Category: Funny Woman Blog

Competitive Sleeping

Hey!  Nice to see you again.  I missed last weekend’s Coffee Share because I was busy watching The Viking electrocute himself.  Happily, despite fiddling with wires that should have been full of electricity, he is still alive and grumbling.

But enough of that.  How are you doing?  Is life treating you good?  Help yourself to coffee and tiny Pecan Tarts that were made for Dwarfs, or maybe Elves or possibly Leprechauns.  I’m just guessing but I think they were meant to be ‘Bite Sized’ but they aren’t.  They are, at a bare minimum, two bites but are actually an awkward three bites where the last bite crumbles in your hand and you end up having to suck the crumbs out of your palm like a Hoover.  It’s not elegant but it is amusing to watch guests try to be polite.

My week was fairly dull, and by dull I mean boring.  Nothing much happened.  Until this morning.  And then it happened before I even got out of bed.

No.  Not that.

We stayed up too late last night so this morning when the Cat Alarm went off at 8:30 I was completely unprepared to get up.  So I shouted “IZZIE!!  SHUT UP!” which seemed to work for about two and a half minutes.  There were several more shouted threats and curses and a giggle from The Viking who apparently found all this amusing.

There was the inevitable tipping point though.  That moment when I didn’t immediately fall back to sleep immediately after threatening death and dismemberment.  And that’s the moment when Competitive Sleeping happened.

Me:  I should get up and make the coffee.

Me:  He’s awake.  He’ll get up any moment.

Me:  He was up later than I was.

Me:  That’s not my fault.  He made his choice.

Me:  Actually, I think he was trying to fix something with the Kodi Box.

Me:  He loves doing that.  It’s like play time for him.

Me:  I’m pretty sure he wasn’t enjoying himself.

Me:  How would you know?  You were asleep.  He might have been Naked Break Dancing for all you know.

Me:  Come on, now.  He would never do that.  He was trying to fix it so tomorrow I wouldn’t have to wait while he tried finding an available stream for a half hour.  That’s how he shows his love.

Me:  Pfft!  He was probably watching porn.

Me:  He doesn’t need to watch porn!  Geez!  Where do you come up with this shit?!

Me:  I’m just saying.

Me:  Don’t.  Just don’t.  I’ll get up and let him sleep in.

Me:  WAIT!  He’s moving!  Maybe he is getting up and will make the coffee.  Wouldn’t that be awesome? 

Me:  Yes, that would be awesome but he’s not moving anymore.  He went back to sleep.

Me:  So wiggle around a little bit!  Snore!  Then he’ll think you’re sleeping.

Me:  But I’m not sleeping anymore.

Me:  He doesn’t know that for sure!  A little snore would convince him he’s more awake than you are.

Me:  Do you even remember last weekend when he got up early and went out to buy fresh buns and cheese and doughnuts?  Getting up and making coffee is the least I could do.

Me:  Well, if you’re going to bring up every obsolete act of kindness every time you want to be selfish, I can’t see any point of me even being here.

Me:  That might be construed as a good thing, you know.

Me:  So you want to get up?    

Me:  No!  Of course not!  But someone has to make coffee and I’m the first one awake.

Me:  He’s awake – probably more awake than you are!  Do you hear any snoring?  Then he isn’t sleeping and if you’d just make a few sleeping noises, he’ll go make the coffee!

Me:  I’m getting up!  I need coffee if I have to keep arguing with you!

Me:  Well, you’ll have to do the dishes too because you didn’t do them last night.  Still want to get out of bed first?

Me:  Bah!  I forgot about that.  There’s every chance that he’ll just make the coffee and I’ll have to do the dishes myself anyway.

Me:  But!  You’ll have coffee ready for you.

Me:  I’ll just do the dishes while I’m waiting for the coffee to brew.

Me:  You are such a pussy!  I want to stay in bed!  Gawd! 

Me:  Stop being so melodramatic.  You’re just getting out of bed, not inventing the wheel you know.

Me:  You’re not going to wear that are you?  It makes you look fat.

Me:  You’re just cranky because I won’t stay in bed.  You loved this shirt last week.

Me:   Well, I had more sleep last week.

I consoled myself by committing to a nap this afternoon.  I love Saturday afternoon naps when I can curl up in my happy place and spend time with just me.  Sure, it’s a weird place sometimes but that’s okay, nobody needs to know.

Thanks, as always, to Nerd in the Brain for hosting Weekend Coffee Share and Part-Time Monster for inventing it.

Why Aren’t You Electrocuted?!

Over the weekend, The Viking and I – mostly The Viking – had to replace our Garage Door Opener because it inconveniently and selfishly died.

We took down the dead and useless Door Opener and then began assembling the new unit.  It was all very straight forward, no big surprises, until The Viking went rogue.  He threw the instruction manual into the corner and began fiddling with electrical wires.

Me:  Why aren’t you electrocuted?!

The Viking:  What?  There’s no power to these lines.

Me:  The wires are coming right out of the ceiling, the breaker hasn’t been flipped, so why aren’t you electrocuted?!

The Viking:  These wires get their power from the garage door opener brains, not from the building’s power supply.

Me:  Stop talking in Sorcery!  The brains are plugged in!  I can see the power cord plugged into the power plug!

The Viking:  Relax!  Take it easy.  I know what I’m doing.

Me:  …….

Me:  …….

Me:  …….

Me:  I will never understand electricity.  It’s terrifying.

He carried on with his Warlockery and I watched him.

Me:  I can’t believe I’ve lived for this long without understanding electricity.  I stuck a knife in an electrical socket once because my mother told me to never do that.  Ever.

The Viking:  And so you did.

Me:  Of course I did.  You can’t just tell me not to do something without telling me why.

The Viking:  Well, you obviously didn’t die.

Me:  Exactly.  It hurt, but I didn’t die, and my curiosity was gone.  My parents could have spared me that.

Me:  I also stuck my head in a plastic Drycleaning bag because there was a warning on it that said to never do that.  Again, they never said why.

The Viking:  Seriously?

Me:  Yes.  And I didn’t suffocate.  Now that I think about it though, I think the warning did mention ‘Suffocation’ but I was like 6 years old and didn’t have a clue what that meant.

The Viking:  …..

Me:  My best friend found a box of wooden matches once.  They looked harmless but apparently they were ‘extremely dangerous’ and children should never play with them.

The Viking:  Let me guess….

Me:  See?!  You know already what needed to be done!  We tried to light the wooden fence on fire but it wouldn’t burn.  We tried to set the grass on fire too, but that wouldn’t work either.  The only thing that actually did work was burning our fingers.  And then I got a spanking, like having burned fingers weren’t punishment enough, because Darcy apparently didn’t know how to lie.  I couldn’t be friends with him after that.

The Viking:  Hahaha!

Me:  And pull cords on blinds.

The Viking:  You didn’t!

Me:  Actually, yes.  I did.

The Viking stopped what he was fiddling with and looked at me with an odd expression on his face.  “You sound like your daughter.”

Me:  That’s impossible because I made certain that I explained things to her.  Don’t put a knife in an electrical outlet because electricity, through sorcery, will enter the knife, travel through your arm and straight upward because of gravity or something and blow your head completely off your body.  And guess what?  She never stuck a knife in an electrical outlet.

The Viking:  That’s not how electricity works.

Me:  Does it really matter?  The point is that she never electrocuted herself because she listened to me.  Unlike you who will die at some point this afternoon because you keep touching electrical wires.

The Viking:  I’m not going to die today.

Me:  I feel like a kid when my Dad took me to work with him and I had to sit around doing absolutely nothing for hours because there might be bears around.

The Viking:  …..

Me:  There were only so many times I could be interested in what was in the glove compartment.  And without the truck running fiddling with the radio buttons was less than satisfying.

The Viking:  …..

Me:  I did find a magazine full of naked women behind the seat.  Dad took it away from me and then made another worker take me home.  He said he had an emergency to deal with but I didn’t buy it.

The Viking:  …..

Me:  He did explain the perils of playing with the gear shifter when the truck was running but he never left it running.  He must not have trusted my judgement.

The Viking:  …..

Me:  There were old pallets at Dad’s job and he wanted to take them apart and use them for something else.  He gave me a hammer and told me to get all the nails out but I accidentally stepped on a nail as I was pulling a nail from another piece of wood.  I didn’t even get a tetanus shot.  Oh!  And one time I had a really, really sore throat so he painted my tonsils with MercuroChrome.  It’s toxic to the environment but not tonsils I guess.  I’m lucky to even be alive!

The Viking:  …..

Me:  Hey!  Did I ever tell you that I know how to pick a lock on an interior door?  So if you were to lock the bathroom door and then accidentally faint I would be able to pick the lock and save you.

The Viking:  I never lock the bathroom door.

Me:  I’ve just noticed that when I get bored my mind has a tendency to wander a bit.

The Viking:  You think?

Me:  I’m seriously bored.  I didn’t think it would take this amount of time to replace a door opener.  I would have brought booze and a book if I had known.  Maybe a pillow for a nap.  And a fuzzy blanket.  Or binoculars.  That might have amused me for a little while.

You’re not even listening to me anymore.

Me And My Demon

Oh.  Hey.  Welcome to Coffee.

Yes, I am a little depressed.

Because I’m the worst Villain in recorded history, that’s why.

Well, it was my birthday on the second of April and The Viking and I celebrated it like we usually do – getting drunk and telling each other our inner most feelings.  We then further celebrate for two more days by lying around the house with hang overs.  It isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but it works for us.  No, that’s not why I’m depressed.

I’m depressed because I noticed something.  Maybe it was because I was kind of drunk or maybe it was one of those random things that suddenly occur to me.  Whatever the reason, I realized it when I was dishing up the Birthday Cheesecake.

I have a Demon.  And it’s evil.  But such a sissy evil that it may as well not be evil at all!

You see, the tip of the first piece stuck to the tip of the second piece and that second piece was my piece!

I made that determination before I ever began dishing it up.  I would serve The Viking the first piece and I would take the second piece, because I’m generous like that.  There was no way I could have foreseen this eventuality.  But now his piece had a jagged, square tip instead of the nice point and my tip had a bite-sized raggedy knob jutting off to the right.

I should carefully and surgically remove the extra tip from my piece and stick it back on his piece.  That’s the proper thing to do.  My angelic side voted for this immediately.

But wait!  Let’s not be hasty here.  The Viking isn’t even paying attention.  He would be none the wiser if I pinched the end of his piece into a tip.  I could still remove the extra bit from my piece but then eat it quick so he wouldn’t notice the discrepancy.  He’s drunk.  I’m drunk.  I think I could pull it off.  He wouldn’t see that my piece was bigger than his piece, especially if I tilt my plate a little bit to obscure his view.  The Demon voted for this option before I was even done thinking it.

The Angel disagreed.  No.  Put the tip back on his piece.

But it’s Cheesecake!  Strawberry Swirl Cheesecake!

Under the rules of the Jungle possession is 9/10th of the law, you snooze you lose, what happens on the counter stays on the counter, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, waste not want not.

On the other hand…..do unto others as you would have them do unto you, once a thief always a thief and what would Christopher Walken do?  Hmm….maybe he’s not a good subject because I have a feeling that Chris would eat the entire Birthday Cheesecake and leave without saying a word.

But I gave The Viking the bigger pieces of fish the other night because I know he loves fish more than I love fish even though I was just as hungry as he was!  And I let him take more potatoes last week!  I always give him the bigger share and I’m happy to do it!   That should buy me a little bit of Karma.   I even let him drive my car.  Unsupervised!  All the time!

However, maybe Karma gave me the tip of The Viking’s Cheesecake because I always try to do the right thing.  Maybe it’s a reward and if I give it back it could be misconstrued.  I think there is a rule out there, somewhere, that to ignore a gift from Karma is insulting and she may never give me a gift again.

I might have given in to the Demon at that point except the Angel brought my attention to a recent event that wasn’t my most shining moment.

Shit!!

A few weeks ago I split my Easter Bunny Poo with The Viking and there was an odd number of Poo Pieces so someone had to take that last one.  He was so busy watching TV he didn’t notice that I took the last one.  I felt guilty about it, but it’s not like it was licorice!  I would have given him the last licorice because I know how much he loves it.

What if I used all my stored-up Karma by eating that extra Poo and this is a Karma-y test?  That would be just like Karma!  Use Easter Bunny Poo against me.  That’s the problem with these ephemeral concepts – you never know what is going to come back and bite you in the ass.

“Do you need a hand, Babe?”  Said The Viking.  Apparently my ruminations were taking more time than I thought.

“No.  I was just thinking.”

He knows better than to wade into that trap.  In the end, I took the extra tip off my piece and put it back on his piece and served it before I could change my mind.  So my Demon is such a wuss it couldn’t even win me an extra bite of Cheesecake!  And that’s fucking depressing.

But who knows?  Maybe this one little thing will let me win the Lottery?

Thanks as always to Part-Time Monster and Nerd in the Brain for hosting Weekend Coffee Share.  You guys rock.

Who Flung Poo?!

 

Oh!  Hello!  Is it the weekend already?  Let me put some coffee on.  I honestly don’t know where the time goes.  Do you remember how slowly time passed when you were a kid?  It took 29 years for Christmas to arrive.  Now, it comes every 3 months.  The only place time ceases to move is in the Doctor’s Office, in a Traffic Jam or at the Passport Office.

Anyway, I’ve got bigger fish to fry today.  It’s called Litter and it’s the bane of my existence.  Who invented this crap?  Oh sure, it clumps around cat pee and poo so it’s easy to scoop, but it spreads through the house like a disease.  We’ve put men in space but can’t invent a decent litter?  My vacuum never sees the inside of the closet anymore.

I made matters infinitely worse when I went to buy more litter and there on the shelf was something called Litter Lite and it practically floated into my cart.  I’m accustomed to wrestling a 50 pound bag in which cursing, sweating and grunting are inevitably involved.  And usually a small crowd gathers at each end of the aisle to watch the show.  Litter Lite was a dream to get in the cart by comparison.  I waved at the bystanders and said “No show today, folks!”

However, here are the problems with Litter Lite:  it’s easier to dig in and it clings to the fur on the bottom of their feet in spite of having 3 large Litter Pads that are supposed to stop Litter spread.  I have carpeted the entire laundry room with those pads (which cost a fortune!) and there is still litter all over the house!

Then The Viking made the mistake of putting too much litter in the box so the litter was almost level with the flap door.  And it turns out that both cats are like ground hogs digging new burrows when it comes to burying their poo.  Litter shoots through that flappy door at the velocity of sandblasters.  We had discussions with both Teddy and Izzie, clustered around the litter box for demonstrations of proper digging techniques that limit the amount of collateral litter spillage, but it’s like they couldn’t care less about technique.

And then catastrophe happened.

I went into the laundry room to load the washing machine and there, laying on a Litter Pad was a turd.  It’s was sprinkled lightly with litter but it was definitely a turd.

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!”  I shoved the clothes into the machine.  “WHO FLUNG POO?!!”  The sound of 8 little feet and two big feet galloped down the hallway.  Teddy, Izzie and The Viking clustered around the doorway, all of them with the same wide-eyed, innocent expressions.

“Did you say something, Babe?”

“YES I DID!”  I hollered.  “Just look at that!  Right there!  It’s a TURD!”

The Viking immediately tried to deflect.  “I didn’t do it!”  But both cats were looking at him and nodding like they saw him do it.  “You can’t believe them!  They’re traitors!  Besides, I can’t even fit in the Litter Box.”

“Touché, salesman!”  I huffed and turned my attention to the short people.

Realizing the tide had turned, both cats looked at me.  “Well?!  Who flung the poo?!”

Izzie’s eyes were locked to mine, but Teddy’s eyes kept flicking to the left.  Toward Izzie.

“Did you fling poo, Izzie?”  I demanded.  “I’ve heard you in there doing the Macarena.”

She sat a little higher and indignation flooded her face.  I already knew it wasn’t her but I had to be certain before I looked at the real culprit.

“Teddy?”  He wouldn’t look at me.  “Did you fling the poo?”  He walked away without giving a full confession.

So we made changes.  I went to wrestle a 50 pound bag of heavy litter and amuse shoppers, while The Viking scooped the excrement then re-purposed the remaining litter.

But guess what.  There’s still litter all over the house!!

So, how was your week?  Aside from my Litter Dilemma mine was great.

PS:  Enjoy this clip about Flinging Poo

 

Special thanks to Part Time Monster and Nerd in the Brain for hosting Weekend Coffee Share.

Sex Hair

If you are faint of heart, you may want to stop reading now.  Hmmm….maybe I shouldn’t have said that because there is a real possibility that you might be ‘faint of heart’ but also have a cat’s curiosity, so now you can’t stop reading.  If that’s the case, please accept my advanced apologies in case you won’t be in any state to accept the apologies at the end.

The Viking and I have sex every Sexday because…well….because.  The point isn’t about the sex itself but what comes after the sex, so rest assured we won’t be getting too specific about that.

Except that one time, with the English Tween Author, who I thought was just going to give me a New Year’s Kiss but 4.6 seconds in I was on the floor wedged between the coffee table and the sofa hollering “Geezuz Cripes!!”  22 seconds later he was sitting on the sofa smoking a cigarette and asking if I’d like a glass of wine.  He was like a Sex Ninja or something and I wasn’t entirely certain whether I had actually participated or not.  I suppose I should have been flattered at his apparent enthusiasm but to be honest I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to appreciate it.  All the way home I kept thinking “It’s not the size of the army, it’s the speed of the attack” and then laughing so hard I was snorting.

I digress.  What I really wanted to talk about was my hair.  Specifically, my hair and what happens to it during sex.

Not that hair!  The hair on my head!  Geez!  I’m trying to be delicate here!

I’ve always been extremely talented at Sex Hair but it wasn’t until this past Sexday that I truly understood the vast artistry of my ability.  As I wandered past a mirror on my way to the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of myself.

Me:  Viking!  Come here!  You have to see this!

The Viking:  Ooooooo…..that’s impressive!

Me (twirling around):  I know!  I think it’s my best one yet – it’s sort of reminiscent of a Turkey’s Ass.

The Viking:  Yes.  Now that you mention it, it does look a lot like a Turkey’s Ass.

Me:  I should get an award for this.

The Viking:  I’m not sure this is your best one though.  I kind of liked the Llama Long Hair.

Me:  That one was truly terrible, wasn’t it?

The Viking:  Yes.  And don’t forget the Holy Hell Monkey one either.

Me (laughing):  I still can’t believe that my baby-fine hair could stick up like that!

Sometimes I can guess what motion caused the hair – like the head tossing from side to side while hollering ‘Yes!’ over and over again.  Other times I haven’t got a clue what I was doing that could possibly create the end product on my head.

Did a hurricane sweep through the bedroom without us noticing?

Maybe a bat got in and I was too distracted to be freaked out?

I tried keeping a picture diary of my Sex Hair Creations but my talent is, obviously, not taking pictures.  Instead I trolled the internet to find comparable animal facsimiles.  Surprisingly, some animals are pretty good at Sex Hair.

If I had a choice, I probably wouldn’t have choosen Sex Hair as my major talent.  I would have picked something like painting or rally car driving or tap dancing but I wasn’t given the choice.  I’m not sure who I should complain to either.  My parents?  How would that conversation go?

“Why is my only talent Sex Hair?”

“You should have stayed in band.  I hear Clarinet players can make decent money nowadays.”

So, there it is in a nutshell.  I have a talent but only The Viking gets to admire my work and I haven’t figured out how to make any money doing it.  Unless I can convince Kate Middleton to ditch the hats and go for better hairdos.

I’ll send her a letter.

 

 

 

Sarcasm, Belligerence or Condescension

Hi!  It’s so nice to see you, especially since you came to the Back Door – I’ll explain that in a minute.  Here’s a mug, coffee is in the thermos and you already know where to find the treats.  It’s not like it’s the first time you’re here.  You are family now.  You’re lucky I don’t assign a chore.

Yes, that was a joke.  I would never force you to work for your coffee because that would be wrong and I hate having chores when I visit one of you.

So, I’ve had to answer my front door 3 times this week.  3 times!  And I always approach the Front Door Summons with some trepidation because there are a finite number of things that happen at my Front Door and not all of them are pleasant.  And rarely is it a friend.

Everyone I know comes to the Back Door.  You do.  You knock once, come on in and yell, in a very high voice, “HELLOOOOO”.  I had a weirdo friend once that wanted everyone to use the Front Door all the time.  I had to stop visiting her because who knows what other kinds of horrible things she’s got going on?  What was she hiding in her back entry?  Did she have small children chained to the wall or something?  Who knows?  No one was allowed to go back there!

And a Summons from the Front Door isn’t like a phone call where any sort of fuckery can happen, there’s usually only a few reasons someone might be on the other side of that door.

Good Reasons Someone Would Be At My Front Door:
  • To give me 2 Night Vision Goggles so The Viking and I can play Hide ‘n Seek in the dark.

That pretty much ends my list of good things that happen at the Front Door.

Bad Reasons Someone Would Be At My Front Door:
  • It could be the police wanting to know if I’m a Grow-Op (no), or if I own a Rav 4 with front end damage (maybe), or if I own any firearms (no), or where I was night before last between the hours of 11:00pm and 3:00am (probably asleep in bed but I couldn’t prove it).
  • It could be armed assailants that want to steal our TV. It is a really nice TV.
  • It could be someone complaining that we forgot to close the curtains for Naked Hockey Night.  That doesn’t happen very often though.

Most probably though, whoever is on the other side of my Front Door wants to sell me something or teach me something – neither of which I’m interested in.  Unless they want to teach me how to do handbrake turns and drifting because I really, really wish I knew how!  The Viking won’t teach me for some bewildering reason.

Of the three times(!) I had to trek to the Front Door this week, two times were because the Religiously Active are apparently concerned about The State Of My Soul and which direction I will be heading immediately after my death.  The first visit was from two little old ladies that were so sweet I couldn’t be rude.  I took their pamphlet and smiled and wished them a wonderful day.  I put the pamphlet directly into recycling without reading what would be involved in saving my soul.

The second visit from the Religiously Active was a sweet old man with very short arms.  I don’t know why his arms are so short because while I was running through a mental list of all the possible reasons his arms could be so short he became less sweet and more Inquisition-y.  I told him I already had the pamphlet he was showing me and he didn’t believe me!

“Oh reaaally.” He said slowly.  “Have you ever seen these two ladies before?  Are they from the neighbourhood?”  I think he’s been knocking on doors for far too long; there was definitely some bitterness there.

I hesitated.  It was like looking at a Bunnie that just bit me; it was so cute but it had big teeth!  And how should I reply?  With Sarcasm?  Condescension?  Belligerence?

I decided on the Carefully Neutral But With A Hint Of Sarcasm tone.

“As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen these ladies before in my entire life.  Well, maybe I did before they got old – wrinkles sometimes change a person’s face – but I definitely haven’t seen them in the last decade for sure.  You aren’t going to make me go through my recycling bin for the pamphlet, are you?  Because I would really hate that.”

It was his turn to have a moment of indecision but eventually he said.  “Well, thank you for your time.  Will we be seeing you at our Memorial Celebration?”

“Probably not.  Have a lovely day.” I smiled kindly.

The third visit to my front door was Canada Post delivering a catalogue.  I really hate this kind of Summons because the Postal Person is already two houses down the block before I open the door so I’m forced to holler “THANK YOU!” and she just waves back at me.  That is an extremely unsatisfying interaction with another human being.  I like a “You’re Welcome” when I say “Thank You”.  It’s a start and an end.  Satisfying.  A backhand wave from half a block away isn’t the same thing at all and I don’t particularly like having to bellow my appreciation.  To add insult to injury the catalogue wasn’t even for me – which might have made up for the walk all the way to the Front Door.  But no, it was for The Viking.

Okay.  End of Pet Peeve Rant.

You have a weird look on your face.  Do you think I’m nuts?  Is it because you just haven’t thought about it or do you not mind people coming to your Front Door willy-nilly like there’s no order to the chaos in the universe?  Without order and rules we could be facing an onslaught of people knocking on Front Doors and running away like in the 1970s, and no one wants that, my friends.

So!  How was your week?

Thanks to Part-Time Monster for inventing and growing Weekend Coffee Share and Nerd in the Brain for hosting the event.  You guys are awesome.

Damn You Benjamin Franklin!

Welcome to Coffee.  You weren’t hoping I would be all bubbly and chatty, were you?  Cause I’m less bubbly and chatty and more dozy and dumb.  I’ve been this way all week long.  If my eyes roll back and my head flops to the right don’t worry, it’s not a stroke, I’ve just fallen asleep.  If clearing your throat loudly doesn’t wake me, try poking me with your spoon.  Coffee has done nothing to alleviate my exhaustion; apparently caffeine isn’t the guy for the job today. Maybe a cocktail of energy drinks with extra strong caffeine shooters will do the trick.

I have nothing to report in the way of interest this past week.  It’s all a blur.  However, yesterday I did have to muster up some form of energy because I had some errands to run/schlump.  Thank goodness for automobiles, even if I probably shouldn’t have been trusted behind the wheel.

A group of pimply-faced high school students pushed the cross-walk button but I was already too close to stop and too tired to give a shit. One of them waved his arms at me so I rolled the window down and yelled “DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME!!”

I dozed off reading the label on a can of soup in the grocery store and a guy said “You gonna buy that or what?” My eyelids creaked open and I scowled at him. “Daylight savings time. And no, I’m not going to buy that because the sodium is too high but I can’t make my arm lift it back to the shelf. Here, you do it.”  I pushed the can into his hand and shuffled along.

Later, when I was home and shouldn’t have been expected to interact with anyone besides The Viking, the doorbell rang and two young guys were smiling beatifically, badges from Vivint on their jackets. “Hi! I see you have an SAI Security System sign in your garden. That can’t be right because they don’t exist anymore.”

“So? Not many criminals keep up on corporate take-overs and share prices.”  My left eye wouldn’t open so I had to rely entirely on my right eye.

The tall one hesitated but managed to come back before I fell asleep on my feet. “Do you have an alarm system now? Are you protected by a different company?”

“Yes. And before you go any further…..Daylight Savings Time.”

“Pardon me?”

“Daylight. Savings. Time. I’m too tired to listen to you.”

They both looked uncertain and just as my eyelid was crashing shut the tall one said. “Okay. Thank you for your time.”

Kidney Clothes called to see if I had anything to donate. I said no, I didn’t have anything to donate but the woman said “Not even an old blouse or sweater? We could really use some sweaters.”

“Daylight Savings Time.”

“Pardon me?”

“Daylight Savings Time. I’ve lost 7 hours of sleep this week and by tomorrow it will be 8 hours of sleep. I haven’t got the energy to clean out my closet today. Call me next month.”  Yes, that was a little rude but I only had so many words in me and I used them up quickly.

“Um. Okay. Thank you for your time.”

I’ve fallen asleep twice on the toilet this week and once at my desk – The Viking caught me that time but he was more envious than cranky, especially when I offered to spoon with him if we went to bed right then. His sense of ‘work before play’ kept him from acting in his own self-interest though.

I also sucked in a cat hair when I was yawning and do you know how difficult it is to get a cat hair out of your mouth? It’s ridiculous. I suppose I should be grateful that it isn’t fly season yet but somehow I can’t muster up the effort.

I know who is to blame for this and this definitely needs to be blamed on someone! I need someone to heap curses on and a name to shout when necessary – and this week it has been very much necessary. “DAMN YOU BENJAMIN FRANKLIN!!”

Okay, to be fair, he didn’t actually invent Daylight Savings Time, he just came up with the idea. Probably when he was drunk. It took some other nefarious individuals to implement this evil, but I’m too tired to list out all the people involved.

So Benjamin Franklin will be receiving all my angst and curses. At least until I’m not a walking/schlumping zombie or a danger to the public at large when I’m behind the wheel of my car.

Daylight Savings Time never used to bother me at all, but for the last few years it’s been kicking the shit out of me.  The Viking is in the same boat.  Do we live our lives on the razor’s edge of competent functioning?  Is a single hour of sleep all that separates us from Sloths with the ability to drive?

If I had a Time Machine, I would go back to Benjamin Franklin, rip that pen right out of his hand and tell him not to even think it because some asshole in the twentieth century will think it’s a great idea and ruin humanity forever.  Or at least a week.

So, did DST kick the shit out of you too, or is it just The Viking and I?

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a nap. A seven hour nap.

Thanks to Nerd in the Brain for hosting Coffee this weekend.  Cheers.

No Good Lousy Day!

I slept badly last night, dreaming the whole night about asshole guys running into my car, stealing my groceries and throwing random things at me.  It looks like I’ve been hit between the eyes with a hatchet! And my head is throbbing! And my neck is stiff and sore! Gawd!!  Why am I even out of bed?

And what in the hell is up with the fucking cat?! Teddy has taken over my office chair! He was eating his breakfast and then before I could hit the power button on the coffee maker he was in my chair!

When I got up to get a cup of coffee…..

When I went to open the family room curtains….

When I went to take a pee……

When I went to get another cup of coffee…..

He says he’s just keeping it warm for me but if that were the case he would be easier to dislodge; he wouldn’t be digging his claws into the fabric which necessitates a damned wrestling match every single time! As soon as I get his front claws unlatched, his back claws catch the edge of the seat. And he’s had the worst farts ever lately so every time I squeeze him in the middle he emits a noxious cloud of poo gas. It’s so bad I have to check to make sure it isn’t actual poo, and then more poo gas seeps around my face while I’m checking.

And he leaves gobs of his hair on the seat! And he and Izzie were playing with the stupid hair remover brush thingy and broke it! And now I’m going to have a hairy ass everywhere I go today!

Izzie isn’t any help either! While Teddy is rubbing his hairy body all over my chair, she’s taken residence on my keyboard. Or on my mouse. Or standing in front of the monitor.

I’ve loved you both up already! Can’t you see I’m in a bad mood? Stop looking at me like that! Why aren’t you harassing The Viking?! He’s not in a bad mood!  As a matter of fact, he seems to think my bad mood is fucking hilarious!

via GIPHY

And now I’m out of coffee and it’s only 11:40 in the morning. Fuck!  I suppose I may as well run some damned errands with my hairy ass. I’ll go get more of the good cat food so Teddy doesn’t smell so bad. And I’ll get groceries – and I swear to Gawd if even one guy tries to steal them in the parking lot I’m going to lose my shit!

And then I think I’ll get myself a Caramel Apple Cider at Starbucks. With whipped cream. And a piece of Banana Bread.

Because I deserve it.

Wonderful, Marvelous, Fantastic

Hello friends!  Let me clear a space on my table and push a cat off a chair.  Here’s your lint roller and a cinnamon bun.  I’m a little rushed today.  Junior is coming for his birthday dinner – he’s 30 years old already!  Not sure how that happened.  The Viking is cooking but I need to get everything ready for him to do his magic and I have laundry to do.

It’s also Izzie’s birthday – she’ll be a miraculous 1 year old – and it’s been a year paved with allergies, shouts, curses, scratches, bitings, blood, fury and tears. I can’t say that I’ve had to work so hard for another living thing in my entire life and I’ve never bled so much for one either. If not for The Viking’s colossal stubbornness I would have given up 5 months ago.

Izzie was as lovable as a Tarantula. Every cuddle ended in shouts for a “MEDIC!!” Every television program was interrupted by lightning fast attacks leaving us bloody. Every customer through the door received at least one smack and sometimes a bleeding bite too.

We scoured the internet for solutions to a cat that attacks us. Nothing worked. A Drama Queen Vet was zero help and once she awoke from her faint, she yelled at me. “NEVER DISCIPLINE A CAT!! EVER! YOU WILL MAKE IT FEARFUL!”

My wailing response of “But she races into the room, jumps on me, rips my flesh into bloody, meaty ribbons, and then races away before I can catch her! And she’s afraid of NOTHING!” didn’t seem to matter.

I read on one helpful tip that it’s my own fear that’s instigating Izzie’s attacks.  Not bloody likely!!  Hell will freeze over before I’m afraid of a damned cat!

But then a few things happened:

We introduced Izzie to Mim’s well-socialized cats, Dexter & Lucy.

We found sweet Teddy at the SPCA.

And then Dexter & Lucy came to stay at our house for 10 days.

 

Here’s what I learned:

Izzie had serious behavioral problems, duh! However, a Clowder of well-socialized cats is a magical thing and they can perform miracles. Dexter, at the great old age of 3, is the dignified chap that explains things to idiots. Lucy, Dexter’s young protégé, is steel inside a velvet glove and looks sweet the whole time she’s kicking ass. Teddy is the cuddly class clown who does the encouraging, spreading the love and providing a good example. And Izzie was the project.

They had 10 days to perform a miracle. I wish I had a “Right Stuff” slo-mo video of 3 cats strutting into battle because that’s exactly what happened. It was a Battle Royale for the first few days with me and The Viking as referees. Izzie was shunned, slapped, chased and ostrasized as the others refused to have anything to do with the mental state she was in – angry, bullying and nasty.

Dexter and Lucy loved Teddy immediately and played with him happily. Izzie sat on the sidelines, her Satanic Glare sizzling the carpet. But subtle changes were happening. Dexter would sit beside her and explain things. Teddy would offer to play but as soon as the aggression appeared, he slapped her and walked away. Lucy pummelled her with slaps when she approached with anything less than a relaxed state of mind.

By the end of the 10 days, Izzie was a different cat. Lucy was tolerating her, Dexter would play with her a little bit and Teddy would greet her with a kiss. She was even learning how to give Love Eyes. They still look like she wants to eat you but her body language is soft and sweet.

Once Dexter and Lucy went home, Izzie tried to revert to the Bully again, but Teddy took it for exactly one day before taking steps.  When Izzie got rough during play time, Teddy would give it right back and it was Izzie that yelled and ran away.  He then decided she needed to be bathed and when she objected he jumped on her and bit her neck until she submitted. She hated every moment but took it anyway.  She just heaves a heavy sigh now and let’s him give her a bath.

The transformation is complete and only needs minor fine tuning by Teddy once in a while.

We now have Wonderful, Marvelous, Fantastic! Her eyes are more round, her bites are Love Bites, soft and gentle and followed by a few licks. She’s almost polite and she comes for cuddles that don’t morph into The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. A customer gave her a pet today and she didn’t try to sever his arm. He was amazed because the last time he was here he left with a bloody laceration on the back of his hand.

I don’t know if this would work for any other cat, but it was a miracle for Izzie. Without the therapy of the other cats, she would have become a Barn Cat. We couldn’t let her near children – she bit a little girl for just standing in the house beside me – and she would definitely be more than any elderly person could handle. There are the occasional shouts from Izzie when Teddy has to get rough but for the most part they are best friends.

And, of course, The Viking and I are over-the-moon happy. We haven’t bled since Dex and Lucy went home. The thunder of cats charging through the house no longer sends chills down my spine. I’m not worried that Izzie will really hurt Teddy anymore either. Best of all is the whiskers on Izzie’s face; they are pushed so far forward the ends almost touch.

So, Happy Birthday, Izzie Girl!! We love you!

via GIPHY

Thanks to Nerd in the Brain for hosting Weekend Coffee Share.

An Alarm Certificate, Testosterone and Apologies

Happy Weekend! If we were having coffee I would have to explain that I nearly destroyed 2 generations of one family this week. Without even trying. It’s just that easy for me.

It’s time to renew our company insurances, you see, which is stressful, to say the least. Luckily, we have an Insurance Broker Super Hero – Teri-Lynn. This year she pulled off a miracle and managed to get all our insurances under one provider which saves us a huge chunk of change! I only needed to contact our Alarm Company to get an Alarm Certificate and if I could get it quickly Teri-Lynn could submit it with all the other paperwork.

Three phone calls, one to a real person and two to answering machines, in 24 hours accomplished exactly nothing. So, I tried a different point of contact, hoping for better luck. I sent an email to the Alarm Company’s Contact Us page.

Dear Customer Support,

 My Account # is **-**** and my name is Lori *****.  My phone number is ***-***-****.

 I need an Alarm Certificate for Insurance purposes and I’ve made 3 attempts to get this certificate in the past 24 hours with zero success.  I’ve spoken with a real person once who assured me she would send one yesterday, and then I’ve left 1 message for Neem(?) and then another message in a generic mailbox.

 With that in mind, there are 3 things you should probably know about me.

 1.  I am 3 years 5 months and 23 days into menopause.

2.  My husband is a Viking.

3.  My Insurance Broker makes people cry.  Including me.

 These things may not mean much to you at the present but my lack of success in obtaining an Alarm Certificate is about to set off a chain of events that may impact you.

 First, my Insurance Broker is going to lose her shit because she has tomorrow off and how hard can it possibly be to get an Alarm Certificate?  Second, The Viking is going to hear my Insurance Broker lose her shit and he’s going to grab his Axe and Shield and start hollering curses and gesturing in my general direction (it’s actually as scary as it sounds).  That, in turn, will increase my stress which sets off Hot Flashes from Hell, extremely itchy skin and copious amounts of tears.  And then I’ll frantically call you over and over again, leaving louder and louder messages.

 I understand that you are probably a busy person and I’m sorry that I have to be so forthright, but an Alarm Certificate shouldn’t be this difficult to get.  I know you have my email address because a) the lady from yesterday read it back to me, b) I receive emails from you all the time that I never read and delete quickly and c) this note is being sent to you from my email.

 So, I’m appealing to the sweet, efficient person in you to please help me avoid all this drama and send me an Alarm Certificate.  Especially since I accidentally broke the arm strap on the back of The Viking’s Shield and haven’t had a chance to fix it yet.

 Sincerely,

Lori

 

15 minutes later I received this email:

Lori

I will have the cert sent to you today.

Please start reading my emails you might just find them entertaining

Sean (from the Contact Us Page of the Alarm Company)

Uh!  Oh!

 7 minutes later, I received this email:

Hi Lori,

Please find the attached certificate below.

 Thanks  Reem (the woman I left messages for at the Alarm Company)

YES!!! SUCCESS!!!

via GIPHY

But the thrill of success wore off eventually and I started thinking about poor Sean. In my campaign to get that damned Certificate I completely relegated Sean to a Meaningless Person of No Consequence. If I had thought about it for a brief second I might have considered that the regular emails I get and delete weren’t sent by a computer at all but by an actual human being. Maybe Sean really likes his job, it fulfills him, makes him feel needed and respected and then I come along and totally destroy him!

Or maybe he has a wife and children he’s grooming to take over the business of sending monthly updates and offers to customers? I might have wiped out the dreams and aspirations of two entire generations of one family!

I really suck!

Well, I can’t leave poor Sean and all the Little Seans to wallow in defeat. I will make this right!

Dear Sean,

 Apparently, in my laser-focused quest to acquire my Alarm Certificate, collateral damage occurred. I feel terrible about that. I’ve heard of Collateral Damage happening, usually in times of war, but never thought that I would be the cause of it during peace time.

 I’ve given this considerable thought since I received your email and I think I may have found the reason for my thoughtlessness.

Testosterone.

You may not know this but as men age their testosterone levels drop and their estrogen levels rise, which explains why old guys pull their pants up so high – they are looking for their feminine waistline. And just as age affects men, it also affects women (which sucks because I am one). As a woman ages, she produces less estrogen and begins producing more testosterone which is why old women buy so many tweezers – it’s for plucking chin hair.  I know this for certain because I felt a fucking whisker on my chin while I was in the middle of writing my plea for an Alarm Certificate.  And once a woman feels a whisker on her face her entire focus shifts to the immediate removal of the offending whisker. 

 Being 3 years, 5 months and 24 days into menopause, my testosterone levels must be higher than I realized.  I did one of those tests on Facebook to see if your thinking is more feminine or more masculine and I scored 90% Man and only 10% Woman.  I asked The Viking if I’ve been more man-ly lately but without the expletives I’m not sure what his grunted reply indicated.

So, in absence of better scientific data I’ve decided to err on the side of caution and apologize for my thoughtless words.

 Please accept my profound apologies. In future, when I receive an email from Alarm Company, I will read it thoroughly. I’m sure I will enjoy them immensely. I would also like to send you some Maple Brown Sugar Cookies as further proof of my regret. I would offer Chocolate Chip cookies but, to be honest, Maple Brown Sugar Cookies are my favorite and I would just make a double batch, send you half, and then drown my sorrow in the other half.

 Sincerely,

Lori

I think that should do it. I accepted full responsibility, right? UPS delivers cookies don’t they?

So, how was your week? Did you almost destroy anyone by accident?

Thanks to Nerd in the Brain for Hosting The Weekend Coffee Share.