”? Forensic Accountants, Forensic Shoe Print Analysists, Forensic Water Analysists, Forensic Internet Specialists, Forensic Reporters. My favorite is the Forensic Hypnotist who hypnotised a witness to get a partial license plate number. So, I suppose as long as you are talking about a crime, anyone can be a Forensic Something.

The Viking: …

Me: How many times a day do you get annoyed because someone has treated their machine with criminal neglect? That makes you a Forensic Mechanic! Right? I’m going to put that on your business cards.

The Viking (snorting): What does that make you?

Me: A Forensic Chef. Forensic Laundress. Forensic Business Accountant. Forensic Shopper. And a Forensic Wife. I’m going to need bigger cards.

The Viking (almost eyeball rolling): Really?

Me: You’ve never heard me folding your laundry when every t-shirt is inside out. You’re just going to have to believe me when I say I’m entertaining criminal thoughts. And don’t get me started on family reunions in grocery store aisles.

The Viking: A Forensic Chef?

Me: Every time I ruin a meal. Every. Time. All that wasted time and food. That’s criminal all on its own.

The Viking had to give me a point for that because it’s absolutely true and we both know it.

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.

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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Making Friends, One Felony At A Time

The phone rings.

Me:  Hello?

Caller:  Hi there.  I live just down the alley from you and I thought I should let you know that Izzie has been spending quite a bit of time in my yard.

Me (nervous….do I need to apologize for my damned cat again?!):  Okaaaaay.

Him:  It’s totally fine!  I don’t mind at all, but I wondered if I should put some food out for her?  I have given her treats before when she stops by.

Me:  That dirty cat!  She has bowls and bowls of dry food and gets paté every evening.

Him:  I thought she was too healthy-looking to be a stray.  So I shouldn’t put out any food?

Me:  No, it’s not necessary to put out food, but she probably appreciates the treats.  I have to say that I’m surprised she lets you get close to her.  She hasn’t made you bleed?

Him (laughing):  A couple of times but we’ve become friends.  I could read her name on the tag quite a long time ago but it was only this morning that she let me flip it over to see the phone number.

Me:  Wow!  You’ve done well, then.

Him:  She helped me build the fence in my backyard in October.  She sat and watched me for hours.

Me:  She likes to watch a guy, who lives very close to you, do his gardening in the summer, too.  She spends entire afternoons with him.

Him:  Yeah.  She just sits and watches.  She’s sweet.

Me:  Ahhhh….that’s just a ploy to gain your trust.  She took the ladies at the end of the block hostage for 5 hours.  They had to escape through their front door.

Him (laughing again):  She wouldn’t let me in the garage this morning and when I tried to go around her she swatted at me.  I said, “Hey!  We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Me:  She stole a woman’s car two summers ago.  The neighbours heard the screams and came to get us.  So, don’t underestimate her motives.

Him:  She sounds like quite a cat.

Me (sighing):  I cannot count how many times I’ve had to apologize for her behavior.  I’ve tried to explain that she’s not allowed to swat or take hostages or steal buildings, but it doesn’t seem to help.

Him:  The guy at the end of my block has a cat and she’s been fighting with it.  I call her and she comes running across three garages, down my drain pipe and I give her treats after telling her to stop fighting.

Me:  I know!!  She was coming home looking like a crack whore for over a month!  We went on holiday for a couple of weeks, taking the cats with us, in September, and since then she hasn’t been in any more fights.  Maybe she just needed a time-out.

Him:  She was looking pretty beat up, for sure.

Me:  Well thank you for looking out for her.  And I appreciate the call to let me know what she’s up to.

Him:  No worries.  I can still give her treats?

Me:  Sure.  She loves treats.

Him:  Perfect.  Nice chatting with you.

Me:  Same here.

Okay.  So, no apologies were necessary and the blood was minimal.  I can’t help but wonder if Realtors will have to disclose Izzie’s presence to prospective purchasers of homes in the area.  I’m sure she would think it was cool, but driving home prices down might become an issue for The Viking and me.

Sigh.

Call The Paramedics 3

I pulled ‘A Viking’ the other day.  I was cutting up potatoes to make oven fries for supper when I had a rare knife glitch and sliced a finger – the left pointer finger, to be precise.  I made a soft, dainty, ladylike coo – very much like a Dove – and grabbed the finger with my right hand, a little afraid to look at the damage because I felt resistance in the knife.  The Viking, sitting nearby at his computer, barely heard me.

“FUUUUUCK!!”

It was only because The Viking had such good hearing that he noticed and without actually looking at me said, “What happened?”

“I cut off my finger.”

He says, “Well, put a Band-Aide on it.”

What?!  THAT’S NOT HOW YOU ASSESS A HEALTH CRISIS!!

I carefully opened my right hand and found zero blood, which could be good news in that I hadn’t cut deep enough for blood….or…..very bad news if I didn’t have any blood to bleed……or…..super news because my body was capable of instantaneous healing.  Like a Superhero.  Note to self:  Create a great Superhero Name.

I decided to put a Band-Aide on it anyway so I could carry on with the potatoes but halfway to the bathroom and the Band-Aides I started gushing blood.  Note to self:  never mind about the Superhero name.  I recruited The Viking to apply the Band-Aide but he seemed completely unimpressed with the amount of blood I was leaking and how much it hurt.

I said “Ouch!” and he snorted like it was barely a scratch which kind of annoyed me.  “You act like it’s nothing!”

Him:  “Well, it is nothing.”

via GIPHY

Me:  “It definitely IS something!”

Him:  “You don’t need stitches, now do you?”

Me:  “That’s only because I am more talented than you are!”

Him:  “What?!” A high-pitched squawk.

Me:  It’s true!  I managed a deep, clean cut without hitting an artery.  Anybody can slice an artery, but it takes a very high level of skill to miss the artery, and I wasn’t even trying that hard.  That’s skill, with a capital ‘S’!

Him:  ……….

Me:  That’s right!  Your slicing skills are amateurish and hap-hazard, but what can I expect from a guy born and bred to throw axes?

Him:  ……….

Me:  Also, you need to finish the potatoes because I have a work-place injury.  Don’t make me report you to Occupational Health & Safety.

Apparently, I dazzled him with my intellectual prowess because he finished the potatoes.  I considered pushing for a day off due to a risk of infection but decided to quit while the quitting was good.

The problem with the stupid cut is that it went in on an angle, so the flap part catches on things and hurts like a bastard.  So, I need a Band-Aide to stop tearing it open again but then it isn’t healing as well as it would without the Band-Aide.  Also, it’s bruised too, and every time I knock it even a little bit it hurts like a bastard.

So, my left pointer finger is not my favourite digit at the moment.  I thought about making the right pointer finger the favourite in the meantime, but that’s too much competition and could lead to prolonged pointer finger angst.  Instead, my right middle finger is the current favourite, and I am using it frequently.  Especially when I’m complaining to The Viking about my workplace injury and his underwhelming sympathy.

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Belly Rubs and Death Threats

We are finally taking some holidays.  It’s been a while.  Like 2 years already.  That’s what happens when you run your own business – when the work is there, you get it done because you don’t know what will happen around the corner.  We’re biting the bullet though, because we need it.  And since we’re so excited, we hoped the cats would be as well.

Me:  Hey guys!!  We booked a campground!  We are loading up the trailer and leaving on Saturday.

Teddy:  What?!  When you say ‘Trailer’, do you mean that huge monstrosity sitting in the driveway?  The thing you made me stay in a couple of months ago?  THAT thing?!

Me:  Yes!  I’m so excited!  It will be so relaxing and peaceful.

Teddy:  No.  I’m not going.

Me:  Oh, come on, Teddy.  It’s not that bad.  Izzie didn’t mind.  In fact, I’m pretty sure she enjoyed it.

Izzie:  I did!  It was cozy.  Hygge!

Teddy:  Says the Succubus from Hell.

Me:  If you bothered to come out from under the bed you would have enjoyed the peace and quiet.

Izzie:  Yeah, Teddy.

Teddy:  Shut up, Izzie!  You’re the one who threatened death if I did come out.

Izzie:  Hahahahaha!!

Me:  That’s not funny, Izzie and if you do it again, you’ll be banished to the cat carrier.

Teddy:  HA!  We all know that’s not going to happen because she’ll scream the leaves from the trees, the birds from the sky and the bugs from the ground.  Nothing can survive when she gets going!

Me:  Okay, you have a point.  We would probably get thrown out of the campground.  Still, if you stood up to her from time to time maybe she wouldn’t be such a bully.

Teddy:  Have you seen her face?  She started a Fight Club for fuck’s sake!

 

Me:  Okay, you have a point, again.  Going camping will give her face time to heal though.  So, there is that.

Izzie:  I don’t want it to heal!  I’m enjoying the notoriety.  Orange Charlie is terrified, as are Ross’s dogs.

Me:  Sigh.  Why do you have to be so miserable, Izzie?  Geez!  And Teddy, there are worse things than taking you camping.  Do you remember when we left you home for a day and a half?  You literally wouldn’t speak to me for almost a week.

Teddy:  That’s because you didn’t inform me of your plans before you just left.  I thought you were dead and then you show up all happy and sparkly without the slightest concern for my worries.

Me:  I’ve apologised for that a million times already!  That’s why we’re taking you camping.  You just have to get over it.

Teddy:  I think you might have missed what I said earlier – I. AM. NOT. GOING. IN. THAT. DEATH. TRAP. EVER. AGAIN!

Me:  Okay, look.  We can’t leave you home alone for so long.

Teddy:  Exactly.  You shouldn’t be going at all.  Stay home like other normal people.  It’s totally irresponsible as a Cat Parent to traumatize your Cat Children.

Me:  Sigh.  Just give it a chance, Teddy.  The Viking and I will make sure Izzie behaves herself.  It will be fine.

Izzie:  HEY!!  You’re not the boss of me!  If I want to make death threats, I’ll make death threats and there is nothing you can do about it!

Me:  Actually, I am your boss.  And fine.  New plan.  We’ll leave Izzie home and take Teddy with us.  That would work, wouldn’t it?  Izzie doesn’t care if we’re here or not as long as there is food and Teddy will have the trailer all to himself.

Teddy/Izzie:  NOOO!  NOPE! NADA!  That plan sucks!

Teddy:  I used to love you, you know.  I thought you were the best Mom ever.  Obviously, I was wrong.

Me:  Teddy, you still love me.  You can’t help yourself, because you love the belly rub.

Teddy:  Curses!!  The belly rub is my kryptonite!

Me:  You are both coming camping!  We will have toys and treats and we have a harness and leash for each of you so you can hang out with us outside.

Izzie:  A leash?!  What kind of fuckery is that?!  I don’t do leashes OR harnesses.  I thought we settle that debate 3 years ago!

Me:  You can’t wander around the campground on your own.  It’s either the harness and leash or you stay in the trailer.

Izzie:  Then, I’m not going now.

Me:   YOU ARE BOTH COMING CAMPING!!  AND IZZIE WILL BEHAVE HERSELF AND TEDDY WILL COME OUT FROM UNDER THE DAMNED BED!!  PERIOD!

 

So.  Wish us luck.  I have a feeling that we’re going to need all the luck we can get.

 

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Ugh! Mondays!

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

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

‘skoihknlm;oij 96 mlhwedsnpglas forkwejhrolj 403hus54okn thanks’

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

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

And then the phone starts ringing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh!  Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me talk to The Viking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skål, Baby!! 

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

 

Til Death Us Do Part

The Viking found a website of old TV shows and while I was building a puzzle on my computer, he proceeded to list them.  Within 15 minutes, he was re-evaluating most of the life choices he’s made in the past decade.

Him:  M*A*S*H*!  That was a good show.

Me:  I love that show!

Him:  The Waltons.

Me:  Too church-y for me.  I always felt like I was failing every time one of those ‘goody-two-shoes’ made the right decision.  Too much pressure for regular kids who lie once in a while and will take the largest slice of cake instead of giving it to a sibling.

Him:  HA!  Columbo?  He was good.

Me:  I had a serious crush on him.

Him:  WHAT?!

Me:  Yup!  Completely in love with that guy.

Him (laughing in disbelief):  That’s funny, Babe.  The Rockford Files.  Did you have a crush on him, too?

Me:  Nah.  Too pretty.  The pretty guys are always too high maintenance.

Him:  CHiPS

Me:  ……

Him:  Six Million Dollar Man.

Me:  He was always squinting and that just gets annoying after a while, don’t you think?  You would think that if they had the technology to make a bionic eye they could do something about the squinting.

Him (squinting at me):  I’ve never really thought about it.  Kojack!

Me:  I had a crush on him, too.

Him:  Noooo.  You didn’t!

Me:  Yes.  I did!  He was a badass.

Him:  Little House on the Prairie.

Me:  …..

Him:  Gunsmoke.

Me:  Crush.

Him:  Fucking hell!  Hawaii Five-O.

Me:  Too arrogant.

Him:  WKRP in Cincinnati.

Me:  ……

Him:  Marcus Welby, M.D.

Me:  Oh, yeah!

Him:  He’s so old!

Me:  But in a good way.

Him:  The Love Boat

Me:  ……

Him:  Hogan’s Heros.

Me:  Nope.  There was something about that guy that just rubbed me the wrong way.

Him:  Kung Fu.  Noooo…..don’t say it!

Me (nodding my head):  Uh Huh!  And Scott Glenn too, because he looks a lot like David Carradine.

Him:  Fucking hell.  Quincy M.E.

Me:  YES!  I love his face!  Total crush.

Him:  ……

Me:  What?  He was hot!

Him:  Baa Baa Black Sheep.  Robert Conrad.

Me:  Crush.  But I felt bad about it because he was so pretty and I was riddled with guilt.

Him:  Trapper John, M.D.

Me:  Nope.  Something wrong with that guy too.

Him:  B.J. and the Bear

Me:  Double nope!

Him:  Vegas?  Robert Urich?

Me:  Again, yes. But with a lot of guilt.

Him:  Barnaby Jones.  Sigh.  If you had a crush on him…….

Me:  Oh, yeah!

Him:  ……

Me:  You’re regretting that you married me, aren’t you?  Too late now – you’re stuck with me till death do us part.

I’m just surprised that The Viking is surprised.  He should be accustomed to me by now.  What I find attractive about a person has nothing to do with their appearance.  Except with Robert Urich and Robert Conrad of course, but I won’t feel good about it.

Wait.  Both are Roberts.

My father’s name is Robert.  Fuck.  Excuse me while I do an online Psychological assessment.