Category: Odds & Ends

Gritty Determination

It was my birthday on April 2nd.  It’s worth noting that I missed being an official Fool by 6 hours.  It was a close call, but I planted my tiny feet on either side of the cervix and clung to the walls of the womb with nothing short of gritty determination despite Mom’s resolve to terminate my lease.  Apparently, I was over-due and some evil individual told her that drinking Cod Liver Oil would induce labour.  In my opinion, it was a terrible suggestion even if it was effective.  As a result, I developed a lifelong dislike of any fish that tastes like fish before I even vacated the womb.  Also, had it not been for that meddling Do-Gooder, I could have hung in there for an additional 2 or 3 days for a Larger-Than-6-Hour April’s Fool Buffer Zone.  Mom has been refusing to name the Meddling Do-Gooder in some misguided attempt to protect their privacy for 56 years now.

Anyway, moving on.

There is an issue in our household regarding Birthday Gifts.  Actually, it’s any gift when it comes right down to it – Christmas, Easter, Valentine’s Day, etc. because The Viking is The Most Difficult Person To Buy A Gift For On The Entire Planet!  And that’s a problem.  His closet is full of gift clothing that he never wears.  He has 4 different pairs of slippers.  I can’t buy him tools because he has every single tool ever invented and if he doesn’t already own it, it’s junk.  Princess Auto doesn’t have Gift Cards.  He doesn’t like steering wheel covers or other vehicular accessories.  I bought him a bathrobe in 2008 and that has been the only successful gift I’ve ever managed, and he isn’t likely to wear it out any time in the near or distant future because when I buy a bathrobe, I buy a good one.  And there comes a time when Nipple Tassels, a tiara, and a Kazoo aren’t a surprise anymore.

So, I’ve declared our household a Gift Free Zone.  I hate getting a gift when I can’t give one.  Nothing makes me feel worse than the inability to reciprocate.  Therefore, I don’t want any gifts.  Instead, I try to do nice things for him and make his favorite foods.  It’s lame and unsatisfying but I do what I can.

The kicker, of course, is that The Viking doesn’t play by the rules.  Ever.  I start daily instructions a full month in advance of any gift-giving occasion.  “DON’T BUY ME ANYTHING!!  I’M SERIOUS!  IF YOU BUY ME ANYTHING I’M GOING TO THROW IT IN THE GARBAGE!”  He promises sincerely but we both know by now that he doesn’t follow instructions very well.

This year I thought we had finally come to an understanding.  He got up early, made coffee and headed for the store.  There were flowers* and the sweetest Birthday card ever.  He treated me like a Queen all day long.  By the time we went to bed and no gift had shown up I was a happy lady.

Until last week when a parcel arrived at the front door.  We get packages all the time for the business, so I handed it over to The Viking without looking at it.

“That’s not for me.  It’s for you.”

Me:  WHAT?!

Him:  It’s for you.

Me:  Impossible.  I haven’t ordered anything.

Him:  It’s still for you.

Me (squinting and scowling ferociously):  What have you done?!

Him (shrugging):  …..

Me:  You promised!!

Him:  Whatever.  Open it.

Me:  I’m not finished threatening to hit you with the box yet.  Give me at least another 13 minutes.

You know, sometimes I don’t think The Viking takes my threats seriously enough.  I put in a great amount of time and effort manufacturing the most menacing and intimidating threats possible, so would it kill him to at least act a little scared?  Honestly!  I act terrified when he utters threats in my direction, it’s just good sportsmanship to extend the same courtesy.

So, I opened it.  And it was a fucking Tablet!!  A brand-new fucking Tablet!!  Not even a Refurbished Tablet!  It’s a total Virgin!  Geezus!!  I already have a tablet.  It’s broken at the moment because I dropped it one too many times, but The Viking ordered new switches for it – they were the wrong size, but he was just going to order the right switches this time.  Had the package contained only switches I would have graciously accepted them as a Birthday gift because they only cost $3.00.  A new Tablet is stepping waaaay over the line.  Bastard.

And now I have a new Tablet that I secretly love but feel terrible about loving because I haven’t been able to give The Viking anything that he loves so much he feels terrible about receiving.

It’s a trial.  Sigh.

*I deserve flowers again!  WooHoo!!

I Just Broke Facebook AND Amazon

WARNING:  If you are slightly inhibited or hate the word ‘Dildo’ you probably shouldn’t read beyond this point.  Seriously.

Yes, I did break Facebook and Amazon and it was easier than you might believe.  Maybe not your Facebook and Amazon, but I definitely broke mine.  For 3 days.

It started about 2 weeks ago.

I accidentally dropped my tablet.  Again.  And yes, The Viking did say, “What the fuck is with you and that fucking tablet?  Do I need to tie it around your neck?”  Whatever.  I have no more control of my hands than he does.

Anyway, he had managed to fix it the last time I dropped it so I was fairly optimistic that he could save it again.  Except I dropped it harder this time, apparently, because it broke harder.  It requires a new thingamajig that can only come from Hong Kong and it’s so tiny that The Viking needs to buy a special magnifier doohickey so he can see what the hell he’s doing.  I’ve prepared surgical tongs and sweat-absorbing sponges for mopping his brow, I cobbled together an operating theatre with extra-bright lights and I’ve picked the perfect, calming, Elevator Music to hum softly while he operates.

I like to be helpful – it’s the least I can do under the circumstances.

Now, where was I?  Oh!  For a week after the search for the thingamajig, Facebook plastered Amazon ads for every conceivable type of computer-y thingamabobbit, in every conceivable colour, on my newsfeed.

As luck would have it though, the microwave decided to quit working last week and The Viking worked feverishly to find the replacement doodad on Ebay.

For the entire next week, Facebook plastered Amazon ads for every conceivable type of microwave-y gizmo, in every conceivable colour, on my feed.

Every 4th post was an Amazon ad!  And not very interesting ads either.  How many thingamabobbits and gizmos does one household need?  I finally decided that if I have to look at Amazon ads they should at least be interesting.

So I Googled ‘Massive Dildos’*.

via GIPHY

My hope was that my Facebook feed would erupt into every conceivable kind of Massive Dildo, in every conceivable colour.  And since this computer doubles as a Business Computer, I was hoping for interesting conversations when a customer walked through the door and saw my 27-inch monitor covered in Massive Dildos**.

That didn’t happen though.  Facebook’s Amazon ads went dark.  Not a single ad.  For three days.  I assumed every algorithm on Facebook was in the process of melting down as Amazon threw 1,349,456 Dildo ads at it.  And it probably isn’t easy for an algorithm to figure out that a Statue of Liberty ‘shaped’ Dildo is different than a souvenier-sized, child-appropriate Statue of Liberty or any other tourist-y symbol that might be construed as slightly Dildo-ish in appearance, for that matter.***

So, I enjoyed ad-free browsing for a full 3 days.

But then, on the morning of the 4th day, Facebook returned with a Blitzkrieg of ads…….for every conceivable type of microwave-y/computer-y gizmo, in every conceivable colour, on my feed.  In a brilliant time-travel-y maneuver, Facebook decided to ignore all the Dildos and Dildo-related products, and pretend it never happened, that it was all just a very bad dream and Thank Gawd it’s all over now.

I have to say that I’m terribly disappointed with Facebook.  Who is Mark Zuckerberg to decide whether I can or can’t view Dildo ads on my feed?  Amazon didn’t censor their email marketing based on my recent Dildo research – in fact, I know much more about Dildos than I ever thought I should.

Here’s the thing though…..I’m now trying to resist the urge to see exactly where Facebook draws the line.  Blow-up sex dolls?  Tittie rings?  It’s like Zuckerberg doesn’t know me at all!

Or maybe he does.  Maybe he knows that The Viking knows me well enough and will only tolerate me playing in the dark depths of Amazon’s sex toy inventory for no more than a week, at best, because I have other things to do for fuck’s sake!  Zuckerberg just has to endure my research experiments until The Viking pulls the plug.

Ummm……Buttplug?  ****

* Yes, I’m aware that I could have Googled something less controversial and just as interesting but I’ve now discovered that my brain’s default setting is, apparently, the same as a 13-year-old boy.  I blame this on The Viking.

**It pays to sleep with your Boss because he just laughed when I told him about my newest ambition.

***I don’t think Mt. Rushmore would make a good Dildo unless it was stuck on the bottom like a pair of balls, but the Paramount Pictures lady is certainly an option for business-minded individuals.

****I’m probably going to have to break something in the house so Amazon will stop being so helpful because I’ve now lost all interest in Dildos and Dildo related products.

 

 

Before I Get Drunk

Welcome to my Drunk Season – Bailey’s in my coffee, whiskey in my chocolate, wine in my orange juice, beer in my Clamato and gin in my tonic.  Plus….Akvavit with my Julefrokost that may or may not end with my head resting on a blessedly cool toilet between heaves.  I swear that this Christmas I will know when to refuse that one final shot.

Anyway, since I will be drunk for the better part of the next 10 days, I thought I would do up a ‘Year In Review’ while I’m still sober enough to do it.

January

The Viking cheated at Rock, Paper, Scissors  by creating a Super Weapon and broke the World’s Pre-Eminent Decision-Making Tool and then laughed and laughed and laughed like he didn’t just unleash chaos throughout the universe.

February

The Viking insulted his English Doctor before she gave him his Prostate Exam by explaining that his hemorrhoids are the result of his English genes, courtesy of his Mother.

Also in February, The Viking’s Brother, Erik, and his beautiful Annette came for a visit and I cried for a week when they left.

The Saddest Song in the World

March

The Viking hung up a Dart Board, gave me a stiff Gin and Tonic, and 3 Darts.  It went as well as you can imagine.

April

A Girl Guide sold me a box of horrible cookies and I got angry at Dare Inc. because they should be giving better products for poor Girl Guides to sell.  Seriously!

May

The Viking decided to get into a Viking Lawn Mowing Competition with the neighbour but he had neglected his mower so much it needed some serious love.  My favorite Honda Parts Man, Adrian, had a better suggestion.

June

Teddy struck up a relationship with a foul-mouthed Magpie we named Alice Pooper who likes to squawk abuse very early in the morning at the top of its lungs.  Of our two cats, Teddy is the least likely to participate in an insult contest, while Izzie, the Queen of Mean, enjoys nothing more than a shouting and cursing match.  And it’s all icing on the cake if she can dish out slaps for emphasis.

July

I described the joys of the Blanket Fort and gave everyone permission to host their own Pity Party; I even provided a short list of suggested activities.

August

We took a road trip on the Goldwing and I annoyed The Viking by knocking on his helmet every time I needed to communicate my desires.

September

My Father passed away on August 23, 2019, and I wrote the ‘Worst Eulogy in the History of the World’ so I wrote another one that is a far better Eulogy than the one given at the Funeral.

October

I embarrassed myself at Dad’s Funeral because Anxiety makes me do stupid things and it took me over a month to talk about it.

I finally finished writing the book about my parents and while I was transcribing my Great Grandmother’s book in the back of my Parents’ book I found a Skeleton in our closet that is famous in the “Haunting & Spooks” community.

November

Snow arrived and the cats left paw prints on every single horizontal surface, including the stove and my boobs, and I’ve been cursing and shouting ever since.

I also learned the difference between a Carved-In-Stone Law and a Suggestion and made The Viking get all squinty around the eyes because he hates conversations like these.

December

The Viking almost cut off his finger, I almost fainted and an Emergency Doctor was impressed with The Viking’s cutting skills.

And, there you have it.  2019 in a nutshell.  It’s been awkward, sad, wonderful, shocking, heartbreaking and annoying in turns which sums up life in general, I suppose.  I’m pinning my hopes on a better year in 2020.

May 2020 make all your hopes and dreams come true.  For me and The Viking, too.

 

Call the Paramedics! Again!

You may not remember, or maybe you do, but a couple of years ago I almost cut off my hand and The Viking tried to steal my well-deserved sympathy by comparing an ass-bruise with my almost severed hand.  He called it a paper cut, but that’s only because he wanted his ass-bruise to qualify as the most significant injury of the week, thereby rerouting my inalienable right for pampering to himself.

And this isn’t the only time he stole pampering rights.  I had an abscessed tooth that required intravenous antibiotics for 5 days.  He countered with swollen glands the following morning that put him in the hospital for over a week.  So, not only did I not get any pampering, I was running back and forth to the hospital to pamper him, dragging my antibiotic pump with me!

I’m mentioning it here because The Viking almost cut his finger off with a box cutter which created a moment of utter confusion because he literally reversed the Natural Injury/Disease Time Continuum.  He came running in the house drizzling blood and swearing profusely and time slowed down as my mind desperately tried to understand what was happening.  His fountain of blood can only happen if a fountain of blood has already erupted from me.  That’s how our shit works.  First me…..then him!  But I hadn’t seen any of my blood or felt any pain and my limbs were all present and accounted for which, logically, would mean I am uninjured.  But, if I’m uninjured and he is injured, something has gone terribly wrong in the Universe.

He fiddles around in the shop with things I can only assume are mechanically magical and now, in light of these events, my only reasonable conclusion is that he accidentally stepped out of the Mechanic Pentagram and unleashed a Demon.  Of course, when you fiddle with magic you know that eventually something unintended will happen, but I had thought/hoped it would involve less blood and more Robots.  Cooking and cleaning Robots to be exact.

Once Time returned to its normal progression, I ran for the gigantic first aid kit* while he drizzled blood into the kitchen sink.  I grabbed a roll of gauze and started wrapping it around his neck.  He said, “What the fuck are you doing?!”  And I said, “Installing a Tourniquet”.  Apparently, crisis humor isn’t appreciated in the middle of a crisis.

He started examining the cut more carefully.  “I think it went right to the bone.”

I said, “Oh my god!” and almost fainted.

Yes.  I almost fainted.  Meaning, he got hurt and I was pre-empting his injury.  He sat on a kitchen chair holding pressure on the cut while I sat on a kitchen chair with my head between my knees, sucking in air like a guppy out of water.  After a couple of minutes, I thought I was okay and sat up and almost passed out again!  It took me 20 fucking minutes to get a grip!  To add insult to injury – my injury, obviously – he was happily calling me “Pale Face” which is Danishy for “Pasty Face”.

We needed to get to the hospital, I knew that immediately.  The Viking disagreed.  We should wait and see if it would quit bleeding on its own.  I had wrapped some gauze around the middle finger fairly tight and I was a little concerned about leaving it on too long.  Two and a half hours later, it was still pumping out blood and would obviously need professional medical help.

Four and a half hours after that, the ER Doctor was impressed that The Viking had managed to cut his finger so deep that he severed the main blood vessel and yet hadn’t severed the nerve.  It took 5 stitches to sew his finger back together.

So, to recap:  The Viking reversed the Natural Injury/Disease Time Continuum and in so doing may or may not have created a demon in the shop but definitely didn’t create a Robot that could cook and clean.  Being so confused by the shifting of reality, I co-opted his pampering opportunity by almost fainting.  I finally got to use the Gigantic, Industrial-Sized First Aid Kit and it wasn’t on myself.  The Viking called me a name, I put a tourniquet around his neck and an ER Doctor was impressed with The Viking’s cutting talents.

And that’s how you get yourself an extra-long weekend on strict Doctor’s orders.  And also additional state-of-the-art medical supplies for the next attempted amputation.

 

*He bought the largest kit available because he assumed I would hack a limb off while cleaning Cauliflower one day and he wanted to be “prepared”.  I took a brief moment to remind him of that and to point out exactly who almost cut what off first.

Is This a Carved-In-Stone Law Or A Suggestion? There IS a Difference, You Know.

I was on my way home from the Danish Store and traffic in the right lane was crawling while everyone in the left lane was zipping so I joined the Zippers because I was getting bored.  It was from the Zipping lane that I saw what was holding up traffic.

It was a minivan followed closely by a one-ton flatbed truck with its hazard lights flashing.  It took me a second to realize exactly what the problem was but when I did see it, I was all what the hell?!

All four wheels on that minivan were wobbling in comic exaggeration.  I mean serious wobbles I could see from a quarter of a kilometer away!

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When I mentioned it to The Viking, he passed on a snippet of his brilliance.

“That’s because they’re fucking stupid.  They didn’t know what they were doing when they changed their tires.”

Evidently, when you change a wheel on your vehicle, you put all the lug nuts on and tighten them individually in small increments so no one lug is tightened more than the others.

Apparently, this is a rule that you should never break.  I understand this is how you are supposed to do it, but I thought it was more of a suggestion than a Carved-In-Stone Law.  And I think I should be forgiven for thinking this way in the face of all the rules that are suggestions rather than Carved-In-Stone Laws.  For instance:

    • Brushing your teeth in an up and down motion – that doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense to me. Even when I was a small child I didn’t believe it because aren’t you just pushing food bits further under your gums?  It’s obvious that brushing side to side or in a circular motion are superior methods and I’m glad the Dental Association finally saw the error of their ways.
    • Speed limits – everyone knows the speed limit, but we all know that it’s an arbitrary number someone in an office assigned decades ago based on the quality of vehicles back then. Today’s vehicles have been engineered by aliens and that old speed limit is strictly a ploy on the part of the Powers That Be to increase speeding ticket revenue.  And to bore drivers to death.
    • Cold medication – sure, there is a dosage suggestion on the package, but that’s totally dependent on how terrible I feel at that moment. I don’t start free-basing cold meds just because I have a sniffle.  By the time I have assessed the severity of my flu symptoms and grudgingly decided I need to medicate, the two-pill dosage is obviously inadequate.    I start with a double dose and work my way up until I’m rendered unconscious for the duration of the flu.  Incidentally, the suggested number of Hot Rum Toddies you ingest during your suffering is woefully insufficient as well.
    • Wine – how much wine I put in a recipe is totally subjective. They say ½ a cup, I say 2 ½ cups and I drink the rest of the bottle because I hate leftovers.
    • Laundry detergent – if a quarter of a cup is good, then a half a cup is, logically, better.
    • Hair products – see above.
    • Serving sizes – once again, suggestions. The suggested serving size of Pickled Herring is categorically TOO LARGE!  A quarter teaspoon is sufficient, thank you very much, followed by 3 servings of something to get the taste out of my mouth.  Ice Cream, on the other hand, is a different matter.  The suggested serving size of a quarter cup is laughable!*  There shouldn’t even be a suggested serving size on Ice Cream and the Monster who suggested it should be jailed.
    • Exit speeds – why so cautious? As long as I have two wheels on the pavement, I’m good.  If someone screwed up the engineering of the exit ramp, forcing drivers to slow down far more than is reasonable, the sign should just be

**

I didn’t bother asking for clarification from The Viking.  He gets all squinty around the eyes when he has to participate in this kind of conversation and it always ends with shouting and eloquent curses.

Perhaps it would be better if I just check on a case by case basis.  You know, rain showers instead of a monsoon.  I’m sure he’ll appreciate my thoughtfulness.

 

* Unless it’s Licorice Ice Cream and then the Pickled Herring size applies

** And now that I’m thinking about it, a lot of traffic signs should be just emojis.  It would certainly make driving more interesting.

Knock, Knock!

We did something daring.  That’s right.  We dared.  And, it was glorious!

We have a Honda Goldwing – a great old girl that has seen better days but when The Viking blows in her exhaust and whispers sexy things to her injectors it’s like she’s 10 again.*  He dusted her off and fueled her up and we went through the mountains to Cranbrook, British Columbia.

We’ve never dared to ride for so long before because my Spine gets cranky about its missing disc and potholes.  However, you never get adventure from sitting on the sofa, so I packed some hefty pain meds and we hit the road.   I stuck earphones in and turned up my music.  While The Viking was driving like a Boss, I was conducting orchestras, doing drum solos and singing opera – happy as a clam.

We don’t have the fancy helmet to helmet communication because I prefer my solitary time.  However, I have created a complex method of communicating with The Viking, just in case I have something important to say that can’t wait until we stop for a stretch:  I knock on his helmet with my knuckles.  I would knock on his helmet with a pretty Scepter but apparently he doesn’t think I’m Queenly enough for one.  Whatever.  So, I knock on his helmet and he turns his head and I yell my important information at him.  It’s almost perfect.

Knock, Knock

The Viking turns his head.

I’VE BEEN HIT!!  A GIANT BUG JUST CRIPPLED MY RIGHT KNEE!

Shrug.

He’s obviously not concerned enough to pull over for triage.

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

WHY IS MY NOSE ALWAYS ITCHY WHEN I RIDE THIS BIKE?!

Shrug.

I spend more time with my finger scrubbing my nose than actually looking at the scenery.

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

I CAN’T CHEW MY GUM BECAUSE THE HELMET IS TOO TIGHT!

Shrug.

Seriously!  Do motorcyclists never chew gum?  Helmets should have cheek pouches. OR…..the back of his jacket should have a TicTac pocket.

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

I HAVE TO PEE!

Makes several hand signals that I believe meant that I’d just have to hold it until we reached the next gas station OR it could have meant that he’d stop if I wanted to squat in the ditch.

I decided to wait for a gas station.

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

MY BACK IS ITCHY AND IT’S DRIVING ME NUTS!!

Shrug.

I tried to keep my squirming to a minimum.

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

I ALMOST LOST MY PHONE WHEN I WANTED TO CHANGE PLAYLISTS!

Muffled curses and lewd hand gestures.

If he had a pocket on the back of his jacket to hold my phone, this wouldn’t be an issue, you know.

We had a wonderful trip though.  The weather was perfect, the hotel was clean and dinner out was lovely.  We should do this again.

As soon as I get finished sewing an organizing system to the back of The Viking’s leather jacket.

*He’s very good at whispering sexy things to old girls.  Trust me.  I know.

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.

Thunder Thighs and Sabre-Tooth Gophers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ouch!  Fuck!!”

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

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

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

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

Demon Panties and Dorothy

I’m multi-tasking today – laundry, planning dinner, blog post, playing Carleton the Doorman for two cats and company business.  I consider this a full day bordering on unreasonably expectation-y because my personal preference for any given day includes Solitaire time and a 2-hour nap at 3:00pm which this day doesn’t include.

While I was folding the first load of clothes out of the dryer I came across a pair of panties I’ve never actually worn for more than 14.8 minutes.  They are made of 100% nylon – at least that’s what it says on the panties – but I happen to have excellent proof that they also contain some space-age, super slippery properties they don’t want us to know about.  That’s right Hanes, I’m on to you!

I bought them because they are really quite lovely for Granny Panties; so lovely, in fact, that I bought 2 packs of them.  Yes.  I wear Granny Panties.  Especially Golden Girls Granny Panties.  Because they are fucking comfortable and if they are good enough for Dorothy, they are good enough for me.

Anyway, I washed them and folded them lovingly.  The following morning, I picked out the prettiest one and put it on.  I even paused to admired it in the mirror before I put on my pants.  Everything seemed fine at first.  It was completely fine……until I sat down.

Suddenly my pants went one way and my panties went another!  My pants were aligned with my right hip while the panties remained in place.  What kind of fuckery is this?!  The panties are so slippery that when I sat down, the increased friction of cloth against an immovable force (the chair) caused a fracturing of contact between the Demon Panties and the cotton of my pants.  I’m lucky the chair had arm-rests, or I would have been propelled to the floor!  The ensuing lawsuit would be as weird as the guy who sued Starbuck’s because he got his penis pinched between the toilet seat and the porcelain of the toilet itself*.

I went directly back to the bedroom to change my panties because there was no way in hell I could slip slide through my day.  I didn’t even have to pull my pants down manually – I just wiggled a bit and they fell to my ankles.

And now I’m wondering what Hanes was thinking?  Surely, they have quality control.  Didn’t anyone put a pair on?  Or maybe someone did try them, slipped off their chair, hit their head on the corner of a sewing machine and died.  Also, what am I supposed to do with these Demon Panties?  I could donate them to a Thrift Store, but that’s just passing on the danger, right?  What if a young, single mom takes them then falls off the Bus Stop bench and breaks a leg?  That’s the last thing she needs!

As a responsible member of society, I’ve taken a stand.  I have balled-up all my Demon Panties in a bag, labelled it (in case someone is cleaning out my closets after I’m dead and thinks to donate such new panties) and shoved them to the back of my Personals Drawer where they will never be a danger to anyone else.  I simply don’t want to be responsible for future humiliations and broken bones.

Because that’s just the kind of woman I am.  You’re welcome.

PS:  Maybe I should burn them.  You never know who is going through your shit after you’re dead.  Maybe they’ll sell them instead of heeding the large warning on the bag.  I’ll need a big barrel, some dynamite and a flare gun.

*I’m not kidding!

 

Hobbit Feet and Toadstools

I have a new Dentist.  Not only is he absolutely adorable but he’s kind and more than just a little talented, too.  I don’t want to gush but he’s managed 2 miracles in the past month alone.  If he keeps this up, I’ll have to contact the Vatican and recommend Sainthood.

My problem is Dry Mouth, caused by nearly 10 years of pain medication that keeps me on my feet and not in a wheel chair.  I don’t eat candy all day long, I brush my teeth, floss and use mouthwash like every other responsible person but I have no spit.  At all.  No enzymes that kill bacteria.  It’s the Sahara Desert in there which leaves me with a surplus of cavities and a deficit of Dental Coverage.

The Dental Clinic that I had been supporting created a mess with revolving Dentists, inferior materials, no quality control and insane prices.  I have a filling in a molar that was installed in 1998 and it’s pristine while every filling that was installed at this clinic lasted less than a year.  After I spent a month on IV and oral Antibiotics I finally said, “Fuck this shit!!” and started looking around for a decent Dental Clinic.

Oddly enough, it was my Hair Guru that recommended the Montgomery Dental Centre .  I had nothing to lose really; that infected tooth had to be dealt with if I wanted to avoid more antibiotics.

So, I called them and made an appointment.  I was expecting Dental Shaming at a bare minimum and perhaps flagrant condescension.  What I didn’t expect was Dr. Manu Dua, DMD or the sweet women that greeted me, prepped me and kept me calm.

Dr. Dua – okay, wait.  I can’t call him Dr. Dua all the time, it’s bulky and awkward and I’m old enough to be his mother.  I understand that he’s a very talented man who spent a lot of time and money being educated and I want to show my respect for that education but can I salute him or curtsy or something and then just call him Dua?  I’m going to ask about that at my next appointment.

Anyway, Dua arrived in my cubicle wearing a face mask and snapping his plastic gloves.  He poked and prodded around in my mouth with several sharp instruments he ordered from The Tower of London.  He started tap, tapping here and tap, tapping there like my mouth was a xylophone and he was playing Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting.  “Does this hurt?  How about this?”  After a lengthy examination, he pulled down his mask and said, “Yeah, I can fix this.”

The confidence in this one is strong.  I like it!  I was worried he would pull all my teeth and send me for dentures, which is one of my worst nightmares.  Your whole face collapses and you suddenly look like Whistler’s Mother even if you’re still in your teens – which I’m not.

He said, “Begone!  Come back in two days” at which time he would do Dua Magic.  And he did!  He built an entire eye tooth out of fairy dust and sunshine!  It’s brilliant!  I stop and look at it in the mirror a couple of times a day, turning this way and that so the light shines on it.  Even better?  He called me a couple days later to ask how my Magic Tooth was doing!  In my excitement I accidentally said, “I love you.” Which I do but maybe he was creeped out.  It’s a totally platonic love, Dua.  No need to move to another city and change your name.

He tackled the infected Asshole Molar right after Christmas.  He drilled it out and cleaned out the infection, gave it a stern talking-to, then filled it with some temporary stuff – probably toadstools and Hobbit feet – so it will hold until my Dental Coverage kicks in again in April.  That’s when the Dua Plan kicks in.  He knows exactly which tooth will receive the Dua Magic next, and I find that comforting.  Also, he called me a couple days later to check up on my Hobbit Tooth, which is wonderful.  I managed, in the nick of time, to keep my affections to myself.  And it wasn’t easy, Dua.

So, now I’m working on a dental clinic VooDoo doll (for the old clinic) which is harder than you would think because where do you jab the pin?  I could jab the receptionist but unless she’s the actual owner of the clinic it wouldn’t be fair.  And I don’t want to jab the Dental Assistants because they, like Nazi soldiers, were only following orders.  So where does that leave me?  They have rotated at least 5 Dentists through that clinic in the past 5 years and I can’t remember them all.

Well, I suppose I’ll just send special wishes to Universe regarding the old clinic.  I’m not too bitter, but I’m still annoyed enough to take reasonably aggressive action.  Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t risk messing with Universe because that can easily backfire.  Waiting for Karma can be a lengthy proposition, though.

PS:  Don’t even think about relocating, Dua.  It takes no time at all to make a VooDoo doll for you.

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