Category: Odds & Ends

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.

 

Lori Vs. Washing Machine

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

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

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

He does things for me.

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

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

via GIPHY

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

Nothing.

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

Still nothing.

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

Well, shit.

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

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

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

Me:  Yes.  Ass.

OW:  Check your fuses?

Me:  Already did that.

OW:  Okay, I’m out of ideas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I’m smarter than Washing Machine.

Are You Even Listening?

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

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

The Viking: “hmm……”

Me: “You aren’t even listening.”

Him: “hunn…..”

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

Him: “hhzzzzzzzz…”

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

Him: “mmmmuh”

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

Him: “uh..hmmm”

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

…..

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

…..

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

Him: Grunt

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

Him (turning to look at me): “What?!”

Me: “Does this weekend work for you?”

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

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

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

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

His left eye starts to twitch.

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

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

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

Him: “I did not!”

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

 

Sharing is caring

Battle of 39th Avenue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Commercial Break

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

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

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

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

Commercial Break

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Commercial Break

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Jones:  WHAT THE FUCK?!

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

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

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

Bob:  Commercial break!  Commercial break!

Commercial Break

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

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

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

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

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

Commercial Break

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

via GIPHY

via GIPHY

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

Sharing is caring!

What? I Can’t Hear You!

Sometimes I need a break.  The Viking and I spend every waking and sleeping moment together and generally speaking, it works well for us.  Sure, we have the small moments when tone of voice annoys the other, but it happens and then we move on.

Having said that, on occasion I need to spend some time in my head to tidy up.  I need to sweep out the old litter to make room for new litter.  I also need to spiffy up my Joy.  Without regular maintenance my Joy gets dull and dusty so it’s not so much Joy as it is Meh and Meh just doesn’t cut it when my day starts to run off the rails.

So, yesterday I took a few hours to spiffy.  Headphones in hand, I told The Viking that I was going dark and couldn’t be reached for anything less than death.  I planned an instrumental extravaganza with Yanni, Live at The Acropolis, and headphones were key to a successful Joy Fest.  I also need plenty of room because directing and chair dancing doesn’t happen in tight places without significant risk of injury and I’m still nursing my scabby knee.

BEWARE!!  Hot Greek Dude, hair flipping, moustache wiggling and luminous teeth-i-ness.  You’ve been warned.

 

With The Viking safely tucked in the living-room in front of Danish TV, I proceeded with my Joy.  I plugged my headphones into my phone and began chair-bouncing, arm-waving, and shoulder-dipping, while I did a puzzle on the computer.  I couldn’t have been happier.

And then, iPhone decided to ruin it all.  The volume was suddenly turned down!  Right in the middle of a mid-song crescendo!  WTF?!  I picked up the phone to read that iPhone has been monitoring my listening for the past week or so and is concerned about my hearing safety.

Seriously?  If it’s been monitoring my hearing as it claims, it should already understand that some music can only be enjoyed at full volume.  I need to hear that Oboe’s entrance in bar 18!  I turned the volume back up.

Ten minutes later, iPhone turns the volume down, again!  Come on!!  You’re ruining my Joy!!  I turned the volume back up again.  Asshole.  iPhone obviously hasn’t listened to The Viking mansplain something to me at the top of his lungs*.  If it is really concerned about my hearing, that would be a great place to start.  Although…..I would like to see Apple try to regulate The Viking’s mansplainings.  I’d need popcorn and beer.

And then…..ten minutes later!  Why is Apple so worried about my hearing all of a sudden?  It doesn’t care about my eyesight from the glare off the screen.  Or my texting fingers developing Arthritis.  Or my increased risk of Cancer because the stupid thing is always within reach.  Why all the hate for volume?  Do I need to buy decibels now?  Is this some new Apple revenue stream because people are getting tired of buying new phones every year?

Do you want to listen to music on your phone?  Buy decibels today!  Buy one decibel for the bargain price of $19.00 per month or 5 decibels for $89.00 per month.

The Viking will have to dig out that old Bang and Olafson stereo if that’s the case and the neighbours will need to invest in sound-proofing technology.

In the meantime, I’m going to have to find another way to listen myself to Joy.  Maybe through Bluetooth?  I do have some awesome Bluetooth Ear Buds which might actually work better because there would be less risk of me dragging my phone off the desk every time I have to go to the bathroom.

Who knew I would be fighting with Apple for the right to listen to loud music.

 

*Yes, you do.  All. The. Time.  Don’t bother denying it.

We Need A Permanent Paramedic Team Just For Me, Apparently!

I know I’m a Klutz.  I also know why I’m a klutz.  It’s mostly because I’m not paying attention to what I’m doing – a problem I assume most Over-Thinkers are familiar with.  I walk forward while looking backward, trip over threads, bread crumbs, dandelion fluff, or forget I’m carrying something in my right hand when I pick something up with my left hand.  The carnage is usually contained to spilled liquids or broken glass, but occasionally I do manage minor body injuries.  Having said that, I admit that what happened two days ago was monumental, even for me.  And I wasn’t even distracted.

I was finishing off the final touches to my year-end books when there was a knock at the door.  Usually, I just bellow for whoever it is to come in but I was feeling good for accomplishing the “Worst Task In The Modern World” and thought I would actually go open the door.  I twirled my office chair around in a sassy/breezy move and stood up enthusiastically with a welcoming smile already on my face.

My industrial, 3-meter long Door Mat* said, “Not today, Lady!  Ha HA!!” and lifted its edge just enough for my slipper to catch.

Time…slowed…down.

No way.  You aren’t doing this now, are you?  I thought we talked about being aware of your surroundings, taking that extra little second to lift your feet?  Have you forgotten already?

No, I haven’t forgotten exactly.  I was just so happy!  What’s the harm in a little sassiness and breeziness?  People do that all the time!  It’s not like I was tap dancing.

‘People’ can do sassiness and breeziness.  You cannot.  Ever.  And, just so you don’t forget, here is a little pain to make the lesson stick.

Again?!  Why are you always using Pain as your main Teaching Tool?  We aren’t cavemen anymore, you know.  And would it kill you to get my arms to take up some sort of defensive position so my face doesn’t take the brunt of your abuse?

No.  Your arms are stupid.  The best I can do is get your knees between your industrial Door Mat and your face.

My arms aren’t stupid.  They are traitorous bastards that only think of themselves and this isn’t the first time they have betrayed me.  And if my knees are the best you can do, I suppose I’m at your mercy, but I will be lodging a complaint about your incompetence.  Just so you know.

Oh!  You should also know that your centre of gravity is such that your knees can’t completely save you.  Your shoulder is going to ram into that shoe rack and your face is going to smear itself across the bottom third of the door.

Seriously?!  It’s 3 meters from here to the door.  I’m going to skid, aren’t I?

At least once.  Maybe more.  It depends on your knees, really.

I don’t suppose you would reconsider, would you?

Nope.

Fuck.

I started shouting with annoyance before I actually came to a complete stop and the second syllable was slightly incomprehensible because half of my face was squished against the door.

GEEZUS!!!

Before I could assess the damage, a small voice on the other side of the door said…..

“Um….are you okay?!”

“Yes!!  I’m fine!  Geezus!”  I had forgotten all about this guy in the 2 seconds it took me to crash – deafeningly I assume – into the door.

“Are you sure?  Do you want me to get someone?”

“NO!  I’m fine!  What do you even need?”

“Umm…I’m here to look at my sled.  Your husband is working on it.  He called me to come and look at what he found.”

Grunt.  “Go through that white door behind you.  He’s in there!”

“Okay.  You’re sure you don’t need any help?”

“NO!”  Why won’t he just leave already?  Gawd!

I pushed myself into a sitting position and took stock.  The shoulder took a good hit, as did my face – not a bruising kind of hit, just an annoying kind of hit – but the winner in this encounter was my left knee.  I pulled up my pant leg and saw the skin peeled off in two places.  Because of the skidding, I suppose.

Oooo…that looks painful.

It is.  And I’m not talking to you right now.

When The Viking came in the house an hour or so later I asked if the customer mentioned anything.  He said, no, why?  I pulled up my pant leg.

The slight scraping off of skin had, by now, turned into two huge, bloody scrapes that were irritated by my pants which was just as well because I was irritated, too.  I was slightly gratified that the amount of pain was equal to the wound itself because most of the time that doesn’t happen – it just hurts like hell but doesn’t even show a mark for a small amount of pity.

Typically, The Viking said, “What the fuck did you do?”

I pointed at the irrational Door Mat and then stomped on it for good measure.  “This Door Mat has to go!  It’s a death trap!”

To prove that I was definitely not a Sissy, I plastered a couple of band-aides on the scrapes and called it a day.

Fast forward to last night.  Those damned scrapes were killing me so I decided to take off the band-aides and have a look-see.

GEEZUS!!

They were actually getting infected and the band-aides were stuck to the scrapes so I ended up pulling even more skin off!

In case any of you are wondering…..The Viking is a TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE nurse!  He started rubbing the scrapes with a vigor reminiscent of cleaning soap scum off a tub with a cotton pad only slightly moistened with peroxide.  I howled, he told me to clench my teeth, I turned gray and considered passing out, he called me a baby, I called him a dirty, miserable rat bastard, he grunted, I grabbed the bottle of peroxide and just poured it on the scrape which started foaming like crazy and he howled at the waste of perfectly good peroxide.

Fast forward to tonight.

I’m going to survive.  It was touch and go there for a while but apparently, The Viking’s cruel and unusual bedside treatments were as successful as they were painful.  Don’t tell him that though – he’ll become insufferable.

 

 

*It saves my floors from customers’ shoes.

 

Menopause and Strategic Drinking

If you’ve never developed a dysfunctional and cursing relationship with the lowest disc in your back, consider yourself lucky.  That particular disc is a bastard and it will make you miserable for the rest of your life.  Drugs and pain become part of your daily life.  I’ll just leave it at that because further explanation is lengthy and boring.

The reason I even bother mentioning it is because I have difficulty doing certain things – like any activity that requires my torso to have anywhere from a slight forward angle to full 90° angle – like vacuuming, washing dishes, cleaning toilets………and shaving my legs.

And the only reason I even bother mentioning that is because my legs need shaving.  Of course, I procrastinate.  2 weeks ago, The Viking and I were sitting outside enjoying the sun.

Me:  Geez!  Someone needs to shave my legs.

The Viking:  Why?  Who gives a fuck if your legs are hairy?

Me (loving him intensely):  Well, it’s considered a social obligation in Canada/Alberta/Calgary.  Women just don’t go around with hairy legs!  Or pits, for that matter.

The Viking:  Canadians are stupid.  It’s just hair!

He’s right, of course, and I might be rebel enough to break the hairless opinion chain except for one tiny little thing – my legs won’t tan if there is even the slightest hint of hair stubble.  I blame genetics.  Also, The Viking made a comment early this summer:

Hey, Babe!  You have Bedroom Legs!

That the fuck is that supposed to mean?  Apparently, in Denmark, if you have fish-belly-white legs it means you are spending far too much time in the bedroom doing……..well…..you know.  Before you go “that’s sexist”, it also applies to men.

Last week, The Viking and I were sitting outside having a beer after work and I noticed that my legs still weren’t shaved.

Me:  Geezus!  Someone really needs to get these legs shaved.  Look at this!  I can actually pull this hair!

The Viking:  Whatever.  No one cares.

We had some lousy weather for a few days, so I put leg shaving out of mind.  And then Friday was a beautiful day so I plopped myself down in a deck chair in the sun and closed my eyes to just enjoy it for a few minutes.  It was warm and there was a lovely soft breeze.  Then my legs started to feel weird.  It took me a moment to realize that……

……..the breeze was ruffling the hair on my legs!           

Someone has seriously dropped the ball here.  I need to go to the store!  It’s one thing to leave a few pesky chin hairs because they can hide behind the face mask*, it’s another thing entirely to go to the store with the wind whipping my leg hair around.  Whatever happened to slower leg hair growth when you hit menopause so you can spend more time plucking facial hair?  I was looking forward to the day I could quit leg shaving because I can pluck my face without bending over.  I feel kind of betrayed!  Not only am I plucking my face more, but my leg hair hasn’t slowed down at all.  Heavy sigh.

So, I pulled a kitchen chair into the bathroom, along with a margarine container of water to swish the razor.  Thankfully, the shower head is detachable, and I can wet my legs.  And now that I’m bent 110° over my legs, I realize that I’ve forgotten my reading glasses and can’t see if I’m missing hair.  I remedy that problem and now I can see, very clearly, the varicose veins in brilliant contrast to my slightly tanned skin.  Heavier sigh.

In the end, I got my legs shaved and I spent some time hanging them out in the sun.  I complained about the varicose veins though.

The Viking:  Just tan your legs more and no one will notice the veins.

Me:  I’m not sure I can tan them out of existence.

The Viking:  Then stop worrying about it.  Now, let’s have beer!

Happily, after a few beer, I didn’t care about my leg hair and varicose veins.  Perhaps I need to develop and implement a strategic drinking program – it’s cheaper than therapy, after all.

 

*Thank you silver lining of COVID-19.

I Couldn’t Have Planned This Better If I Had Actually Tried

It’s our 3rd Wedding Anniversary today.  Aaaannnnd….National Orgasm Day.

I didn’t plan to have our Wedding on National Orgasm Day, but if I had decided to get married on any National Whatever Day, it would have been National Orgasm Day.  Sometimes, things just work out despite not planning them.

Oddly, I didn’t realize until today that I shared a special day with Orgasms which makes me wonder why I didn’t know this until today.  Two whole anniversaries have been wasted and I’m a little disappointed.

It’s All Fun and Games Until a Viking Starts Cheating!

Since the weather was shit this weekend and we didn’t feel like sitting out in freezing temperatures and drizzle, we opted to amuse ourselves inside.  And what better way to amuse ourselves than engaging in Stabby Sports – Darts, for the less stabby people.

The Viking is far better at Stabbing than I am – it’s probably a Viking thing.  He’s so good that he gives me a substantial handicap to try to even up the odds – the first one to 301 points wins and the last stab has to be on a double.  Except for me…..I don’t need to hit a double because we both recognize that just hitting the dart board is an achievement.

So, I made myself a Lemon Gin and Tonic and he indulged in Beer with Clamato Juice and we picked up our darts.  I went first.

Me (throws darts):  Oooooo……that’s a 43!

The Viking (throws):  What the fuck?!  3?

Me (shaking imaginary Pom-Poms):  Oooooo….nice job!  Keep up the good work.

The Viking:  Just throw your darts.

Me:  Wow!  That’s a 47….best score so far!

The Viking (throws his darts):  For fucks sake!  9?

Me (dancing like a witch at the Spring Solstice celebrations):  YES!!

The Viking:  Pfft!

Me (throws):  WooHoo!  64!!  Has the student surpassed the Master?  (Evil laughter)

The Viking:  19 for fucksake!  And you had better watch out, Karma is going to get you.

Me (shrugging philosophically):  Of course it is.  It always gets you in the end, but I will dance with the Devil until it does.  Besides…..I prefer to celebrate my wins when I can because you know it only takes one throw and you’re on top again.

The Viking:  Throw your darts!

Me:  37!

The Viking (glaring at the dart board and then adjusting it):  This thing has moved to the right.  Why does it always do that?

The Viking (throws his darts):  113.

Me:  What the fuck?!  I find it highly suspicious that you suddenly throw 113 AFTER you adjusted the board.  I want to go to the Official for a decision.

The Viking:  What official?

Teddy wanders by.

Me:  Teddy!  The Viking is cheating!

Teddy:  Are you talking to me?

Me:  Yes!  The Viking is cheating.  He adjusted the dartboard and now he gets 113 points in a single turn.  I need you to sanction him by 100 points.

Teddy:  You don’t happen to have any treats, do you?  I find it difficult to make informed decisions when my stomach is rumbling.

Me (giving him treats):  Okay.  Now rule and force him to subtract 100 points as his penalty.

Teddy (licking lips):  I don’t really understand the rules so I’m just going outside to patrol the perimeter.

Me:  Turncoat.

Teddy (shrugging):  I bet you regret blaming that fart on me last night.

The Viking (singing):  Karrrrrmaaa

Me (throwing my darts):  15.  I blame you for this.  You ‘adjust’ the board and suddenly the whole game is rigged in your favour.  I’m pretty sure that’s against some sort of ‘Viking Code of Honour’.  Before we play again I’m going to install a proper Official.  One that you haven’t paid off.

The Viking (throws):  92

Me:  29

The Viking stepped up to the line, assumed his Dart-Throwing Stance and took aim.  And then………….. “Ouch!  What the fuck?!  Did you just stab my ass with your dart?!

Me (straight face):  I don’t know what you’re talking about.  Maybe someone has a VooDoo doll under her desk.  And even if she does, you deserve it for cheating.

The Viking:  I’m not cheating.  The board had moved.

The Viking assumes the Stance again and tries to aim but, clearly, he’s nervous because I’m petting one of my Darts and testing the sharpness of the point.  He tries again and then laughs when I kiss it ever so gently.

Finally…..

Me:  The unknown person, or persons, with the VooDoo doll is probably satisfied with just the one poke so you can relax.  Everyone knows it’s only funny once.

He smoked me in that game.  And the next game.  I won the third game, purely by accident when I blundered into a triple 19 and two other high points.  That deserved a celebratory Turkey Dance!  In reality though, I couldn’t hit what I was aiming at to save my life.  If we ever had to defend ourselves against our Enemies* with nothing but darts, I could maybe hit the attacker but it’s anyone’s guess whether it would be with the pointy end or not.

So, it’s a good thing that I don’t take Stabbing very seriously.  I go in knowing the odds of winning are close to zero.  And that’s okay with me.

Besides, it’s all fun and games until a Viking starts cheating.

*Not that we have Enemies.  At least I don’t think we have Enemies, but who knows?  There might be someone out there with less than warm feelings for us but that just means we need to be careful about telling new people our real names and hope everyone else has forgotten already.