Category: Funny Woman Blog

What? I Can’t Hear You!

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

Time…slowed…down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nope.

Fuck.

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

GEEZUS!!!

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

“Um….are you okay?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oooo…that looks painful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GEEZUS!!

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

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

Fast forward to tonight.

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

 

 

*It saves my floors from customers’ shoes.

 

Shit. Show.

It’s been a while since I posted anything so thought I should make an effort.  I’m not being lazy.  Honest.  I’m just trying to survive information overload.

The current task is learning how to get a store on eBay and listing 11,389,421 motorcycle parts The Viking has been hoarding for years, and that’s not nothing.  In fact, it’s terrifying.  I’m not famous for meticulous attention to detail which is exactly what is needed now.

I’ve created an Excel Database for every part with cross-references to the box where I’ve put it.  I also need to find a reasonable price for each item, take pictures of it, and then list it on Ebay.  It gets more complicated when I’m dealing with 14 billion Piston Rings because the Part Numbers are all very similar and it’s easy to Dyslexia my way into a colossal mess.  And guess how easy it is to differentiate one Piston Ring from another Piston Ring in a thousand pictures of Piston Rings?  It’s a nightmare.

It wouldn’t be too bad if I were working in a solitary little room with no interruptions but fat chance of that.  I’m answering phones, booking customer appointments, keeping customer names, phone numbers, machines, and work requests up-to-date, invoicing, planning meals, shopping for groceries, doing laundry, washing dishes, shouting at a cat (guess which one), entertaining The Viking when he comes into the house for a break, and cooking.  Guess how many of these things I’m doing well?  That’s right.  Nothing.  Except shouting at Izzie – after 5 years it’s an instinctive response that requires only a functioning subconsciousness.  Did I mention that Christmas is coming and I haven’t started baking or decorating?

And while I’m balancing all of that crap, Computer and Brother Printer have declared war on each other and all past treaties have been vacated.  I now need to restart Computer so he (yes, it’s a ‘he’) will ‘politely’ ask Brother Printer to make a small effort to do what he’s (yes, it’s a ‘he’, too) supposed to do.  Not to be left out of the fun Office 365, a staunch Anarchist, has taken advantage of the chaos and now requires a ‘Repair’ every time Computer restarts or Windows updates.

So yesterday, while I was up to my eyeballs in Piston Rings, a customer came to pay his bill and pick up his machine and a colossal shitshow ensued.  Three-quarters of my brain was dealing with Database while the rest of my brain tried to address a revision to his invoice and a reprint.  Sage (Simply Accounting) takes F.O.R.E.V.E.R to open and then when the revision was finished, Sage asked Computer to politely ask Brother Printer to print the new invoice but maybe he didn’t ask nicely enough because Brother Printer said “Is that you, Computer? Fuck off!  I’m OFFLINE!”

I apologize to Customer and tell him it will only take a minute to restart Computer.  I had to save and close Sage which takes F.O.R.E.V.E.R and Outlook (which contains all of our customers & scheduling) and Excel (which is Database) before I could initiate the restart.   Finger tapping.  Apologizing.  Heavy sighing.  Finally!  We are in business.  Except, Brother Printer was more pissed than I thought because he still wouldn’t print the invoice!

Customer says, “I’m in a hurry.”  Well, of course, he is!!  And, just to make the situation better, here comes Hot Flash because what kind of a clusterfuck is complete without a Hot Flash?!!

Okay, new plan.  Let me get Customer’s email address and I’ll send the invoice as soon as Brother Printer and Computer resume relations.  I try to open Outlook to enter his email address and Office 365 says “Fuck off!  You don’t own me!  UNKNOWN ERROR!”  Stove took the opportunity to inform me, loudly and condescendingly, that the cake in the oven was finished cooking.  BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.  And the patch of eczema on my right ass cheek started to itch.

I looked at the customer.  Blink.  And blink.  BEEP BEEP BEEP!  And blink.  Brain froze and Left Eyelid started to twitch.  The customer now needed three-quarters of my brain but Database, Piston Rings, Brother Printer and Office 365 refused to leave the Shit Show.  I was now operating with a three-quarter brain deficit.  BEEP BEEP BEEP.  DO NOT SCRATCH YOUR ASS!

“I….um….sorry…what?  Um…..”  Come on!  Say something!  Customer is looking at me in alarm.  “Um….sorry….”  For FUCKSAKE!!  Stop blinking at him!

I finally wrote his email on a piston ring box and shoved his credit card receipt at him.  He fled.

I scratched my eczema ass on the way to shut off Gawd-Damned Oven!  At that point, I decided it was in everyone’s best interest if I took a Time-Out for reflection and the pursuit of peace.  It’s too bad that the Boss frowns on Daytime Drinking because a couple of stiff drinks would really taste good.

 

Making Friends, One Felony At A Time

The phone rings.

Me:  Hello?

Caller:  Hi there.  I live just down the alley from you and I thought I should let you know that Izzie has been spending quite a bit of time in my yard.

Me (nervous….do I need to apologize for my damned cat again?!):  Okaaaaay.

Him:  It’s totally fine!  I don’t mind at all, but I wondered if I should put some food out for her?  I have given her treats before when she stops by.

Me:  That dirty cat!  She has bowls and bowls of dry food and gets paté every evening.

Him:  I thought she was too healthy-looking to be a stray.  So I shouldn’t put out any food?

Me:  No, it’s not necessary to put out food, but she probably appreciates the treats.  I have to say that I’m surprised she lets you get close to her.  She hasn’t made you bleed?

Him (laughing):  A couple of times but we’ve become friends.  I could read her name on the tag quite a long time ago but it was only this morning that she let me flip it over to see the phone number.

Me:  Wow!  You’ve done well, then.

Him:  She helped me build the fence in my backyard in October.  She sat and watched me for hours.

Me:  She likes to watch a guy, who lives very close to you, do his gardening in the summer, too.  She spends entire afternoons with him.

Him:  Yeah.  She just sits and watches.  She’s sweet.

Me:  Ahhhh….that’s just a ploy to gain your trust.  She took the ladies at the end of the block hostage for 5 hours.  They had to escape through their front door.

Him (laughing again):  She wouldn’t let me in the garage this morning and when I tried to go around her she swatted at me.  I said, “Hey!  We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Me:  She stole a woman’s car two summers ago.  The neighbours heard the screams and came to get us.  So, don’t underestimate her motives.

Him:  She sounds like quite a cat.

Me (sighing):  I cannot count how many times I’ve had to apologize for her behavior.  I’ve tried to explain that she’s not allowed to swat or take hostages or steal buildings, but it doesn’t seem to help.

Him:  The guy at the end of my block has a cat and she’s been fighting with it.  I call her and she comes running across three garages, down my drain pipe and I give her treats after telling her to stop fighting.

Me:  I know!!  She was coming home looking like a crack whore for over a month!  We went on holiday for a couple of weeks, taking the cats with us, in September, and since then she hasn’t been in any more fights.  Maybe she just needed a time-out.

Him:  She was looking pretty beat up, for sure.

Me:  Well thank you for looking out for her.  And I appreciate the call to let me know what she’s up to.

Him:  No worries.  I can still give her treats?

Me:  Sure.  She loves treats.

Him:  Perfect.  Nice chatting with you.

Me:  Same here.

Okay.  So, no apologies were necessary and the blood was minimal.  I can’t help but wonder if Realtors will have to disclose Izzie’s presence to prospective purchasers of homes in the area.  I’m sure she would think it was cool, but driving home prices down might become an issue for The Viking and me.

Sigh.

I Was Evil Today

I was evil today.  I really tried to harness my evilness and I did beg Better Me to intervene.  I even enlisted The Viking to appeal to my better side, but Evil Me won the day.  That’s what happens when Better Me does all the heavy lifting and has decided to let Evil Me take the wheel for a change.

All it took was an email.  One lousy email.  To ruin the entire day.  Worse…..the email was harmless.  Innocent, even!  But previous email interactions left a foul taste in my mouth from all the sanctimony and Holier-Than-Thou-Dom that prompted my solemn vow of unhelpfulness forevermore.

We all have at least one person in our life who just rubs us the wrong way all the fucking time.  You don’t even like to be around them and those events that require proximity are always dreaded.  You’re never quite sure if they are totally unaware of how awful they can be or if they are aware and just like being that way.  You decide to believe it’s the first thing because who wants to think the worst of someone?  So, you spend years brushing off the snide and taking the High Road, certain that it must be a total lack of interpersonal skills and self-awareness.  But then comes the time when all the excuses in the world can’t explain it away.  There is no other explanation but Colossal Entitlement.

Unfortunately, I’m getting too old for this shit.  Taking the High Road is exhausting – mostly because I’m pissed off, stomping my feet, waving my arms, and shouting curses into the void the entire time.

via GIPHY

Sure, I could give it right back – I’m perfectly capable of treating someone like shit if I really put my mind to it – but I choose not to behave like that.  And, that would make being around me no more pleasant than being around them.  Instead, my brain goes into overdrive; hoarding and composing sarcastic and epithet-laced arguments that will put them in their place if I can only remember them when the time is right.

I had a small skirmish with an old, white guy in the grocery store parking lot a while ago involving a parking spot that I was already in but he wanted.  He behaved badly, I made a gesture, he said, “You don’t need to act like that, Missy” and I said…..

“If you’re going to act like an Asshole, I’m going to treat you like an Asshole!”

I was pleasantly surprised by my brilliance.  On the spur of the moment like that.  I usually have to wait until 3:00 in the morning to come up with such a perfect gem.

The Viking did manage to rein in my more militant inclinations today.  I didn’t write a scathing diatribe like last time, outlining and dissecting all the ways that a certain comment pissed me right the fuck off.  No, I just returned a quote and left it at that.  I don’t have to be ashamed of myself for behaving badly – I hate it when that happens – and chances are the recipient won’t even catch the significance.  Given the un-self-awareness and all.

Besides, isn’t there some adage about confession being good for the soul?  I do believe that makes all of you Confess-ees.  And that means I have a very, very good soul, doesn’t it?  And maybe I wasn’t actually Evil today.  Maybe just thinking about being Evil doesn’t actually make me Evil.  I do have self-control, after all.

I’m just going to chalk this up as Better Me – and The Viking, of course – managed Evil Me more than I initially thought.

Call The Paramedics 3

I pulled ‘A Viking’ the other day.  I was cutting up potatoes to make oven fries for supper when I had a rare knife glitch and sliced a finger – the left pointer finger, to be precise.  I made a soft, dainty, ladylike coo – very much like a Dove – and grabbed the finger with my right hand, a little afraid to look at the damage because I felt resistance in the knife.  The Viking, sitting nearby at his computer, barely heard me.

“FUUUUUCK!!”

It was only because The Viking had such good hearing that he noticed and without actually looking at me said, “What happened?”

“I cut off my finger.”

He says, “Well, put a Band-Aide on it.”

What?!  THAT’S NOT HOW YOU ASSESS A HEALTH CRISIS!!

I carefully opened my right hand and found zero blood, which could be good news in that I hadn’t cut deep enough for blood….or…..very bad news if I didn’t have any blood to bleed……or…..super news because my body was capable of instantaneous healing.  Like a Superhero.  Note to self:  Create a great Superhero Name.

I decided to put a Band-Aide on it anyway so I could carry on with the potatoes but halfway to the bathroom and the Band-Aides I started gushing blood.  Note to self:  never mind about the Superhero name.  I recruited The Viking to apply the Band-Aide but he seemed completely unimpressed with the amount of blood I was leaking and how much it hurt.

I said “Ouch!” and he snorted like it was barely a scratch which kind of annoyed me.  “You act like it’s nothing!”

Him:  “Well, it is nothing.”

via GIPHY

Me:  “It definitely IS something!”

Him:  “You don’t need stitches, now do you?”

Me:  “That’s only because I am more talented than you are!”

Him:  “What?!” A high-pitched squawk.

Me:  It’s true!  I managed a deep, clean cut without hitting an artery.  Anybody can slice an artery, but it takes a very high level of skill to miss the artery, and I wasn’t even trying that hard.  That’s skill, with a capital ‘S’!

Him:  ……….

Me:  That’s right!  Your slicing skills are amateurish and hap-hazard, but what can I expect from a guy born and bred to throw axes?

Him:  ……….

Me:  Also, you need to finish the potatoes because I have a work-place injury.  Don’t make me report you to Occupational Health & Safety.

Apparently, I dazzled him with my intellectual prowess because he finished the potatoes.  I considered pushing for a day off due to a risk of infection but decided to quit while the quitting was good.

The problem with the stupid cut is that it went in on an angle, so the flap part catches on things and hurts like a bastard.  So, I need a Band-Aide to stop tearing it open again but then it isn’t healing as well as it would without the Band-Aide.  Also, it’s bruised too, and every time I knock it even a little bit it hurts like a bastard.

So, my left pointer finger is not my favourite digit at the moment.  I thought about making the right pointer finger the favourite in the meantime, but that’s too much competition and could lead to prolonged pointer finger angst.  Instead, my right middle finger is the current favourite, and I am using it frequently.  Especially when I’m complaining to The Viking about my workplace injury and his underwhelming sympathy.

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It Could Have Been Worse

It could have been worse.  Not everyone was thrilled with the camping experience, to be honest, but overall it was a good holiday.  And what were we expecting from two cats?

DAY 1

Teddy:  Thank Gawd we’ve stopped.  I need to pee.

Izzie:  That litterbox is mine and I’m not sharing.

Teddy:  So where am I supposed to go?

Izzie:  Don’t know, don’t care.

Once the trailer was leveled, we opened the door and were delighted to find there was no drama.  Teddy actually came out from under the bed almost immediately and Izzie wasn’t cursing and calling us names.  So, that went well.  We treated ourselves to several beers, directly after making it crystal clear that Teddy can use the litterbox.

DAY 2

Izzie:  It’s about time you got out of bed.  The water bowl is empty, and I can see the bottom of the food bowl.  I hope this isn’t an indication of how this debacle is going to proceed.  Also, Teddy pooped in the litter box and now I’m not going to use it.

Teddy had slept with us all night which was a little confusing because at home the bed is sacred ‘Izzie’ domain, whether she’s on it or not, and Teddy would never presume.  Could this be the beginning of a shift in power?

DAY 3

Teddy:  I’m bored.  If I can’t patrol the yard I may as well just eat.  No?  I’m disappointed, Mom.  Fine.  How about a handful of treats?

Izzie:  You’re going to get fatter.  I think I’ll just start the bullying now.

Teddy:  I’m not fat – it’s all muscle.  Just ask Slinky.

Izzie:  Your special relationship with Slinky isn’t exactly a Fight Club like mine though, is it?  So, don’t be bragging until you’ve gone 3 rounds with Baloshi.

Teddy:  If all your blood and scars are any indication, you aren’t doing all that good at winning in Fight Club, now are you?  I’m standing behind my muscles.

 

DAY 4

A precarious truce has developed.  Mostly because there is only one sofa that provides a good view outside*.  It’s so heartwarming to see them sitting side by side – if only this could last when we get home.

Izzie:  You are hogging the sofa.  Move over.

Teddy:  I’m not hogging anything.  Not a single hair is past the halfway point.

Izzie:  I didn’t say you were past the halfway point, I said you are hogging, which means you are too close to the halfway point.  Move over.

Teddy:  Nope!  I am well within my borders.

Izzie, erupting into a blizzard of slaps:  Move. Over. There!

Teddy, hitting her once on top of the head with a solid whack:  NO!

The Viking:  For fuck’s sake, Izzie!  Knock it off!

DAY 5

The Viking:  Teddy!!!  Your poop can’t possibly need to be buried halfway to China!  Stop digging in the litter box already!

Me:  Izzie!!  Stop digging in the litter!  We can’t hear the TV!

The Viking:  AGAIN?!  You were just in there 5 minutes ago!  Stop all the digging!

Me:  Now I know why their water bowl is always empty.

The Viking:  Look at all the litter on the floor!

Me:  It’s like Competitive Pee/Pooping!  They are going to wear out the bottom of the litterbox.

DAY 6

We had to go into town and buy a few groceries.  We left some windows open and hoped Izzie wouldn’t entertain other campers with her deafening yodels.  She can be very convincing when she screams.  We were deliriously happy when we got back and there wasn’t a crowd of people huddled around the trailer, calling PETA.

DAY 7

Me:  Where’s Teddy?  I haven’t seen him for a long time.  He’s not in our bed.

Teddy has staked out our bed as his own and is refusing to back down.  Izzie can sleep on the bed too, but as soon as she gets all bossy and angry, he kicks her off.

The Viking:  I don’t know.  Teddy!  Come here.

Me rattling the treat jug:  Teddy!

Izzie was sitting over by the litter box but as soon as she hears the treats rattling, she comes running, shouting her enthusiasm.  And then………Teddy comes out of the litter box.

Me:  For fuck’s sake, Izzie!  How long have you had him pinned inside the litterbox?!  No treats for you!!

DAY 8

I’m being lazy, laying in bed.  I’m not sleeping but not really ready to face the day just yet.  Until…..

The Viking:  Izzie!!  Stop chewing on those charging cords!

About five minutes later….

The Viking:  Izzie!!!  Stop clawing the sofa!

Not even 5 minutes later…..

The Viking:  Izzie!!  Stop slapping Teddy!

It’s obvious that Izzie needs some attention – being cooped up in the trailer day after day is starting to get to her.  We decide to pull out the harness and leash and take her outside.  Getting the harness on her is a two-person job and a bit of a rodeo but we managed.

Outside, she lays down on the outdoor rug in front of our chairs and things appear to be going well.  And then someone comes out of the laundry building about 25 meters from our site and she totally loses shit!  She bolts to the trailer door, climbs the screen all the way to the top of the door and when she runs out of room she vaults off the screen to the ground, hitting the stairs in the process.  It all happened so fast we didn’t have time to react.  I grabbed her when she hit the ground and took her inside.  She didn’t appear to be in pain, so I gave her and Teddy some treats and left her alone to recover.

Teddy:  Who’s the ‘fraidy cat now?

DAY 9

We were forced to break out the cat toys.  Izzie is becoming unruly.  Teddy just lays around, looking out the windows, napping on our bed.  He’s a fucking joy!  Izzie is the exact opposite and her Feral Side is starting to show.  We have a fishing pole toy and a wand toy.  Guess which one Teddy got?  That’s right.  Neither.  I even took Teddy into the bedroom and closed the door.  Thirty seconds later, she was outside the door shouting death threats while she was chewing on the fishing pole toy that she got away from The Viking.  Teddy couldn’t concentrate and who could blame him?  Sigh.

DAY 10

Me:  Teddy!  Quit clawing the carpet!

I forgot his cardboard scratch board at home.

Izzie, chasing him down to rain hellfire slaps on his head:  Don’t. Claw. The. Carpet. Dumbass!

Me:  Izzie!  I don’t need any help from you!!

The Viking takes Teddy to the Cat Tree and gives a thorough demonstration on how to scratch it rather than the carpet.

DAY 11

It’s totally dark.  I’m guessing somewhere around 3:00 in the morning.  The trailer is rocked by two huge thumps followed by a hair-raising, high-velocity sound that could be a torpedo launched from the living room to the bedroom.  The Viking and I bolt upright in bed, shocked out of sleep.  There are screams – most likely from Izzie because she’s a Screamer – and a long, high-pitched ‘No..No..No..No..’– probably from Teddy because somehow he has learned how to talk.  Despite getting catapulted from sleep, we both become instant cheerleaders.

The Viking:  Get her Teddy!

Me:  Slap her harder, Teddy!

The Viking:  Good boy, Teddy!  Don’t take any more of her shit!

Me:  Stop screaming Izzie – you’ve had this coming for days!

Does this make us bad Cat Parents?  Probably.  But any jury of our Cat Parent peers who have met Izzie would exonerate us in a nano-second.

DAY 12

A rainstorm rumbles by and drops a fairly substantial amount of rain.  Izzie loses her shit.  Again.  Oddly enough, Teddy is just chilling, completely unaffected by the downpour.  After giving it some thought, we decide it’s because when it’s raining at home, Teddy invariably has to shelter in place – not by choice, mind you, but because Izzie sits at the cat door refusing to let him inside – so the sound of rain pelting the vehicles and trailer is nothing new.  For Izzie though, this is her first experience of the deafening sound that heavy rain makes on the trailer roof.

She ends up under the bed.

Teddy:  ‘Fraidy Cat, again?

DAY 13

The Viking and I are pre-packing for our departure tomorrow morning.  We want to fall out of bed and be on the road in half an hour.  Teddy is suspicious and uneasy.  He doesn’t like change and keeps giving me huge, sad eyes, like he’s going to his own execution.  We reassure him but he knows something is up.  Izzie doesn’t give a shit.

DAY 14

7:00am – Zoom!  Zoom!!  Izzie is flying from the bedroom to the living room, getting impressive airtime from the stairs in the bedroom.  Zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom!!  Back and forth over and over and over again.

The Viking:  For fucksake, Izzie!!  We’re trying to get shit done, here!

 

So.  We’re home.  Both cats disappeared for hours, probably doing their rounds, sizing up the situation after two weeks gone.  The Viking and I have Vacation Hangover.

 

*There are various other places they can lay down and watch outside, but it seems the sofa is the premium observation place.

 

Belly Rubs and Death Threats

We are finally taking some holidays.  It’s been a while.  Like 2 years already.  That’s what happens when you run your own business – when the work is there, you get it done because you don’t know what will happen around the corner.  We’re biting the bullet though, because we need it.  And since we’re so excited, we hoped the cats would be as well.

Me:  Hey guys!!  We booked a campground!  We are loading up the trailer and leaving on Saturday.

Teddy:  What?!  When you say ‘Trailer’, do you mean that huge monstrosity sitting in the driveway?  The thing you made me stay in a couple of months ago?  THAT thing?!

Me:  Yes!  I’m so excited!  It will be so relaxing and peaceful.

Teddy:  No.  I’m not going.

Me:  Oh, come on, Teddy.  It’s not that bad.  Izzie didn’t mind.  In fact, I’m pretty sure she enjoyed it.

Izzie:  I did!  It was cozy.  Hygge!

Teddy:  Says the Succubus from Hell.

Me:  If you bothered to come out from under the bed you would have enjoyed the peace and quiet.

Izzie:  Yeah, Teddy.

Teddy:  Shut up, Izzie!  You’re the one who threatened death if I did come out.

Izzie:  Hahahahaha!!

Me:  That’s not funny, Izzie and if you do it again, you’ll be banished to the cat carrier.

Teddy:  HA!  We all know that’s not going to happen because she’ll scream the leaves from the trees, the birds from the sky and the bugs from the ground.  Nothing can survive when she gets going!

Me:  Okay, you have a point.  We would probably get thrown out of the campground.  Still, if you stood up to her from time to time maybe she wouldn’t be such a bully.

Teddy:  Have you seen her face?  She started a Fight Club for fuck’s sake!

 

Me:  Okay, you have a point, again.  Going camping will give her face time to heal though.  So, there is that.

Izzie:  I don’t want it to heal!  I’m enjoying the notoriety.  Orange Charlie is terrified, as are Ross’s dogs.

Me:  Sigh.  Why do you have to be so miserable, Izzie?  Geez!  And Teddy, there are worse things than taking you camping.  Do you remember when we left you home for a day and a half?  You literally wouldn’t speak to me for almost a week.

Teddy:  That’s because you didn’t inform me of your plans before you just left.  I thought you were dead and then you show up all happy and sparkly without the slightest concern for my worries.

Me:  I’ve apologised for that a million times already!  That’s why we’re taking you camping.  You just have to get over it.

Teddy:  I think you might have missed what I said earlier – I. AM. NOT. GOING. IN. THAT. DEATH. TRAP. EVER. AGAIN!

Me:  Okay, look.  We can’t leave you home alone for so long.

Teddy:  Exactly.  You shouldn’t be going at all.  Stay home like other normal people.  It’s totally irresponsible as a Cat Parent to traumatize your Cat Children.

Me:  Sigh.  Just give it a chance, Teddy.  The Viking and I will make sure Izzie behaves herself.  It will be fine.

Izzie:  HEY!!  You’re not the boss of me!  If I want to make death threats, I’ll make death threats and there is nothing you can do about it!

Me:  Actually, I am your boss.  And fine.  New plan.  We’ll leave Izzie home and take Teddy with us.  That would work, wouldn’t it?  Izzie doesn’t care if we’re here or not as long as there is food and Teddy will have the trailer all to himself.

Teddy/Izzie:  NOOO!  NOPE! NADA!  That plan sucks!

Teddy:  I used to love you, you know.  I thought you were the best Mom ever.  Obviously, I was wrong.

Me:  Teddy, you still love me.  You can’t help yourself, because you love the belly rub.

Teddy:  Curses!!  The belly rub is my kryptonite!

Me:  You are both coming camping!  We will have toys and treats and we have a harness and leash for each of you so you can hang out with us outside.

Izzie:  A leash?!  What kind of fuckery is that?!  I don’t do leashes OR harnesses.  I thought we settle that debate 3 years ago!

Me:  You can’t wander around the campground on your own.  It’s either the harness and leash or you stay in the trailer.

Izzie:  Then, I’m not going now.

Me:   YOU ARE BOTH COMING CAMPING!!  AND IZZIE WILL BEHAVE HERSELF AND TEDDY WILL COME OUT FROM UNDER THE DAMNED BED!!  PERIOD!

 

So.  Wish us luck.  I have a feeling that we’re going to need all the luck we can get.

 

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Menopause and Strategic Drinking

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

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

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

Me:  Geez!  Someone needs to shave my legs.

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

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

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

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

Hey, Babe!  You have Bedroom Legs!

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

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

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

The Viking:  Whatever.  No one cares.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

*Thank you silver lining of COVID-19.

Ugh! Mondays!

Mondays are a shitshow around here.  And the nicer the weather on the weekend, the bigger the shitshow on Monday.  It’s entirely The Viking’s fault too because if he wasn’t so good at his job, we wouldn’t be in this pickle.  If your problem involves a motor, The Viking is the guy to call and they do.  Call, I mean.

We start Mondays desperately slurping coffee and listening to the disjointed, muffled, almost inarticulate mumblings on Voice Mail.  We both squint our eyes and lean toward the telephone hoping that proximity will help us understand what….

‘skoihknlm;oij 96 mlhwedsnpglas forkwejhrolj 403hus54okn thanks’

….means.  What are these people doing when they leave a message?  Bowling?  Jogging?  Sex? Eating a hot pizza?  It’s always the men, too.  Women call and clearly enunciate their words, explain the issue concisely, leave an audible phone number and thank us for our time.  I have never not been able to understand a message left by a woman.  Also, women call weeks in advance of when they need a machine fixed.  Men call two days before they need the machine serviced or repaired and get cranky when I can’t fit them in the schedule before their big family vacation at the lake that they’ve been planning for months.

The Viking is already slightly annoyed that he isn’t independently wealthy because he hasn’t won the Lottery yet and having to face customers at 9:00am on Monday doesn’t improve his mood.

And then the phone starts ringing.

Since the weather was beautiful, everyone was out with their ATVs, PWCs, Dirtbikes or Streetbikes and they broke them.

“Hi!  I broke the winch on my Polaris Sportsman this weekend, trying to pull a buddy’s massively big Jeep out of a ravine.  Can you have it fixed today?  I told the guys we would go out again tomorrow.”

Ummm….no.  Sorry.  My first available appointment is 3 weeks from today.

“What?!  But I told the guys……blah, blah, blah.”

Listen man.  The Viking is only one man and you aren’t our only customer.  People booked appointments three weeks ago and I’m not pushing them so you can keep a promise to your buddies.

“Good morning!  Can I talk to The Viking?  He fixed a flat tire for me 6 months ago and now I’m having trouble fixing my oil pump and I wanted to pick his brain for solutions.”

Sure!  He lives to help people fix their machines over the phone.  He’s happy to stop, in the middle of the paying job that he’s currently working on, to help you, for free, because you’re special.

Usually, around noon, I get phone calls from the Mumblers who left incomprehensible messages at all hours of the day on Sunday.

“Hi.  I left you a message and you never called back.”

Probably because I couldn’t understand a single word from your message.

“Oh!  Really?”

Yes.  Really.  What were you doing when you left the message?

“I was eating a hot pizza.  Anyway, I need my motorcycle fixed because I was burning a wheelie and the bike got away from me.”

Wow!  That’s gotta hurt.  Sorry, but my first available appointment is 3 weeks from Tuesday.

“What?!  3 weeks?!  It will take The Viking 5 minutes to fix the bike!  It’s not like it’s complicated.”

First of all, I doubt that.  Second, you aren’t helping your case by getting condescending.  My next available appointment is now 4 weeks from Tuesday.  Ass.  AND…..your middle name in our database is how ‘Fuckhead’.  Doe, John Fuckhead.

“Let me talk to The Viking.”

Sure!  As soon as he’s finished working for the guy who booked his appointment 3 weeks ago.

“Well, I guess I’m taking my business elsewhere.”

OH NO!!  Whatever will we do?!  How will we afford food?  We could starve to death!  Okay, man.  You win.  I’ll book an appointment 5 weeks from Tuesday.  Ass.  Doe, Fuckie Fuckhead.

“You know he’s my best friend.  We’ve known each other since the 80s.  He’ll fit me in.”

The 80s you say?  The Viking didn’t arrive in Canada until the 90s, so I call bullshit.

“Well then book the appointment, but if I find someone else who can do the work before then, I’ll do that.”

Excellent!  What did you say your name was?  Fuckwad, Fuckie Fuckhead?

By 6:00pm, The Viking and I are both annoyed and looking for booze.  And yesterday was such a shitshow that I couldn’t actually get the blog posted until Tuesday.

We’ve created a new ritual to celebrate the end of a bad workday – a beer.  We survived.  No heart attack happened, no customer was harmed during appointment booking, no one called the police to complain about excessive cursing and household items being thrown around.

Skål, Baby!! 

NOTE:  You must be very careful in the spelling of ‘skål’.  I spelled it ‘skole’ and that means something very different from ‘Cheers!’  From Urban Dictionary “Skole is a danish word meaning dick sucking teachers who like to spank their students with sticks.”