Category: Funny Woman Blog

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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Julefrokost!

The ground under my feet shifted on December 23rd.  Not literally, of course, but something moved and my soul moved with it.

As you know, Mim (my amazing daughter) got married on that day.  When Mim arrived at the church, her father (Stanley) and I made our way downstairs to the staging area.  When we reached the bottom of the stairs and saw her…….time stopped.

Where did this gorgeous creature even come from?  I looked at Stanley and saw my awe reflected on his face.  He said, “She looks like Princess Ariel!”.  And she did!  I said, “I can’t believe we made that!”

And there was that moment.  Thoughts that had been waltzing around my brain for a couple of years suddenly coalesced into a brilliant moment of clarity.  My family circle had holes that needed to be filled.

I looked at Stanley again and my heart hurt.  We’ve been so awkward since we separated but all the negative feelings have long since fallen away.  Stanley found Mildred and I found The Viking and we’ve all created wonderful lives for ourselves.  And there I stood, looking at our daughter, falling in love with Stanley all over again.

Skreeeetch!!  Not like that!

Stanley and I are connected.  We each hold a small piece of the other’s heart.  There is kindness and respect and a deep love that will last until we die.  We just weren’t meant to love like married people love.  Instead, we were meant to love like only the very best of friends can love.

The question then becomes ‘How do we go from awkward and weird to Hygge* Friends?’  My last encounter** with Mildred was sort of tricky.  What we need is copious amounts of booze to rub off the rough edges and lubricate the Hygge.  OR!  Moderate amounts of Akvavit because that shit is like a truth serum.

So, on December 30th at 2:00pm, the Julefrokost began.  There were six of us – Junior and his girlfriend, Stanley and Mildred and The Viking and me.  It was sad that Mim and Kevin couldn’t come – they were both very sick and making the 4-hour drive in freezing weather was beyond their capabilities.  We missed them both terribly, but the party went on as scheduled.

The Viking, Junior and I were the only seasoned Julefrokost-ers at the table so you would think we would break the Newbies in gently.  You’d be wrong, though.  It was Trial by Fire, Baby!!

We started off with Pickled Herring on rye bread topped with onions and boiled egg.  Take one bite and shout SKÅL!!, a shot of Akvavit with a chaser of beer.  I must confess, that first shot of Akvavit is a killer.  My right eye slams shut and my left starts to water.  My mouth contorts into an alligator smile.  My throat burns and I can’t breathe for about 15 seconds.  Then my entire body shudders and an involuntary moan wheezes out of my nose.  I was so busy trying to survive my own first shot that I have no idea how Stanley and Mildred did.  Apparently, they were fine because no one was on the floor when I finally stopped gasping.

Mildred & Stanley

As the courses progressed, we all became increasingly tanked.  I kept spilling things (it’s what I’m good at) but Mildred was fast on her feet fetching the paper towels.  I blame the Akvavit because Stanley started gesturing with his shot glass to emphasize his verbal points and we all thought he was Skål-ing so we shouted and drank.  I was even trying to just sip my shots but it didn’t matter.  I’m just happy I didn’t have a repeat of two Julefrokosts ago. Don’t ask.

Stanley demanded Honorary inclusion in The Viking Club, and after a short visual conversation between The Viking, at the other end of the table, and myself, we granted his wish.  He & Mildred were embracing the Julefrokost better than anyone I know and so deserve it.

The conversation went from “How’s the weather on the hill?” to “We want to go to Europe.” to “We should go to Europe together!!” to “Gawd!! I love you guys!”

The Viking and Mildred bonded and Stanley and I sashayed down Memory Lane.  We marveled at Mim’s Wedding and reminisced over vacations past.  It was beautiful!

The next morning, though, I was a wee bit nervous.  I hoped I didn’t need to ‘Apologize For Anything I May Have Done While I Was Drunk’.  I thought Stanley and Mildred enjoyed themselves, but in the sober light of day will they ever come back?  So, I handled it the way any rational human being would – I called my son.  I pumped him for information so hard he finally had to tell me to ‘RELAX!!  It went great!’  When Mildred accepted my friend request on Face Book I was thrilled!

Princess Mim called two days later and demanded to know if this will be a new family tradition?  The Viking and I certainly hope it will.  There will be plenty of other occasions together so we may as well do it as good friends. Junior was very happy to see both his parents sitting at the same table, enjoying each other’s company and Mim was sad to have missed it.  We’ll just have to do it again.

Besides, if Kathy & I are friends we can be Back-Up Labor Coaches in the delivery room (Mim’s not pregnant yet but I can dream, can’t I?).  You know….in case Kevin passes out or something.  One on each side.  Stereo encouragement!  I’m sure Mim will appreciate it.

In the meantime, the holes in my family circle are filling up.  How blessed can one woman be?

 

*A Danish word for spending time with loved ones, being cozy and calm.

**Click that link to read “Is That You, Mildred?”

Superman and Spanx

At one point in my life I was an Extrovert.  At least I think I was.  There is a significant amount of evidence to suggest I might have been a badass Extrovert as a youngster.  I’m not that anymore, though and the only explanation is that my inner Extrovert was ambushed, tortured for several decades and killed by my inner Introvert.  The war happened so slowly that I really wasn’t conscious of it.  It took one well-timed meme on Facebook and I was suddenly confronted with the reality that I’m a total and complete Introvert.

Under normal conditions this isn’t a problem.  We work and live at home so there are entire days where I don’t need to see anyone.  It’s lovely.

However, this past month has been filled with occasions where I needed to leave my dark cave and intermingle with other humans.

Mim and Kevin got married on December 23rd and I was forced to dress up and smile and shake hands.  There were a few awkward moments when my brain locked up and I was concerned I may need to run.  Like when Kevin’s Dad introduced himself as Kevin’s brother and I looked at Kevin and then at the guy in front of me and what I wanted to say was, “Get the fuck out of here!  You’re too old to be his brother!”

via GIPHY

And then conflicting thoughts started:

Maybe their parents had too much love for just one kid and by the time they realized it the first love-child was already in his twenties.  It happens and I’m not judging.  In fact, it’s lovely.

Maybe they have different mothers but the same horny father.  This, too, happens and it’s nothing to be worried about.

Maybe the older one fell out of the sky as a baby, making a huge crater in the middle of Russia, and then crawled for months without food until a nice farm couple found him and raised him as their own.  And then he realized he had super powers and logically decided to become a reporter with the Daily News as a cover for his Super-ness.  Maybe I’m standing here with Clark Fucking Kent!  What does one say to Clark Kent?  What’s the etiquette?  I hope he doesn’t expect a curtsey because I am way past the point where a curtsey is a curtsey but rather an awkward slow fall to the floor.  But he’s fucking Superman – he can just pluck me up and put me back on my feet again like nothing ever happened.  And, I bet he can really get the lid off a pickle jar in a hurry, too.  He probably doesn’t even shout about how I managed to get the lid on the pickle jar so tight that only Superman can get it off because he IS Superman so no harm, no foul.

Fortunately, for both of us, Kevin’s Father correctly identified the emotions racing across on my face and took pity on me.

And then there was the woman who looked me up and down and decided I didn’t meet her standards.  So, I frowned and looked her up and down and decided she didn’t meet my standards.  Apparently, she’s not the kind to back down so looked me up and down again.    I retaliated with another look up and down but with a bigger frown.  And then she did it again and I did it again and then The Viking decided he should break up the war before someone’s face got stuck in a sneer for eternity.

via GIPHY

When it came time to dance I was happily sitting at my table, minding my own Introverted business and suddenly Kevin showed up.  I said that Mim promised I wouldn’t have to dance.  He said he didn’t make any such promise and if it would make me feel any better he wouldn’t twirl me around.  I said that was probably the best idea he had ever had in his entire life.  That scenario was full of terrible possibilities, most of them ending with me on my back, my dress up around my ears and my Spanx letting go.

via GIPHY

I ended up in Emergency again, on Christmas Eve.  And the second Emergency waiting room was packed with only two seats available – one squished between two guys and one beside a lady, but her husband’s wheel chair was blocking access.  My Introvert didn’t even pause.  It said “Fuck this shit!  I’ll stand in the hallway!”  But then the lady noticed me and recognized my Introvert because she said, “Come over here and sit beside me, dear.”

I loved her in that moment.

The ultimate test of my Introverted-ness came when we hosted a Julefrokost (a Danish Christmas Feast) on the 30th for my kids and my ex-husband, Stanley and his wife, Mildred.  Stay tuned because that’s my next post.

A Shower and a Wedding

Mim’s getting married on the 23rd of this month which means only one thing – I am one step closer to a grandchild that I will spoil rotten.

I suppose it means more than  just one thing to Mim, like love and joy and a flashy ring finger, but for me, it’s all about the babies.

Of course, I share her excitement and want to make her day wonderful.  When it was time to buy shoes and jewelry, I was more than happy to make a day of it.  She had already purchased her Gown which left only the little things.

She came to the house expecting me to be ready….but I wasn’t.  I was 15 minutes away from being ready and it was entirely The Viking’s fault.  I didn’t want to waste time explaining at that moment and put us even further behind, so I waited until we were in the car and on our way to meet the Maid of Honor.

Me:  It wasn’t my fault I was late.

Mim:  It’s okay, Mom.  It’s no big deal.

Me:  But I hate being late.  The Viking decided to poop just before I needed to be in the shower.

Mim:  I hate that!!  Argh!

Me:  Me, too!!  And he claims that he didn’t plan on pooping at that time, but I think it’s an entire male gender conspiracy.  They know.

Mim:  Oh, they know.  When poop smell meets water vapor it becomes a solid!

Me:  Exactly!  The poop particles are in the air and as soon as I turn the shower on it turns the dust poop back into solid/liquid form and I’m essentially showering in poop.

Mim:  YES!  That’s just so gross!  How can you possibly feel clean when you’ve had to shower in poop?!

Me:  I’ve tried to explain this to The Viking and he just goes “Pfft!”

Mim:  Haha!  That’s also the sound of farts!  Coincidence?  I think not.

Me:  Hahaha!!  The Viking has never had to take a poop shower.   Because I’m a nice person!

Mim:  I yell when it happens at home.  I totally understand why you had to wait for the dust poop to get sucked up through the fan.  It’s a good thing you have such a good fan or you would have had to wait for a lot longer.

Me:  And that’s why you’re my best friend.  You understand how Science works.

The day turned out to be wonderful and we found beautiful things for her.  I don’t often get to spend time with Mim; she lives about 5 hours from me – a fact that I point out every time I talk to her.  I’ve even tried to bribe her but, apparently, she loves living where she does and the thought of coming back to the city isn’t very appealing.  So, I make due with the time we have.

In the meantime, I’ll need to have a conversation with The Viking about solids, liquids, and air particles.  Because there is no way we can have a freshly baked Grandchild exposed to that kind of thing.  Since our little house doesn’t have room for a special Poop Room, we might need to consider the facilities at the gas station on the corner.

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Tina Turner, Hondas and Shoe Horns

I used to drive a Toyota Corolla, 5-speed, manual transmission car.  I loved her.  I called her Midge.  She was quick and nimble and had lots of power with the manual transmission.  She was comfortable and dependable and even The Viking liked driving her.

The thing with Midge was that she was a small car.  She wasn’t intimidating; bigger vehicles and pretentious Hondas always bullied her on the roads.  And if you don’t believe me about Hondas……just start noticing the vehicles that are responsible for slowing traffic, cutting you off, failing to merge properly.  Trust me on this – 75% of the time it’s a Honda.  Mim and I have conducted numerous experiments and the evidence is overwhelming.  You’re stuck in traffic?  Chances are a Honda is to blame.

Where was I?  Oh, yeah.  Midge got bullied a lot on the roads.  So, when the occasion arose that I needed to take The Viking’s vehicle I was always just a little excited.  Because The Viking’s vehicle, Tina Turner, is a behemoth – a one-ton, dual axle, diesel Chevy truck.  She is a brute – a completely obnoxious brute and I must admit that sometimes I become a Harpy with a bad attitude when I drive her.

It’s not my fault really.  Any reasonable person with that kind of power under her seat will put the pedal to the floor when a Honda cuts her off in traffic.  Or when a slow Honda is driving in the fast lane.  Or when a Honda passes her and then slows down just to fuck with her.  It’s completely natural that given the chance to be obnoxious to that Honda she’s going to do it.

But things have changed around here.  I have a RAV 4 now with all the bells and whistles available.  I don’t get bullied on the road and I’ve become accustomed to the high level of convenience and comfort that Charlotte provides.

Yesterday, The Viking put Tina Turner in front of Charlotte in the driveway so I decided I would just take her to the store and then park her properly when I came home.

I immediately got annoyed, before I even made it into Tina Turner.  I actually had to unlock the truck by remote control!  That the hell?!  I couldn’t stuff the keys into my pocket and just touch the door handle the way I do with Charlotte.  I would have to deal with keys!  And once I made it over that hurdle, there was more to come.

Something happens to The Viking’s legs when he drives Tina Turner – they become very, very short!  I get in to drive and suddenly my knees are up in my arm pits but it’s not worth the bother to change all the settings in the seat just for a quick run to the grocery store.

Tina wouldn’t just automatically play my music from my phone either!  She wanted me to plug it in to her USB port.  Well, that’s a pain in the ass!  Charlotte has Bluetooth and she knows what I like.  Instead, I was subjected to Classic Rock Radio when I really wanted to listen to my favorite Classical music.  That is a major problem!

Also, the turning radius – it takes Tina half a city block to turn around.  I had to shuffle 3 times to get her into the parking spot and then her ass hung 4 feet further out than any other vehicle in the parking lot.

And to add insult to injury, there wasn’t a single Honda between our house, the grocery store and back home again.  So, the one thing I really enjoy about Tina Turner was useless for lack of opportunity.  That’s like meeting the real Tina Turner and she isn’t wearing sequins, jiggling her ass or singing Proud Mary.  What’s the point then?

I know what you’re thinking.  First World problems, right?  Well, I agree.  But I would argue that once you’ve grown accustomed to a new technology, it’s a bastard to suddenly go without.

My electric can opener stopped working and because I had never really liked it in the first place (it wouldn’t stop when I wanted it to stop so it always ended in a wrestling match), I just bought a good, old manual can opener.  Now, I have to stop half way through and shake feeling back into my hand before I can get the whole top off the can.  And when it comes to big cans like coffin tins, well, that is a job for The Viking.

I bought one of those long shoe horns from IKEA and after three years of faithful service, it broke, leaving only about 8 inches.  What a clusterfuck that was!  Suddenly I had to bend over and put this shitty little thing in my shoe to get it on my foot!  I have big boobs and leaning over like that can end in a catastrophic tumble.  I went directly to IKEA and bought six more long ones because short ones are so 1900s and I deserve a better shoe horn than that.

At the end of the day, technology has ruined my love of Tina Turner.  Unless there’s a Honda around somewhere – then she’s my girl.

 

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I’ve Been Scolded

I hate lectures that revolve around bad habits and lack of effort. Okay…….to be clear, I enjoy listening to lectures that involve other people’s bad habits and lack of effort, just not my own. I would find it endlessly entertaining if someone attempted to lecture The Viking. I wouldn’t recommend it, but it would be entertaining to watch if only for the cursing and tool throwing. If you think you’d like to give this a try, please let me know in advance so I can have a comfortable chair, goggles, old clothes and a glass of wine on hand. And maybe a camera.

Where was I? Oh yes – lectures. I especially hate lectures given by Computer Gurus – they are worse than doctors and born-again Christians. They get that condescending look on their face and say things like “Did you plug it in?” and “When was the last time you cleaned it?” So when my computer needed a restart and it didn’t come back to life, I said, “What the FUCK?! Start, damn you!”

When that didn’t work I threw my hands in the air, rolled my eyeballs, and yelled, “My computer won’t start!!”

The Viking’s supportive, caring and encouraging response was “I TOLD YOU NOT TO PLAY THOSE FUCKING GAMES!!”

After poking and fiddling with it, he decided I blew the video card again. AGAIN! He muttered about my fucking games some more and then bought a new video card. He pushed the power……and nothing. “What the FUCK?! Start, damn you!”

I said, “That’s what I said!”

After exhausting all his ideas and most of his curses, he admitted defeat. “Call Tommy.”

I heaved a sigh & shuddered. “He’s going to yell at me.” The Viking didn’t seem to have a fuck to give about that.

When Tommy arrived I tried to run, but he saw me and said “Freeze, Lady!”

I said, “Aaahhhaaggg!” and waved my hands over my head in frustration.  He laughed because we both know what comes next: the Lecture.

“Do you shut it down every night?”

“No.”

“When was the last time, before this, that you shut it down?”

“Um……7…no, 8 months ago because it threatened me.”

“When was the last time you cleaned it?”

“9 months ago.”

“Do you play online games?”

The Viking decided to take Tommy’s side in the matter. “I told her not to play those fucking games! I told her!!”

Sigh. “Yeeees. I play online games.” Flipping my middle finger at The Viking. Traitor.

“You need this computer for work, right?”

“Yes.”

“But you still play online games with it?”

“Yes. But I have a good Anti-Virus program and Malwarebytes!”

“You do know that online games are played by millions of people and if they get a virus, then you’ll get a virus blah blah blah blah blah…..”  The only thing missing here was a metal table, handcuffs and a bare lightbulb swinging slowly back and forth overhead.

“Can you fix it?” Really, that’s all I want to know.

The short answer came 6 hours later. “No. You need a new motherboard, one of your drives is fine, one can be saved and the other one is toast. My advice: build a new computer.”

Of course that’s his advice.

So, now I’ve been scolded and I have to pay, at a bare minimum, $1500 for a new computer and all the fucking programs. Dammit!

Stupid computer! That’s the problem with machines: they are ungrateful bastards that look for the first excuse to fuck you over. How am I supposed to relax now? Read for 4 hours a day? I fall asleep after 3 pages of a book nowadays and then the tablet falls out of my hand and lands on my toes and then I swear a lot. I almost never fall asleep in the middle of a mission on my games. I suppose I could finish that damned Cross Stitch Baby Blanket project that has been in my closet for 11 years. Or worse, I could clean.

I wish I could point a finger at someone and blame them, but I can’t. No one forced me to play computer games, but in my defense, if computers weren’t intended to play games they shouldn’t be making games for them. I’m only human after all. How much control do they think I have? I already battle temptations involving chocolate and Toffifee and jewelry and cake and shoes.

Now I will have a computer that is useless for anything other than work.  Sigh. The Computer Gawds are no friends of mine. Apparently.

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Our Faces Are Trying to Kill Us

This is going to be a fast and dirty post so hang on to your panties/gaunch.

In the middle of last week, one of my teeth decided to be an asshole and host an infection party that probably included hookers and pimps and dope dealers.  The music was terrible and my TMJ started complaining bitterly.  Long story short, there was a trip to emergency where they pumped me full of antibiotics and ordered me to their HPTP clinic the following morning to be installed with a pump and bags of antibiotics.  I would have an extra appendage for the next four days.

I was positive that I deserved some pampering.  It’s not every day that I have the excuse of a massive infection to just loaf around the house being waited on hand and foot by The Viking.

Unfortunately, The Viking had other plans.  On the way home from Emergency he says:

“My neck hurts.”

Me:  Oh no you don’t!!  It’s my turn!  You always take over my illnesses.  I get a cold, you get a cold too, only worse so I have to take care of you even though I’m sick too.  Why do I always have to be the one that has to ‘soldier on’?  I want pampering!

Him:  I didn’t plan it, you know!

And he didn’t plan it, but it happened anyway.  The following morning his neck was swelling up quickly.  So, while I was getting my pump installed, he went to Emergency.  Once I was finished, I found him and we waited for the results.

Which said exactly nothing.  They sent him home with a preventative course of antibiotics but they didn’t think it was an issue.  In fact, the Doctor was sort of condescending.  Fast forward to Friday afternoon and we were back in Emergency and the Doctors were impressed at the size of the lump on the left side of The Viking’s neck. And it kept growing!  I think it was starting to develop its own brain.  They pumped him full of morphine and antibiotics and sent him for tests.

FYI……those people who ferry the ill back and forth to radiology are antelope.  They aren’t people at all.  They look like people but just try keeping up with them as you juggle your IV bags, 2 coats, a purse, a water bottle and 2 tablets.

I started to judge them on the length of their legs.  One Flamingo showed up and, I swear to Gawd, her legs were 8 feet long.

“Holy Shit!  You look like a ‘fast walker’ if I’ve ever seen one!”

She looked down on me.  “What?”

I mumbled “Nothing.  Please don’t lose me or I may starve to death in the maze that is this hospital.”

They laugh like I’m making a joke, but I’m not trying to be funny.  By the time we reach radiology, I’m bent over and sucking in air like a jet engine, my legs are shaking and I’m gasping out curses at fucking Olympic athletes loping around the gawd-damned hospital killing the innocent relatives of the fucking ill.  And then an orderly comes out and sees me about to pass out.  “Are you okay, Ma’am?”

“Do I fucking look okay?  I’ve just run a bloody marathon with Usain fucking Bolt and I’ve got my own IV nightmare going on if you don’t mind (I wave my IV’d left arm under his nose)!  Get me some water already!”

The rest of the time is spent in crushing boredom.  Fighting off my own infection, I was finding it difficult to cope with the length of time this was all taking.  I assumed they would fill him up with antibiotics and install a pump like they did with me.

That didn’t happen though.  They admitted him right into the hospital because they thought they could drain some of the infection and because they were starting to get alarmed at how quickly his head was building another entire person.  And then there were more trips down to radiology and more cursing.

The cats are pissed off.  Well, Teddy is just concerned but Izzie wants answers and someone to slap!  What the fuck is going on here?!  Where’s The Viking?  He always holds the spoon for me to lick.  You stink like Hospital – don’t touch me, that’s gross!  I chewed the container of chicken broth and made a mess.  That’s how pissed I am.

I gave them treats and tried to spoil them a bit.

The following morning there was a single paper towel on the kitchen floor with two small corner bits torn off.  As a communication it was brilliant.  They are still pissed but only this amount of pissed and not an entire roll of toilet paper pissed.  I thanked them both for their understanding and promised to be more attentive when I could.

Back at the hospital, The Viking was scheduled for yet another ultrasound.  The ferry person turned out to be a penguin and I dared to think that I might be able to keep up with her.  HA!  Her little legs were pumping like pistons as she careened around corners.  The Viking’s gown was riding up around his belly and IV lines were streaming behind like ribbons.  I was running to keep up, the Tic Tacs in my purse shaking like Maracas.  Finally, I had to yell at her….

“Wait a fucking minute….gasp….I have nerve damage….gasp….in my fucking leg….gasp….and I….gasp….can’t keep up!”  Gasp, gasp, gasp.

I heard a faint apology drifting back to me but she didn’t slow down at all.  Thank gawd she had to wait for an elevator.  When we arrived at our destination, The Viking smiles into my sweating face and says….

“You’re getting a little bit of exercise, Babe.”

….as he reclines comfortably, pushing his dressing gown to cover his sex area.

And that, my friends, is pure bravery coming from a man laying on a stretcher in a dressing gown that leaves his ass exposed.

 

 

My Vacuum Cleaner Sucks

I’m pretty sure I wasn’t meant to be poor.  Okay….I’m not poor….but I’m not rich.  And by ‘rich’ I don’t mean like Bill Gates Rich but more like a marginally good actor that only takes on small parts where he dies almost immediately.  Like Sean Bean (read Sheen Been*) rich.  He seems to support his ‘Playing Rugby With His Mates’ and ‘Hanging Out In A Pub’ activities quite well by dying two or three times a year.

Not that I want to be Sheen Been; rugby is a rough sport and one I would only consider playing if I had a loaded pistol with at least 15 20 30 rounds (I had to google how many people are on a Rugby Team so I knew the minimum rounds of ammo I would need, multiplied by the number of times I might miss a target and then a little extra in case a referee objects).

Anyway.  I’m pretty sure that I was meant to be, at least, Sheen Been Rich.  Because I hate cleaning.  And my vacuum cleaner sucks – in a bad way.  I should have gotten the canister model except  The Viking’s canister was a pain in the ass because the wheels wouldn’t roll over its own electrical cord and I thought an upright wouldn’t have that issue.  And it doesn’t have that issue.  Instead, it has 321 other issues that make me holler and curse every time I have to use the fucking thing.

My stupid back hates vacuuming anyway (no matter the model) because my torso is always bent slightly forward.  Same thing goes for mopping the floor, cleaning vegetables and dusting low places because that’s what happens when you don’t have a disc in your lower back).  And we won’t even talk about the epic nightmare cleaning the bathroom has become.

What does all this have to do with being rich?  Well, a lot, actually.  If I had the money I would throw this stupid vacuum cleaner in the garbage and get a better one.  And if I were rich, I’d get a cleaning person to just live in the spare bedroom and spend his/her days cleaning up after The Viking and me.

Ugh!  The house is pretty small for three adults so I should probably just buy a slightly bigger house with a wing for the maid.

And if I have an entire wing of the house dedicated to a maid, maybe I could have a cook too.  I’m not really fond of cooking and I don’t know how to cook to be skinny, so having a cook present us with tasty, healthy food three times a day would be lovely.

And now that I’m thinking of things that I don’t like……I don’t like door-to-door sales wo/men or religious groups** that keep trying to save my soul at the front door, so a Butler would be awesome.  Surely the Butler would make the person wait at the door while he/she came to inform me that “Religious Panderers are begging an audience, Madame” and I could say “Unleash the dogs!”

OH!  And a driver for long trips.  I should have a limo so I can just nap or play games on my tablet.

Speaking of long trips, I really hate economy class on airplanes.  It’s terrible.  I should just have my own jet so I don’t have to share air with 300 other people.  And then The Viking’s family could say they want to visit for a couple weeks and we would say “I’ll send the jet for you tomorrow.”

Huh.

I’ve talked myself right out of being Sheen Been Rich.  I’m going to need more than the amount of money he makes.  Maybe Mr. Bean Rich?  He certainly has more money than Sheen Been, unless he has a gambling problem.  Let’s leave the Beans behind and go for the Golden Goose then.  At one point in time, The Viking and I thought I should marry Phil Collins for a year and then get a multi-million dollar divorce settlement (Phil does that a lot!) but then The Viking had to trick me into marrying him so that plan is down the toilet.

Thinking….

Thinking….

Thinking….

There’s just no way around it.  I do need to be Bill Gates Rich.  But I won’t flaunt it and I won’t let it change me and I promise to stay humble.

Trust me.

*I could have gone with Shawn Bawn but I like the Sheen Been better.

**I was interrupted while writing this post by a door-to-door sales woman.

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The Queen Of Mean Has Cold Feet

We have snow – a good 6 inches of the stuff.  And considering where Denmark is on the planet, you might be surprised to know that The Viking hates snow and cold with a passion.  The kind of passion that makes him shout and curse and grumble.  Except when he has a snowmobile under his ass and then he’s as close to giddy as he is capable of being.  And I am giddy when he has a snowmobile under his ass because it means he has journeyed to the mountains, leaving me at home in absolute bliss and solitude.

However, as much as The Viking hates snow, there are two other individuals living in the household who hate it more.  Teddy was rescued in the middle of winter when he was about 10 months old, cold and starving.  So, he isn’t a fan of an empty food bowl or snow and cold.  He manages to amuse himself though, running through the house and playing with a squeaky toy and napping and coming for a quick love every once in a while.  He takes short forays outside but it isn’t long before he’s back inside.

Izzie, on the other hand, is pissed-the-fuck-off!  If you’ve visited here more than just a few times you will know a lot about Izzie.  She’s a monster; a beautiful, biting, clawing, hissing, spitting monster.  She learned the basics of civilized cat behavior from Mim’s cats (my daughter) and then Teddy keeps her fairly calm but all bets are off if something isn’t right in her corner of the world.

And there’s snow and the cold in her corner of the world right now.  She has stuff going on and being cold blows her schedule all to hell.  Who’s supposed to mock and name-call the neighborhood cats?  The dogs across the alley will be unmanageable if she doesn’t bully them daily.  And Peter isn’t going to break into his own house and bellow at the door to be let out.  And what about Charlie?  Who’s going to chase him away if her feet fall off?  What about her ears?  Frostbite can make the tips fall off and then she’ll have square ears!  It’s pretty hard to be beautiful if your ears are square!

And then there is the weight issue!  Laying around the house all day slows the metabolism and pretty soon she’ll have a belly like Teddy’s!  And she’s already getting bored with chasing him around the house as the only form of exercise.

With the snow, her existence has gone all to hell.  Her feet got cold and three snowflakes dared to land on her back.  She bellowed at the door and demanded to know exactly what the fuck is going on?!  She stood in front of me scowling and indignant.  I told her that I had nothing to do with it but she’s refusing to believe me.

Her vocabulary is devolving into hair-raising insults and if her scowl deepens any further it will look like I hit her with an axe.  And that might actually end up happening because the forecast is calling for cold temperatures for the next several days.

It’s going to be a long, long, long winter.  Sigh.  When the Queen of Mean gets cold feet it’s only good sense to step lightly.

PS:  To add insult to injury, Daylight Savings Time screwed her over for an entire hour.  I gave up after 45 minutes and fed her and Teddy.  It was either that or say good-bye to what little self-esteem I have left.

What are you waiting for?  Leave a comment.

Life Lesson – Friday Fictioneers

Wow!  It’s been a while.  Running a business, running a household and offsprings and just plain running takes up a lot of time.  If I were better at budgeting my time I probably wouldn’t have to run so much but then I wouldn’t be me if everything was orderly and under control.

So, without further ado – because I’m still not caught up – here’s my poor offering to the group.

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“Pick one, Son.”

“I like the blue one, Papa.”

Chuckling.  “I like the way you think, but it’s too big for you.  Last thing you want is to be is intimidated.”

Disappointed.  “The green one?”

“There you go!  That’s the perfect size.  So, you walk up beside it and stop when you are almost past it.  Then lift your leg and let her rip.  Like this.”

Water splashing against the orange column.

“Now you try.  Oh, too far.  Back up.  That’s perfect!  Fire away!”

Tinkling.

“The green one is the perfect size, right?”

Proudly.  “Yes, Papa.  My first man-dog pee!”

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As always, the wonderful Rochelle Wisoff-Fields hosts Friday Fictioneers.  The photo prompt for this week has been provided by Sarah Ann Hall.

Many thanks ladies.

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