Category: Funny Woman Blog

Dear Me,

It’s okay.  Go ahead – have a moment.  Hell, take three, because you deserve it.  I can’t think of anyone more deserving than you.  Of course I’m biased, but I’m sure everyone would agree with me.

So, you had a little meltdown last week, got drunk and bawled for 6 hours – it happens to everyone at some point.  No need to beat yourself up.  In fact, you should pat yourself on the back for keeping the whole affair relatively quiet – you didn’t do it in Wal-Mart did you?  You didn’t wear a T-Shirt with your full name and address on it, right?  See?  That’s something to think about.

And no one took videos, did they?  Yes, I know you had headphones on and your back to the room, so it would be almost impossible to be certain, but there was only The Viking and Junior around and The Viking wouldn’t take advantage, now would he?  Junior…..well, he does have a cell phone glued to his hand, but I can’t see him adding insults by posting your drama on Face Book.  Remember?  He loves you.

Yes, he does!  It just felt like you were alone in the world.  You have a ton of people who love you and care for you and are now looking at you like you’re a fucking lunatic.  How did I know what you were thinking?  Because you aren’t the only one who has dropped the burden momentarily and then had to face the people who have seen you at your absolute worst.  It’s an embarrassment but it won’t kill you.  In fact, those witnesses are now frantically scouring their brain trying to find a way to help you.  So, just let them fucking help you!  They feel like shit because they didn’t think they needed to pay attention as closely as they should have.

Small problems accumulate until they become overwhelming mountains that block out the sun.  You aren’t imagining anything that isn’t real.  It totally is real!  Stress changes the way your brain performs; neurons and electrons, hormones and proteins behave differently, your body functions at a slower rate – these things are out of your control.  All you can do is recognize the signs.

Did you just tell me to fuck off?!  I’m trying to help you and you tell me to fuck off?!  It’s not all bullshit.  Seriously?!  You think life would be less stressful in prison?  A convent?!  Do they even exist anymore?  And if they do exist don’t the nuns have to work all day and pray every 3 hours?  You have difficulties getting up for 9:00 in the morning.  Yes, you do.  Don’t shit a shitter.

Fine.  Prison it is.  You would get 3 meals a day and I suppose you might be able to spend the rest of your time with adult coloring books.  You won’t have to pay bills or make meals or run errands either.  There might even be a library and I would assume you could take online university courses.  Or not.  How the fuck would I know what you would be allowed to do?  Do I look like a hardened criminal to you?!  I think it’s safe to assume that you can’t pick your meals from a menu and they probably don’t have fizzy water on tap.  I don’t know if you can bring a TV from home or if cable is available in your cell.  And, it’s highly unlikely they would have a Nail Technician or a Beauty Consultant on staff.  No.  I’m not calling Martha Stewart.  Besides, she’s American and would have very little knowledge about the Canadian Penal System.

Speaking of which – how do you know that you won’t get assigned to kitchen duty anyway, with a big broad who makes shivs out of turnips?  What if they make you go out in the yard in the rain?  What if they make you eat tuna salad on enriched white bread?  What if there are no private showers?

You might even have a cellmate.  Well, I suppose you might be able to arrange Solitary Confinement – if it’s an actual thing here – but then you probably won’t be allowed to take your coloring book and pencils in case you decide to poke an eye out.  You might be lucky to get a beat-up copy of The Odyssey by Homer to keep you amused.

Yes…. you would get caught up on sleep but once you’ve accomplished that…..well, what then?  I suppose you could work out.  Maybe there would be a yard somewhere, full of weight machines that you can just start bench-pressing 350 pounds and sweat like…. like…. a dude bench-pressing 350 pounds.

Are you really certain that Prison life is for you?  True, you would have very few responsibilities and money wouldn’t be an issue because Conservatives love their prisons, but there is a lot of downsides, the least of which is the big broad that makes shivs out of turnips.  There is the problem of getting invited to prison as well; you can’t just show up and check yourself in.  That would be the Looney Bin.  I understand that the entry requirements are much less stringent, so there is that…..

They don’t make you have public showers and you might not have a cellmate in case someone decides to poke someone else’s eye out with a pencil.  Your art will have to be done with pastels and crayons while Nurse Ratchet fills a syringe with psychedelic drugs and critiques your work though.

So, after all of this, you are right back where you started from – a lunatic not yet in an asylum.  Just go to bed for a couple of days and ‘adult’ next week.

Also, thank The Gawds that you have The Viking and you aren’t sitting alone in your dark closet.  Okay….you might still be sitting alone in your closet, but at least The Viking will check on you occasionally.

Precision Ketchup Application Device

You might not know this, but Ketchup has become public enemy #1 around here.  Well, not the Ketchup exactly, but the squeezable Ketchup jug.  I don’t know the person who designed the squeezable jug with the bum-hole in the lid, but he/she should know that The Viking isn’t a fan.

Obviously, French’s or Heinz’s jugs weren’t designed for Vikings.  There’s no finesse, no attention to detail, no compliance to Danish standards.  How is The Viking supposed to put the exact amount of Ketchup on his Hot Dog with a brute jug that is designed to put the maximum amount of Ketchup in the shortest amount of time?  It takes significant force to open the bum-hole and then Ketchup explodes from the jug like it was launched from a fire hose.  That’s no way to apply a delicate amount of Ketchup.

A Danish Hot Dog is a masterpiece of flavors, from the wiener to the sweet pickles to the deep-fried onions.  A massive glop of Ketchup completely ruins the delicate balance and makes The Viking shout and occasionally throw the entire Hot Dog in the garbage while verbally abusing the designer of said Applicator at the top of his lungs.

The Danish Hot Dog requires a warm, crusty bun, an authentic European wiener, a consistent, thin line of Ketchup down the center of the wiener, followed by a thicker but still consistent line of Remoulade.  Finely chopped onions top the condiments, then Agurkasalat (Danish sweet pickles and only Danish sweet pickles) and the fried onions crown the masterpiece.  Any slight anomaly is an epic disaster.  The onions must be chopped incredibly fine, the Remoulade at the peak of freshness, the bun crusty – not soggy (dear Gawd, no sogginess!).  It’s a complex and finely tuned balance.  Putting a man on the moon is easier than making a perfect Danish Hot Dog.

Necessity is the mother of invention though, so The Viking pondered the situation for several years until one day a light bulb appeared over his head while we were having lunch.  He was violently shaking the Remoulade container to get every last bit of the delicious condiment out of the small, perfectly round hole in the lid.

“Waaait a minute!  That hole is the perfect size for Ketchup Application on my Hot Dog!!  What if we washed out the Precision Remoulade Applicating Device and made it into a Precision Ketchup Applicating Device!?  Not only is the hole size perfect but only the slightest pressure provides a glorious line of delightful Ketchup.”

And…..he doesn’t have to verbally abuse the bum-hole anymore.  It’s a win-win.

On the other hand, I admired the person who invented the plastic jug with the bum-hole lid.  I washed it out and saved it for future use.  That future arrived yesterday when I made a lovely salad and Cider Vinaigrette.  I immediately thought of the decommissioned Ketchup jug as the perfect vessel for my Vinaigrette.

I dished salad onto my plate, gently added grated, 2-year-old Canadian cheddar and picked up the Precision Cider Vinaigrette Application Device.  I squeezed the jug softly, careful to not over-vinaigrette.  Nothing came out.  I squeezed it just a touch harder.  Nothing.  I added more pressure.  That damned bum-hole was tight!  I was getting nervous so squeezed just the slightest bit more.  Suddenly, the bum-hole opened, a beautiful arc of Vinaigrette launched over my plate, over the table and laid down a precise line across the kitchen floor.

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!”

Oops!  The Viking, sitting in the family room with his plate, heard me and wanted to know what was wrong.

“Nothing.  Nothing at all.  Just eat your dinner.” 

Because there is no fucking way that I’m going to let him know what a damned catastrophe that stupid Ketchup jug is!  He’ll laugh for most of the coming week!

The moral of this story:  Jugs with bum-hole lids are never to be trusted.

Cadavers, Lots and Lots of Cadavers

 

Before we get into the number of Cadavers afflicting me, I must confess, that after only 2 words in this blog, I had to use Spell Check.  That’s how smart my brain is today but, let’s be honest, ‘Cadaver’ is a tricky word – is it ‘ver’ or ‘vre’?   In American English it’s ‘ver’ in British and Canadian English it’s ‘vre’, so it’s no surprise that I find it difficult, along with ‘theatre’, ‘neighbourhood’ and ‘centre’.  And Spell Check is losing its damn mind right now, underlining most of the words in this paragraph in blood red.

But that’s not important right now.  Cadavers are important.  Namely, the cadaver/s that are in my car.  And I’m absolutely certain it’s cadavers because I was blessed with a cadaver in my bedroom a few years ago because a cat brought a mouse in the house, chased it around and then lost it behind a mirror in my bedroom.  It didn’t take long for maggots and then massive flies to create a fucking nightmare in my bedroom 6 weeks later.  I get faint just thinking about it, too.

Junior’s first car had a mouse die behind the fan and the smell was disgusting.  I was still married to Stanley and he had to take the fan out of the car to retrieve the holy stinker.  I’m sure he feels faint just thinking about it.

And then we had a mouse in our Fifth Wheel trailer.  We dragged the damn mouse all the way from Calgary to Arizona where it died.  What little sympathy I might have had for the little thing to die so far from home was quickly lost.  I thought it was smelly garbage.  We cleaned the entire trailer from top to bottom but still the smell smelled.  Then we found it under the sink and behind the water filter.  The Viking used a flipper to poke more smell out of it before he managed scoop it up and discard it…..and the flipper, too, because there is no way that flipper can be used for anything other than removing cadavers now.

So, knowing what I know about the smell of cadavers, my car has become a torture chamber.  We can’t find the cadaver to exhume it from the car and thus make my car safe for human habitation again.  We’ve look everywhere, sniffing like bloodhounds, under seats and behind door panels.  It’s not in the heating/cooling system either.  We put two cats in the car hoping they would point where the cadaver is but, being cats, they were more interested in being anywhere else than there.  So.  What. The. Fuck?!!

And then yesterday……..

……

……

……the smell was gone.  What does that mean?!!  Does it mean that maggots are preparing themselves to become an infestation of bloated black flies that will likely drive me completely and permanently insane?  Will they wait until I go for food and then hatch all at the same time while I’m driving which will make me exit the car immediately and without stopping, probably vomiting as I hit the pavement?  Would insurance even cover that? Or maybe it fell out when I was whistling along Stoney Trail?  I did hit a couple of good bumps that might dislodge a cadaver from the engine compartment.  Ideally, that would be the best outcome – leaving the cadaver to ferment in the middle lane of the freeway.

Unfortunately, I can’t be 100% certain that the cadaver is no longer my problem.  How long does it take for a mouse to turn into the minions of hell?  I’m sure Google can come up with something:

Eggs hatch within 24 hours, and house fly larvae emerge. House fly larvae, or maggots, appear similar to pale worms. Their sole purpose is to eat and store energy for their upcoming pupation. Larvae feed for approximately five days, after which they find dry, dark locations for pupal development.

Gawd!  I have to wait 3 more days for Hell?  Today is Friday, then Saturday and Sunday……..so sometime late Monday or Tuesday.  I won’t take any chances and will refuse to drive the car between now and then.  Sure, The Viking will snort at my sissy-ness but he’s not the one that will be engulfed in huge, disgusting, bloated flies in a confined space.  Just the thought makes me nauseous.

I’ll just have to steal The Viking’s truck – a one-ton dually.  He’s pretty good at protecting himself and his things because he was quite the wrestler back in the day, but I have been practicing Tai Chi.  It will be a face-off in the driveway, an aging wrestler and a sloppy Tai Chi-er.  And it would be prudent to stand about 10 paces apart, so no one gets hurt.  I’m not expecting this to be a lengthy undertaking.  Three moves each, with rests in between, so about a half hour.  There will be energy drinks on hand, so we stay hydrated and Cliff Bars to keep up our carbs.  Maybe an ambulance on standby or is that just a little over the top?

As for my car, if there is an infestation in the car, I’ll just have to burn it down to the axles.  Because if I’m honest, I’ll never feel the same about my car ever again.

I’m A Fucking Idiot!

I’m an idiot and my idiocy has taken me down the same damned black hole I’ve been in many times before.  You would think that I might have learned from the experience, but it seems not.  Even my horoscope tried to tell me not to meddle.  Did I listen?  Nope!  Because I’m a fucking idiot!

It happens like this:

  • Someone is crying like their heart has been broken into a million pieces.
  • I try to comfort with soft blankets, cookies, hugs and movies.
  • The crying subsides.
  • Being an observer from the sidelines, I try to encourage and empower.
  • They seem to appreciate the message.
  • They appreciate everything I’ve done.
  • They slide back into their situation, again.
  • I express concern.
  • They tell me that now I’m making them feel guilty which stresses them out more so they vow to avoid me for the foreseeable future.
  • I cry buckets for days until The Viking picks me up, dusts me off and helps me grieve.

And there it is.  The complete hot mess.  Someone goes happily on their way, stress-free, and someone hides in their closet for a week.  Repeat.

Except….FUCK THAT!!!  It’s time to start protecting my soul instead of throwing it out there for any dog to drag its ass on.

 

via GIPHY

I haven’t been able to write a damned post for over a month because I’ve been too invested in a bloody debacle that has catapulted me into a full-blown Depression.  And it’s affecting more than just a post – I’ve been bumping into walls and running stop signs as I’m frantically trying to find a solution that no one wants in the first place!

I’m sure there is a Life Coach out there that would tell me I’m not responsible for anyone else’s life, even if I created it years and years ago.  I can’t make their decisions, I can’t change their situations and I can’t solve their problems.  The only thing I can control is me and how I react to these situations.  At the end of every crisis, I’m always standing there like a fucking idiot as I’m being pushed out of someone’s life.  My inner voice is screaming “I thought we talked about this!  You weren’t going to help!  Gawd!  You’ve gone and shot yourself in the damned foot AGAIN!”  The outcome couldn’t be worse if I intentionally engineered it to be an epic failure.

The thing is…..this post isn’t about them at all……it’s about me and how I stupidly deal with these situations.  I’m here because I’m a fucking idiot that is always trying to help when that’s the last thing they actually want.  I’m my own worst enemy and I would be better served by keeping to myself and hope I never get that call in the middle of the night.

TRUTH BOMB:  Their life is exactly as they want it to be.  If they didn’t want their life to be the way it is, they would change it -with or without my help.  So, stop being a fucking idiot and leave them to figure out their shit.

Now, I’m moving forward, trying to put the whole steaming, foul mess out of mind.  I’m making a point of learning the lesson this time though.  No more attempts at assistance.  I promise.

I have no subject for an amusing post (sorry about that) because I haven’t found anything amusing for over a month.  But, I’ll get outside today, maybe take a walk.  I’ll attempt to distract myself and focus on The Viking and me.  Surely, I’ll feel better in a few days.  I’m already feeling better than last week.

Next post will be much less serious.  I promise.

 

 

Who’s In Charge Around Here, Anyway?

Sleeping peacefully.

Bladder:  Um…..I know you’re sleeping and I don’t mean to be a bother but I’m very full right now.

Me:  Really?  I’m having a great dream.

Bladder:  Yes, I know.  It’s just that the kidneys are being totally douche-y.

Me:  15 minutes.  Just give me 15 more minutes of sleep.

Sleeping.

Lower Back:  Can I bother you to change your sleeping position?  This one is killing me!

Legs:  And punt the cats!  We’re getting cramps.

Neck:  I could use a change, too.  You don’t want to be a Pain in the Neck cliche.

Bladder:  I can’t wait anymore!  If Nose decides to sneeze, you’ll have to bring in a HazMat Team.

Me:  For fuck’s sake!  Fine!

Go to the bathroom without opening eyes and then back to bed.

Feet:  Nice!  The bed is still warm.

Brain:  Remember that time when your sister broke your new Barbie’s legs?

Me:  That was like 45 years ago and you’re bringing it up now?!  Go back to sleep!

Trying to sleep.

Brain:  You know, that Barbie was your favorite toy.

Me:   Seriously!  I don’t give a shit about a fucking Barbie doll.  Go. Back. To. Sleep!

Brain:  It’s 8:30; you should be getting up anyway.

Me:  No, it’s not!

Left Eye:  He’s right.  It is 8:32.

Me:  Fuck!  I’m getting up.

20 minutes later.

Stomach:  Why isn’t there any coffee in here?!

Me:  I’m working on it, already!  Shit!  Now I forgot how many scoops I did.

Brain:  Don’t ask me.  I’m still pissed about your Barbie.

Flops in computer chair and scrolls through FaceBook.

20 minutes later.

Stomach:  HEY!  Where is the coffee?

Right Ear:  I haven’t heard any burbling or grumbling from the coffee maker.

Me:  I’m going.  I’m going.

First slurp of coffee.

Mouth:  Oh my gawd that tastes good!!

Stomach:  Finally!  This whole thing works better when The Viking gets up first.

3 hours later.

Stomach:  I’m finished with the coffee.  How about a Sausage McMuffin with Egg and no cheese?

Mouth:  I second that motion!!  I fucking love those things!

Brain:  If you left now, you could be home with a dozen Sausage McMuffins with Egg and no cheese in 15 minutes.

Me:  Nope!  I will not think about that delicious sandwich – I’m trying to lose a few pounds.  We are going to have an apple and a piece of aged cheese.

Mouth:  I do like the apple and cheese thing but, to be honest, I like the McMuffin better.

Me:  WE ARE NOT GETTING SAUSAGE McMUFFINS WITH EGG AND NO CHEESE!

20 minutes later.

Stomach:  Well, now I don’t have enough room for a Sausage McMuffin with Egg and no cheese.  That’s very disappointing.

Mouth:  I’m disappointed, too.

Brain:  Me too!

Me:  Whatever.

3 hours later.

Mouth:  It’s been a while since you’ve eaten.  Any chance of getting that McMuffin?

Me:  Nope.  You have to wait for supper.

Stomach:  Aaaagh!  But I’m hungry!

Brain:  Did you hear that?!  I think a Dodge Diesel just started up in your stomach!  You shouldn’t eat trucks, lady!

Me:  It’s not a truck – it’s Stomach being crabby.

Brain:  I don’t like that sound.  It annoys me.

Stomach:  I’m starving down here!  Do something, Brain!

Brain:  I’m trying but she is being obstinate.  And my thinks are getting slower.

Stomach:  This is an urgent situation.  I have to pull energy from these fat cells just laying around here.

Me:  That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day, Stomach.  Also….you all are just Hang-gry.

2 hours later.

Me:  Brace yourselves – it’s dinner time.

Mouth:  Yes!!  Finally!

Mouth:  Uh!  What was that?!  That tastes like a vegetable!

Stomach:  What?!  A VEGETABLE?  What kind?

Mouth:  I think it’s a carrot.

Stomach:  I thought you hated carrots.

Mouth:  I DO!  She’s become evil.  It’s carrots but it has butter, which I like, and sesame seeds, which I like.  I don’t know what to do.

Stomach:  Spit it out!  Hurry!

Brain:  No can do!  I’ve been brainwashed since childhood to never spit out food.  That would earn me a finger thump on my head from Dad.

Stomach:  Gawd!  You are such an ass!

Ass:  Leave me out of this.  It’s not my area.

Brain:  I can’t help it.  Dad had big fingers and those thumps hurt like hell.  I’ve been programmed to avoid those situations.  It’s a Pavlov’s Dog sort of thing.

Mouth:  Somebody make up your mind.  I can’t just chew this shit forever.

Stomach:  Intestines, big and small, prepare for invasion!  We have Carrots!

Mouth:  Holy Fuck Fuck!  Aaaa!  There’s cabbage, too!!

Stomach:  Cabbage?  What the hell is she doing?  Abort!  Abort!  I will send that shit right back at you, Mouth.  Cabbage ferments into methane gas and makes things unpleasant down here.

Mouth:  I can’t.  I’m already swallowing.

Stomach:  Shit!  I’m sending this straight to you, Intestines.  It’s a nuclear bomb for me.

Ass:  Would you please stop with all the ‘Shit’ references?  I’m trying to sleep here.

Intestines:  You won’t be sleeping for long.  Cabbage and carrots are heading your way.

Ass:  What’s the ETA?

Intestines:  Gas will start arriving within the hour and the carrots and cabbage within 3 hours.

Ass:  Really?  How exciting!  I love gas, especially cabbage gas.  It ferments quickly and I can play with it for hours and hours – even after the cabbage and carrots arrive.

Stomach:  This isn’t my area.  I’ll leave all that to you and the Intestines.

3 hours later – pre-sleep review.

Brain:  So, that was a terrible day.  The only one happy was Ass.  We have only one chance left to get any enjoyment before we sleep.

Mouth:  Do you have a plan?  Please tell me it’s a Doughnut Plan.

Brain:  Nope.  It’s a Potato Chip plan because we have those in the cupboard.  I can put the thought into her head and if Mouth starts to drool a bit and Stomach grumbles, there is a good chance we can put a stop to the ‘Diet’.

Me:  Shut up!  Y’all are the reason we’re fat in the first place.  It’s time to pay the piper.

Brain:  Does that mean there is more cabbage and carrots in the near future?

Me:  Yes.  And it’s your own fault.

Brain:  Why aren’t you blaming Eyes?  They are the ones that are always too big for Stomach.  We have no control over what you eat.  That’s Hands, Eyes and Mouth’s doing.

Me:  Wrong.  You, Brain, are in total control of cravings.  That makes you the Evil One.

Brain:  What?!

Eyes, Mouth, Stomach, Intestines and Ass:  Bastard!

Me:  All of you – quit your whining and go to sleep.  If you’re good, I might entertain the idea of French Toast for breakfast.

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I’m Plotting My Revenge!

I’m feeling a little under-appreciated lately.  It’s all “Izzie don’t do this, Izzie don’t do that.”  Mom and The Viking are getting perilously close to infringing upon my personal liberties.  They don’t harass Teddy like this.  I completed a thorough experiment that proves I get yelled at 38% more than Teddy.

Yesterday, The Viking had to blow the snow off the sidewalks with his Leaf Blower.  It was cold and a little windy and very unwelcomey outside.  Teddy and I were sitting in the office window, watching the snowflakes dance.  And then, The Viking started up the Leaf Blower.  Teddy was there one moment and gone the next, leaving only a smelly fart behind.

Of course, Mom hurried to calm him down.  She gave him a love and then brought him back into the office so Teddy could see it wasn’t some sort of Demon from the depths of Hell out there but The Viking in snow gear.  She failed; getting two accidental scratches on her boobs for her efforts.

Mom told me to help him calm down, so I put him in a headlock and body-slammed him like the sissy he is.

“Izzie!  For fuck’s sake!  Can’t you just be nice?!”

No.  He’s a big Scaredy Cat and an embarrassment to the family.  We’re Vikings for Pete’s sake!

Teddy found a folded blanket on the sofa as his favorite nap destination.  I think that spot should be in my collection of spots and not Teddy’s.  I tried slapping him off it and then giving him my most lethal gaze, but he wouldn’t budge.  Why does he have to be so damned stubborn?  It’s like he’s spending too much time with The Viking!  However, after several failures, I approached him innocently with my sweetest face and lay down behind him and licked his head.  I soothed him into a nice nap.  Then I started wiggling and squirming and pushing until he fell off the sofa and I spread out.

“Izzie!  For fuck’s sake!  Can’t you just let him have one spot for himself?!”

No.  Survival of the fittest and I’m am so much more fit than he is.

The Viking bought a battery operated, spin-y toy and let Teddy play with it first.  He batted at the feather toy that flitted around the base while The Viking made me wait for my turn.  Teddy was so cute, following the feather back and forth and back and forth and then I decided “Fuck that!” and jumped over The Viking’s arm, pushed Teddy out of the way, grabbed the feather and pinned it to the carpet.

“Izzie!  For fuck’s sake!  Can’t you just let him play with something before you kill it?”

No.  I think I’ve established that I am smarter than Teddy even on a bad day and if I allow Teddy to set the bar on the intelligence of a toy then I’ll never get anything better.  How about a Play Station?!  And, by the way, I haven’t slapped a customer in months!  That’s worth a “Good girl, Izzie” at a bare minimum.

So, I planned a mini family meeting in the bathroom while Mom was peeing.  It’s really the only time I can get her undivided attention.  I laid out my evidence on the 38% scolding differential between me and Teddy and how it can affect me further on in life.  I could be damaged mentally……

Teddy!!  Slap! slap! slap!  I’m doing the talking!  Why are you even here?  Don’t you have a piece of floor to sleep on?!

 …………………okay, where was I?  Oh, yes.  I could be mentally damaged and become cranky and miserable and no one wants that, now do they?

All my effort in the presentation were for naught though.  Mom gave me that flat stare that never bodes well.  That night, she picked me off Teddy’s blanket by the scruff of my neck and put me in my 51st favorite sleeping place.  Then she put Teddy on the blanket!!  And he promptly went to sleep!

I’m plotting my revenge now.  And it will be epic.

 

Caring is sharing.

Look What The Cat Dragged Home

I’ve been trying to be less of an Introvert lately.  You know, like visiting people and …… well, visiting people.  It’s not really working out for me because the first person to come for a visit wouldn’t leave when I was done visiting.

I should have known better when he came to the front door bearing a big-assed can of coffee.  I was so focused on being appreciative that I never thought about the ironic consequences.  I don’t even know him – Izzie broke into his house and refused to leave until he gave her treats – but I, personally, don’t know him any further than my apology regarding The Queen of Mean’s home invasion.  I’ve only spoken to him once and couldn’t even remember his name.  It’s Peter – I had to ask.

Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have invited him in the house, but it was cold outside and I’m a responsible user of utilities.  And the coffee; how do you deny a guest coffee when he brings it as a gift? We were at that awkward point where you either invite him in or slam the door in his face and I couldn’t do that because coffee(!) and my fucking cat invaded his home!  Had I known we would be trading Home Invasions, I might not have accepted the gift or extended the welcome quite so fast.

Once inside, I gave Peter a cup of coffee and set a new pot to brew.  The Viking was busy hanging a television on the wall in the bedroom, but he popped out to chat for a bit.  After 45 minutes or so he went back to his job, leaving me alone with Peter.  To entertain him.  All by myself.  She’s not just my cat, you know, Viking!  And speaking of the cat, she just curled up on the side board behind Peter’s back and had a nap.  That’s the thanks I get around here.

I filled Peter’s coffee cup 5 times.  By then, I was just listening without responding (aka encouraging).  The Viking went out to blow the snow off the sidewalks around the entire block and came back home and Peter was still here.  I stood up and started to putter around the kitchen, putting things in the dishwasher, tidying up, that sort of thing and Peter still sat at the table.

via GIPHY

I stopped the refills after the 6th cup.  I was starting to get the feeling that he might be moving in and the coffee was a House Warming gift for us.  He said his house had finally sold and made a point of letting me know he was between residences.  “We have a tiny house, Peter, and you are a big guy!  AND we only have one bathroom!” 

This is the reason I’m an Introvert in the first place, Peter!!!  It doesn’t feel good, it feels like we’re hostages without a ransom demand.  Fucking Izzie!

He wouldn’t even use the bathroom, so I could escape to the garage and barricade us in with a snowmobile.

He must have some sort of space age-y bladder that can hold more than 6 cups of coffee for an insane amount of time.  I considered sneaking my cellphone into the bathroom and calling 911 – Help!  We’re being held hostage by our cat’s home invasion victim!  That would never work anyway because there is no law about how long a guest can stay unless it becomes a Squatter Violation but that takes months!

In the meantime, he’s going on and on about his failed marriage 11 years ago and how much money it cost him and why the political system was the foundation upon which his divorce was built on.

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I realize that he just wanted someone to talk too but I ran out of patience 2 hours ago.  Besides, I’m not even a friend!  I’m just a woman whose cat burglarized his house!

I put the cream back in the fridge after three and a half hours, put his cup in the dishwasher, turned the lights on and said, “Wow!  It’s getting late.”

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I took a moment to wonder if I’m just being selfish, but then I looked at the clock and decided, “Fuck that!!  My entire afternoon is gone! And just because Izzie held him hostage doesn’t mean he can hold us hostage or think he can move in with us – two wrongs don’t make a right, Peter!

The marathon finally ended after 4 hours and 49 minutes – just shy of the 5 hours Izzie held him hostage.  I locked the front door behind him and sagged onto the closest chair.

via GIPHY

Izzie wandered past without looking at me.  “No more dragging humans home!  If you must be a burglar, make sure you aren’t followed.  Seriously.  Do I have to make you watch Gone In 60 Seconds?”

I’m just going to chalk this up to bad luck and a learning exercise.  First things first – I need a front door with a one-way mirror in it and a trap door for those who make it past the front door before showing their true colors.  And then I’ll just go to the visitor instead of them coming to me.*

 

*This does not apply to my 4 top friends.  You can still come for coffee any time for as long as you want.  I’ll make a blanket tent in the family room and have a bowl of Jell-o powder so we can lick our fingers and stick it in the powder (don’t knock it until you’ve tried it).  Sure, it will stain your finger but how important is that compared to the fun?!  Right Judy?

Lady Sitter vs The Viking

 

It has become apparent that I need a Lady Sitter.  With my best and wonderful friends so far away, it’s difficult to fit in long coffee sessions complete with laughter, tears and hugs.  Something magical happens when women get together.  They share their pain, making the heartache easier to bare.  They share their anger and by doing so, rob it of its power.  They share their joy, tossing it in the air so it settles like fairy dust on everyone’s shoulders.  They share their humor, so laughter can chase away the darkness.  And they share their wisdom because their experiences are different than your experiences and maybe that small spark of knowledge will transform your life.  At the end of the day, every woman requires comfort that can only be found with other women.

And before anyone accuses me of sexism, let me just say that men probably need the same sort of thing but I’m a woman and have no deep knowledge of how men work beyond their stomach.  It’s not my area of expertise.  I can only guess that during long fishing trips or huddles on the sports field or in the deep recesses of Princess Auto or Home Depot, men confide in other men.  Maybe that’s what Rugby is all about – one giant Man Hug and then beating each other to a pulp.

Perhaps The Viking has a microphone attached to the air compressor and while I’m in the house putting this post together he is pouring out his anxiety regarding my cooking.  Maybe his frequent trips to the Parts Storage unit is a cover for a short but intense sharing of emotional trauma with some other guy that works from home and spends his entire life in his wife’s company.  Or perhaps it’s an Osmosis kind of thing whereby they just stand in the general vicinity of each other and suddenly their mojo is brand new again.  A King of the Hill sort of thing.

I bring all this up because I’ve found a thing that The Viking sucks at.  That’s right…..Mr. I’m Right All The Fucking Time has an Achilles Heel.  He’s not actually perfect.  I realized this problem last weekend.  We were having dinner out with friends and I had spent an hour and a half showering, applying make-up*, creating a hair masterpiece and pillaging my wardrobe for something to wear.  When I was finally done, I was feeling a bit like Cinderella on her way to the Ball.  I have lost a significant amount of weight and was hoping for a jaw drop or applause or a gentlemanly bow.  What I got was……..nothing.  Well, not quite nothing.  He said, “You look fine”.

A girlfriend or a Lady Sitter would have squealed in delight, called me ‘Girlfriend’ and twirled me around to see every angle.  They might offer a tweak here or there to maximize the affect.  They most certainly wouldn’t have given me half a glance and a grunt.

But, I’m a self-contained woman; one who doesn’t need compliments because I usually give myself my own compliments, Victory Dances and High Fives.  Unfortunately, it seems like I’ve burned through all my own self-congratulations and now find myself needing a compliment without anyone to give me one.

I understand that it’s not in The Viking’s character to hand out compliments, willy nilly, with complete abandon but, would it kill him to give me a “Great job, Babe!” or a “Wow!  That was a fantastic dinner!” or even a “Way to not fall down in the hallway!”?  Instead, I get “You’re going to burn it if you don’t turn down the heat” and “Don’t trip on that piece of litter in the hallway” and “Put that Box Cutter down right fucking now!”  Sure, it’s all great advice, but they aren’t compliments.

It is his only fault though; well, that and his propensity to throw tools when he gets frustrated.  Everything else about him exceeds my expectations.  And this is where I thought a Lady Sitter would come in handy.  I don’t need help with picking out drapes, but it would be awesome to have someone to go to the theater with, or a work-out pal, or a person to discuss Ancient Aliens with**.  And it wouldn’t hurt if he liked to cooked and vacuumed, either.

The rational part of my brain said, “Any good Lady Sitter would be hideously expensive, and we don’t have that kind of money laying around”.  With that being the case, maybe I could teach The Viking how to compliment me?  That shouldn’t be too hard; I’m quite easy to please.  Unfortunately, I’m a terrible teacher – just ask Mim about the ‘Math and Hair Brush Incident’.

So, I did what any rational person who is terrible at teaching would do.  I visited The World Wide Web and found this:

http://www.complimentgenerator.co.uk/

And then I thought, I have a vibrator and now a Compliment Generator so if I find a reliable jar opener I may be an island unto myself.  Hmmm…..that’s probably not true because The Viking:

  • changes the oil on my car
  • takes out the garbage
  • fixes everything that I break
  • cooks for me on Saturdays and if I accidentally pulls his pants down he’ll just keep on cooking with his pants around his ankles
  • he brings goodies home from the store
  • cleans the litter box (that on its own is worth keeping him around)
  • he sent me a dick pick once when he was away from home
  • eats all of the food I make even if it’s so bad I can’t eat it and
  • puts Band-Aids on my war wounds.

And now I feel ungrateful.  There is no reason I can’t pause before leaving the house and look up a compliment for myself.  I’m sure he would rather wait that couple of minutes if it means he doesn’t have to compromise his strict rules.  It’s probably because compliments embarrass him and he assumes they will embarrass me as well, which is totally not the case.

What ever the reason, I still need a compliment once in a while so I’ll bookmark The Compliment Generator on Google and be happy with that.  Really.  I will be just fine with an impersonal, computer-generated compliment that has nothing to do with subject I needed a compliment for.  Honest.  It will be fine.

 

*I rarely wear make-up any more except for occasions because…..well, there’s no reason for it.  The Viking just says “Why the fuck are you putting that shit on your face?”

**He doesn’t believe in Ancient Aliens!  In fact, he starts howling like a deranged Malamute to express his utter disdain for the subject when he catches me watching one on my computer.

Demon Panties and Dorothy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*I’m not kidding!

 

Friday Fictioneers – A Banana Fell Out Of The Cage

I finally found some time for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  The picture for this week’s challenge has been provided by J Hardy Carroll.

 When I was a kid I went to a Circus Carnival with my parents. I saw a pair of Siamese Howler Monkeys in a cage behind the Big Top.  Each head controlled one arm.  The left side was Frank and the right side was Sinatra.  

Frank stole Sinatra’s banana so Sinatra howled in Frank’s ear.  Frank gave the banana back to Sinatra but as soon as Sinatra had the banana, Frank howled in his ear.  Then Sinatra slapped Frank and Frank slapped Sinatra and the banana fell out of the cage. 

The inspiration for my post is from Genius Funny Man Tim Conway and his Siamese Elephant skit on the Carol Burnett Show.  If you haven’t seen it, I’ve put the link below.  It’s not great quality which is a shame – the better links were blocked in my country which is another shame.  For the Siamese Elephant go to 2:00 in the video.

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