Category: Epic Failures

That’s No Way To Treat Girl Guides!

Dear Dare Foods Canada Ltd.,

Let me say, to begin, that I appreciate your work with Girl Guides of Canada.  Any corporation that gives back to communities and supports organizations for children should receive praise.

So, just for you, WooHoo!!  Great job!

But then yesterday a young Girl Guide rang our door bell and asked if I would like to buy a box of cookies for $5.00.  She didn’t seem overly enthusiastic in her sales pitch, but I really want to support youth programs so ignored her lack of animation.  I gave her the money and received the cookies which I placed on the kitchen table.  With perfect timing, The Viking (my husband) showed up, almost like he has a sixth sense that zeroes in on cookies like a Surface to Air Missile.  He smiled hugely.  “Cookies!!”

We each took a cookie – chocolate for me, of course, and vanilla for him, because he’s just that kind of a husband who gives his wife chocolate – and took a nibble.

Sweet Baby Geezus!!*

 

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What in the whole wide world IS this crap?!*

We both ran to the sink and started spitting out whatever this horrendous concoction was supposed to be.  Thank Gawd for double kitchen sinks – we would have been in a real pickle if we only had a single sink.  I’ll just leave you with that image.

DARE FOODS…….you can’t call that a cookie!  It tastes like you mashed cardboard and sugar together then packaged it.  It’s horrible!  Now I know why that poor girl was so unenthusiastic!  What kind of a company gives a youth organization terrible food and then expect them to raise money?  As I’ve already stated, I want to support youth programs, but if we can’t eat what they are selling, what’s the point?  Sure I could buy the cookies and then throw them in the garbage, but we have world hunger and environmental responsibility to consider.

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When you are providing garbage, you can’t really claim you’re supporting communities and youth programs, now can you?  You are more of a hindrance than a help, methinks.  Once upon a time, Girl Guide Cookies were great, but the Yumminess has been in serious decline for many years.  And you can’t claim you aren’t making enough profit and have to squeeze additional revenue from fundraising causes because I checked.  You’re making MILLIONS in revenue every year.

In the age of Truffle Oil, Tapas and Amuse-bouche, I’m sure you can come up with something edible for the girls to sell.  It’s like you aren’t even trying.

It’s great that the cookies are peanut free and have no artificial colors or flavours, but maybe a bit of flavour could have been left in them?  Any kind of flavour?  How about Caramel?  Caramel cookies are delicious!  Look how easy that is.  It took me, literally, 12 seconds to think of a better cookie for Girl Guides of Canada to sell.  You’re welcome.

Now, I realize I’ve been a little hard on you, but I don’t want you to feel like a total failure.  The packaging isn’t too bad, and the nutritional information is easy to read, and the pictures of girls are cute.  You see what I did here?  Yes, The Sandwich Method.  Good feedback, bad feedback and good feedback again.  You can take this directly to your next shareholder meeting with complete confidence and I’ve done 50% of your new product development.

It’s too late to help the Girl Guide’s fundraising this year, so you should just hand out some cheques to make up for your terrible product.  Next year, though, is the perfect time to roll out some delicious new cookies.

You can do it, Dare!  I know you can!

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Sincerely,

Mrs. Completely

*I’ve skipped the profanities in case your company is easily offended.

My Finger Is Fucked. And Also my Brain.

I believe I’ve passed my ‘Best Before Date’.  I’m not one to worry much about getting older; in fact, I actually like the person I’ve become.  It didn’t come easily though, there were very high hills and very deep valleys that needed to be traversed, but it shaped who I am and that’s fine by me and, apparently, The Viking because he still sleeps beside me every night.  The down-side of getting older, of course, is a body that can’t – or won’t in this case – keep up with my big ideas and crazy dreams.  Or even get out of bed in the morning without a bunch of whining.

I noticed, the other day, that my left pointer finger is evolving, adding an extra lump to the first knuckle below my fingernail.  After rubbing it and poking it and staring at it there was only one conclusion to be made:  my finger is fucked.  Thankfully, the fuckage doesn’t include pain which is great news considering what’s going on elsewhere in Lori Land.

I woke up one morning last week to the shrieks of my left shoulder.  I said, “What the hell?!”  It said nothing but stabbed me in the neck just for spite.

“Oh, come on!  You have to do this now?  I was going to paint the entire house tomorrow!”

……

“……okay….I wasn’t going to paint the whole house, but it still isn’t the most convenient time to have your meltdown.  I need both shoulders at the moment.  If I had known how picky you were going to get I would have exercised more!”

…….

“…….okay…..I probably wouldn’t have exercised more, but that is no excuse for getting cranky.  It’s not like you’re really old yet!”

We eventually had to agree to disagree.  Shoulder was complaining about carrying the weight of the world and I was insisting it was being a big old baby.  It gave up two days later but gives me a twinge every once in a while, just to remind me that it’s still there and not especially happy.

And then the thumb on my left hand……

Gasp!  WAIT A MINUTE!

It’s the finger on my left hand, the left shoulder and the left thumb!  I was working with the theory that random body parts were acting out, but this appears to be a pattern.  A left pattern!  Maybe it’s my entire left side that’s fucked.

Just a minute…..I need to check on something…..another possible theory….

…..

…..

…..

…..

This is what Brain Made Simple has to say.

The left side of the brain is responsible for controlling the right side of the body. It also performs tasks that have to do with logic, such as in science and mathematics. On the other hand, the right hemisphere coordinates the left side of the body and performs tasks that have do with creativity and the arts.*

I am right handed and I’m famous for my logic so maybe my left brain is hosting a sloppy protest about the amount of feelings going on, but only a few body parts want to participate.  Or, it could be my hippy, feel-y right brain is bullying my nerdy left brain for being such a party-pooper.  OR…..maybe it’s the whole brain having tiny hissy fits hosted in random body parts.

Maybe I need some vitamins or something.  I looked up ‘Food that’s good for your Brain’ and found out that I should be eating more of this:

  • Fatty Fish – Yuck! I prefer fish that doesn’t taste like fish.
  • Coffee – Yum!
  • Blueberries – Meh.
  • Turmeric – what the fuck is that?!
  • Broccoli – Meh.
  • Pumpkin Seeds – okay.
  • Dark Chocolate – ummmm….I prefer Milk Chocolate but I suppose I could go with the dark in a pinch.
  • Nuts – Is this a good recommendation for someone who is already a little bit nuts?
  • Oranges – can I drink the juice to avoid all the hassle of the peel? It gets under my fingernails.
  • Eggs – YUM!
  • Green Tea – only if it doesn’t taste like Green Tea because that shit is nasty.**

Sigh.  I suppose I need to take steps.  It seems that my brain has a mind of its own and being reasonable isn’t its forté.

So, brace yourself Brain!  I’m about to dump all sorts of good shit on you.  Lots of eggs and coffee, the occasional orange juice, a couple nibbles of dark chocolate and a pumpkin seed with a blueberry chaser.  You may have won concessions with food, but there is no way in hell that you’ll take away my Lemon Gin & Tonic.

Seriously.  Don’t fuck with the Lemon Gin & Tonic.

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PS:  While I was searching for brain pictures I came across something  Disturbing   and before Brain intervened, Finger clicked the link.  I mention this because I should have a written testament that I was not looking for ways to get a new brain, legally or illegally.  If people start losing their brains in my general vicinity it is a total coincidence.

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*This is a fact, so you might have learned something.  Please accept my apologies.  This blog is supposed to be a total waste of time. 

**Additional Apologies for the additional learning (if you didn’t already know about this, of course).

The Viking’s Stabby Sport

When it comes to recreational activities, I choose them carefully, based entirely on the potential for humiliation or injury.  And in the age of smart phones with good cameras, my humiliation won’t be limited to just a few lucky by-standers but could be posted to Youtube before I get finished dusting my pants off.

So, when The Viking first mentioned how much he enjoyed playing Darts I was, understandably, alarmed.  Playing Darts involves stabby things and that’s never a good idea for me.  You would think The Viking would know this by now – we’ve already established that I shouldn’t play with fire, automatic weapons, or knives.  As much as I would love to Fence, we all know that I would fumble the Foil and fall on it in a weird kind of Japanese ritual OR fumble the Foil and accidentally stab an observer.  It’s just in everyone’s best interest to keep stabby things out of my hands.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that a Viking would like a Stabby Sport because it’s kind of in their genes, along with boating activities and looting churches.  To be fair though, I haven’t heard of any recent looting or even pillaging, so everyone should stay calm.

Anyway, The Viking hung up a Dart Board, gave me a Gin and Tonic*, handed me the stabby things and said, “Let’s play!”  Obviously, his enthusiasm for the sport over-rode his better judgment.

Of the first 6 Darts I threw, 3 missed the board and stabbed the wall, I dropped one which nearly impaled my right foot, one bounced off the cabinet and almost stabbed the cat, one stabbed my left boob and one hit the Bullseye.

I gave The Viking a look.

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Truth be told, it went better than I anticipated.  By the time we closed the cabinet there were only 6 stab holes in the wall, the cats were happily unstabbed, and the wound to my Jugular Vein was only superficial.

It’s still a good idea to have the First Aid Kit handy though, in case The Viking wants a rematch.

 

*What the fuck?!  The potential for a catastrophic event triples as soon as you give me booze.

What the Fuck is That?!

The new season of Grace & Frankie is finally out which means The Viking and I are binge-watching!

I gathered all the standard Binge-Watching Necessities – water, chips, chocolate, licorice (for The Viking only) and the remote control.  After two episodes, I needed to fill up our water.  Two episodes later another refill and a pee break.  Two episodes after that the water needed to be filled again but I was so comfortable I didn’t want to get up.

If only there was a way to encourage The Viking to do the refill this time?

Me:  My water is empty.  Rock, Paper, Scissors – the loser gets the water?

Him:  Okay.

Me:  Alright.  One….Two….Three (I went for scissors)

……

……

Me:  What the fuck is that?!

Him (staring at his hand):  …..

Me:  Are you seriously trying to combine all three into one Super Tool?

He starts laughing so hard he can’t talk.

Me:  I can’t believe you’re cheating at Rock, Paper, Scissors!  Who does that?

He’s still laughing.

Me:  This is no laughing matter!  Rock, Paper, Scissors is the pre-eminent Decision-Making Tool worldwide, next to The Magic Eight Ball.  What if everyone started cheating?  Imagine the chaos this could unleash on the world.  You may have, single-handedly, brought about the end of civilization.  It’s shameful is what it is.  Obviously, you have to get the water.  Cheater.

Now, I have to find a new way to settle disagreements because apparently he can’t be trusted with such a powerful Tool.  Thumb/Pinkie Wars and Arm Wrestling gives The Viking an unfair advantage because he lifts shit all the time, so I’ll have to settle with Leg Wrestling.

This is what happens when someone fucks around with a good thing, Viking!

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.

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:

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.

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!

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.

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.