Category: The Viking

Warm Hands, Cold Ass

It’s time for coffee again? Already?! What happened to the week? Did I sleep through a couple of days or something? Well, come in anyway. I’m always up for company if it gets me out of doing something I would rather not do. I’ll blame it on you when you leave.

Nah! The Viking won’t hold it against you. I blamed Carol when I didn’t get the truck registered. I blamed Wilma when I forgot to pick up licorice from the Danish store. I blamed Lukas for throwing away that tiny piece of wire that ended up being worth $193,692.74. I blamed Mim when I wrecked the can opener. He would have an awfully long list to work his way through before he got to you, so I think you’re safe.

So was your week a full 7 days long? I remember Monday – I was all Gawd! I don’t want to get up! Why isn’t there a cup of coffee in my hand yet?!  I have no memory of Tuesday and Wednesday though.

via GIPHY

The police haven’t come calling so I must not have done anything illegal. And whatever I did, it apparently wasn’t that memorable. Or fun, because I think I would remember something fun. And I must not have accomplished anything either because everything is exactly as I remember it on Monday.

I remember Thursday because I had to go out in the cold to run errands and when I got home my hands were so cold they ached. The Viking let me put my hands down his pants and cup his buttocks to warm them up. Oh sure, he hollered, but when I asked if he wanted me to take them out he just stood there and grunted. So I turned them over so I could hear him holler again.

Yes. I’m quite aware that the level of spoilage I enjoy is completely off the charts.

The Viking’s Christmas present arrived on Thursday as well. I am so excited I can hardly contain myself! He is going to LOVE! IT! I was worried whether it would arrive in time. I ordered it in November and I thought that would be plenty of time but by December 6th I hadn’t received a shipping notification and it had a long way to go to get here. So I sent an email:

Hello,

I’m checking on the status of my order. I purchased a Giant Pink Bunny (code for his real present so he doesn’t figure it out) for my Viking husband on November 22, 2016 as his Christmas gift. I haven’t received a notice that it’s been shipped yet though, and now I’m getting a little concerned that it won’t arrive before Christmas Eve.

 I don’t know if you know anything about Vikings but they have a tendency to scowl and curse and froth at the mouth a lot when things go off the rails. And, unfortunately, I’m not an actual Shieldmaiden that would have much of a chance in a pitched battle, especially since I don’t have any Viking food – like a pig leg – to offer as a distraction. I’m defenceless here. The best I can do for armour is a Dutch Oven and a large Flipper. I suppose I could put a pot on my head as a helmet but it wouldn’t fit very well.

 Also, he has bought me a gift for Christmas but I can’t possibly open my gift if I don’t have the gifts for him. That will just make Christmas a very sad event for both of us. And Christmas in January isn’t the same at all. Have you ever seen a very sad Viking? That’s worse than seeing an angry, snarling, farting Viking!

 Anyway, I’m hoping for good news but if you don’t have that then I’ll settle for bad news as long as I know it well in advance of Christmas so I can let him down gently.

 Thank you for your time and attention,

 The shipping notification arrived 2 hours later. They must have had quite a lot of sympathy for my situation. OR they hadn’t completely understood the implications of making a Viking sad.

Now that I think about it, maybe the events on Thursday overshadowed everything that happened in the early part of the week. It’s not every day that The Viking allows me to warm my hands on his ass and it’s definitely not every day when a simple email to a company gets such instantaneous results.

I probably don’t need to make an appointment with the Memory Specialists, then.

Which means that life is still good.

Merry Christmas!  Glædelig jul!

Thanks, as always, to Part Time Monster and Coffee Share.

A scab! On my nipple!

By now you probably know that I have been extra-ly blessed in the boob department. I don’t want to be ungrateful but they can be a total nuisance from time to time. Therefore, it shouldn’t come as too great a shock to know that I’ve had another Boob Incident.

I was making up gift baskets for our best customers; I make all sorts of homemade goodies and put them in lovely baskets and deliver them just before Christmas. And it was during the execution of baking the goodies that I suffered a terrible injury to my right nipple.

All the baking went well. Everything indicated a successful completion of 3 gift baskets and I was already starting to congratulate myself. All that remained to do was decorate the Gingerbread. I had it in the bag. This was easy, easy stuff. First, I needed to clean up the mixer tools so I could get the icing made, and that’s where the whole affair came off the rails.

It had been going so well….

  • I had managed to keep the amount of cookie dough in my bra to a minimum.
  • I hadn’t had a major spill of any sort.
  • I hadn’t severed a digit.
  • I didn’t break any glass.
  • Nothing was burned.
  • I hadn’t forgotten any ingredients – everything tasted perfect.
  • Nobody ate it all, behind my back.
  • I only had to make an extra trip to the store once.

So I was confident! Once everything was clean and dry, I started assembling the KitchenAid again. The batter tool snicked easily into place, but then……

The bowl wouldn’t turn, to lock in place. Why do they have to make these things so tight? Geezus! I grabbed the machine with my left arm so it wouldn’t turn when I tried to turn the bowl but it’s awkward and wouldn’t cooperate. Every attempt failed; the base, heavy as it is, would turn with the bowl. So I started cursing. Surprisingly, it didn’t help.

Then I put the base on the table, which is lower, so I could get my arm around it better. Nope. Fail. Obviously, two arms aren’t enough. Why is it being such an asshole? It’s been very good until now. Why. Won’t. It. Lock?!  Fucker!   I just want to make some damned icing!

So I put it on the floor between my feet but then I couldn’t get a good grip on the bowl. So I sat on the floor, wrapped my legs around the base, except to get a good grip on the bowl handle I needed to sort of lean over the machine. One boob went to the left of the top of the machine and one boob went to the right.

Fail.

Okay, you sonofabitch!! I got up on my knees and wedged the base between my thighs. I anchored my left arm around the top of the machine and gripped the bowl with my right hand. My cheek was squished against the side of the base. With a colossal effort I tried to twist it into submission but then my right hand slipped and the bowl snapped against the base…….and my RIGHT NIPPLE GOT PINCHED INBETWEEN! Mother#$%@er!! Sonofabitch! Shitface asshole bastard pisshead!!!

I flipped my shirt up and gingerly extracted my right boob from the bra. It was bleeding! My nipple was bleeding!!

The Viking walked through the door and stopped short. The KitchenAid was still wedged between my knees, the bowl cockeyed now. I had straightened my torso so I could see my injury; my shirt was up and my boob was out. Bleeding. I looked up at him – surprised. And if I’m honest, I probably looked like I was sitting on the mixer with a boob out, and some people may have misconstrued the entire situation. The Viking knows me well enough though……

Him: What the fuck are you doing?!

Me: Look!  My nipple is bleeding!!  I gestured with the boob.

Him: How in the fuck did you manage that?!

Me: This stupid, fucking, asshole, douchebag KitchenAid pinched my nipple off!

Him: Why do you have it on the floor?

Me: Because I couldn’t get the stupid, fucking, asshole, douchebag bowl to lock into place on the counter or on the table so I was wrestling with it on the floor where I could get a better grip on it!

Him: Why didn’t you bring it to me?

Me: And admit I can’t get a mixing bowl to lock into place on its base? Are you crazy?! Besides, it’s been working just fine until now!

Him: Give it to me.

So he picks the bowl and the mixer base up and puts it on the counter. I knew what was coming. I pursed my lips and nasty smeared across my face. And just like I knew it would be, The Viking, with the tip of his stupid, fucking, asshole, douchebag pinkie finger, flicked the bowl into the locked position then turned to look at me.

Me: You’re an asshole.

Him: Why? I was just trying to help.

Me: You could have tried helping before my nipple had to bleed.

Him: How could I possibly know that you were in a wrestling death match with the KitchenAid?

Me: I don’t know but you certainly know when to come in and catch me in the most compromising of positions.

Him: Do you need any help getting your boob back in the bra?

Me: This is not the time for you to be playing with my boob. Can’t you see it’s dying?

Him: I’ll be gentle.

Me: No! But you can help me off the floor.

By the next day there was a scab on my nipple. A scab! On my nipple! I considered writing KitchenAid a letter of complaint but then thought better of it. There just isn’t any way of explaining it without a loss of dignity.

The cookies turned out brilliantly. They were slightly soft with exactly the right amount of icing to make them completely delicious. My right nipple didn’t like them though and the KitchenAid is on the naughty list. Indefinitely.

How My Boobs Won Crib

Yeah! Coffee time! Come on in for some Tim Hortons brew and a doughnut. What’s not to like about that? I hope you had a good week. I can actually say that mine was pretty darned good, too.

Last weekend The Viking made me dinner. I love it when he cooks; it’s always delicious and I feel spoiled. After dinner we decided to do something really wacky and play Crib instead of sitting in front of the TV.

The thing about playing any game with The Viking is that he always wins. Always. We are talking about a guy who can roll 8 Yahtzees in one game. Granted, it’s selective winning because he’s shit at the Lottery, but when there is nothing more than my pride at stake, he wins. I don’t play Strip Poker with him unless the heat is turned up because I’m the only one sitting there naked. I dress in several layers for any game beginning with the word ‘Strip’ so the game will last longer than 5 rounds, too.

So, when The Viking suggested Crib and not Naked Crib, I was willing and completely prepared to lose. I promised myself to be a good loser and not throw anything at him. Instead, I would focus on chatting and enjoying my Parfait Amour while being trashed on the Crib board.

But this time it was different. Sure, I was leading after the first couple of hands but that means nothing. The Viking is one of those guys that lures you in so he can trounce you when you think you’ve got the game in the bag. I had to admit though that I was doing very well and the space between our pegs was increasing with every hand.

He moaned when I was half way around the board and a good twenty points ahead. I said, “Stop complaining, you’ll come from behind and win as usual”. That’s just how the universe works. Just when you think you’ve got him, Odin steps in and ruins everything.

I was starting to pay attention now though. Could Odin be busy? Was I on the verge of achieving the impossible? Not only was I far ahead but he was becoming concerned that he might not make it over the Skunk line. A bubble of excitement formed in my stomach, battling the certainty of failure for space.

Don’t get all giddy yet; this is exactly what he wants. He’s playing with you. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch and all that. Manage your thoughts so your disappointment isn’t too keen when he does charge from behind and win the final peg hole. Remember he did that last time you played. He beat you 5 games in a row!

Try to distract him!

So I said: “I bought these new bras and they are super comfortable but they don’t have a lot of support. See?” And I bounced in my chair a little bit and my boobs started jiggling at him. It worked! He was mesmerized! So I kept bouncing while I pegged my points (not an easy feat). I lost his focus for a moment when he pegged his miserable 4 points but I bounced harder and higher and that seemed to get him thinking less about his cards.

via GIPHY

He was still quite a distance from the Skunk line; he would need to get a 20 point hand if he had any hope of avoiding the dreaded Skunking. When I picked up my hand I felt the thrill of triumph! He can’t catch me! I’ve won! I’ve beaten The Viking! Sweet Geezus I’ve pulled it off!! I will never complain about my boobs again! All that remained to be seen was whether he could make it over the Skunk line.

AND HE DIDN’T!! I’VE SKUNKED THE VIKING!!

I tried to be gracious while I was doing the Strutting Turkey Winners Dance. “It was just a bit of bad luck. You have killer Crib skills. Don’t let it get you down! Ha! Ha! Ha!” I couldn’t help myself. This was unprecedented.

He played it cool though; pretending it didn’t bother him. He shrugged, “I don’t give a fuck if you won. Will you stop dancing and deal the cards? Please?”

I sat down and shuffled the cards. “You’ll beat me this time. I’m sure of it.”

He grunted, “Whatever. Deal already.”

And I really believed he would beat me. I really did. You don’t just beat The Viking at something and then not expect him to annihilate you the first chance he gets. I thought I’d be lucky to be simply Skunked and not Double Skunked.

Unfortunately for The Viking, Odin really wasn’t paying him any mind at all. Maybe he’s a Boob Man, too. Who knows? The first few hands were sort of even – he was ahead of me at one point. I was encouraging and helpful all the way; I didn’t even laugh. But I won again! Not by a lot, but I still won, and if we had played another round he most certainly would have gotten me. But he had Jet Ski Races to watch and I was spared.

I did have a word with the Gods explaining that I really wasn’t being a poor winner, I was just celebrating a rare win. Like David celebrated victory over Goliath. Or, more appropriately considering which Gods I was bargaining with, how Thor would celebrate a battle victory. And wouldn’t Thor use every asset at his command to win? Well, I have boobs and if they’ll help me win a damned card game once in a while I will definitely use them.

I think we’re good.

PS:  I probably will still complain about my boobs.  I’m not infallible.

PPS: A big thank you to Part Time Monster for the weekly Coffee Share.

I’ve been coddled! And it was Horrible!

One minute everything was fine and then suddenly it wasn’t. My left hand just had a meltdown. I don’t know why. I didn’t do anything to the left hand that I didn’t do to the right hand so it seems suspicious that only my left hand decided to be UN-fine.

Whatever the reasons, Leftie started to get sore last week. Knowing how important my hands are, I began massaging the fleshy part of Leftie at the base of the thumb. But that almost seemed to make matters worse. As the night wore on, the pain increased. By the time I went to bed it was bordering on intolerable.

By 2:00am, I couldn’t stand it another minute and decided that I should curse at it and then immobilize it until morning when I could figure out what the fuck was wrong with it.

But here’s an interesting fact: Of all the First Aid Kits that The Viking has strategically placed around the house….not one has a fucking Tension Bandage!

Here’s a partial list of what our First Aid Kits do contain:

  • abdominal cavity wound dressings
  • sucking lung injury dressings
  • splints for every broken bone in the body
  • enough cheap-band aides to cover a large vehicle
  • grease for wheel chairs
  • collapsible crutches
  • fungicide
  • enough gauze to make 9 mummies
  • brain surgery tools
  • 1,498 antiseptic wipes
  • 4 tubes of Triple Antibiotic Ointment
  • One large bottle of Crown Royal and 4 shot glasses
  • 14 slings
  • a saw to remove limbs
  • two hammocks
  • a portable surgery table
  • a big stick with bite marks
  • enough plastic gloves to supply a good sized African village
  • booster cables
  • an Imperial to Metric measurement conversion chart
  • an Ambulance Owner’s Guide
  • Candy for Diabetics with low blood sugar
  • 972 surgical masks with a big, black, droopy moustache on each one
  • And 2 copies of ‘How to Perform an Occipital Lobe Lobotomy for Dummies’

But no fucking Tension Bandage!

So I wrapped a sling around the thumb and hand and finished it off with cotton gauze for good measure. Then…..because it was the middle of the night and because I felt the need to point out the glaring absence of Tension Bandages to The Viking, I left the contents of two Kits spread out all over the table.  Willy-Nilly.

When I wandered into the kitchen the next morning, the exploded First Aid Kits had been reassembled and were sitting neatly on the counter. I slapped both of them – with my right hand, but carefully because the last thing I needed was another fucked up hand – as I went for the coffee pot.

The Viking said, “Oh! Hey babe! Why did you wrap up your hand?”

“BECAUSE IT FUCKING HURTS!” I replied sweetly.

Trying to get dressed was ridiculous! I finally stomped shuffled out of the bedroom with my pants and underwear around my ankles, one boob in the bra and the other dangling helplessly, and my shirt scrunched around my neck. The Viking helped me pull up my pants, tucked the other boob in the bra and pulled my shirt down while I stood there scowling. I have to give him credit for not laughing, or even smiling, and he only flicked one nipple once, proving his restraint.

Then, things got strange. He came in from the garage and filled up my coffee – just the way I like it. When I came home from the bank, he trotted out to see if there was anything that needed to be taken into the house. He came in the house 4 times to help me pull up my pants after I peed. He helped make supper. He filled our water glasses when we were watching TV that evening. He brought out snacks and then put the bowls in the dishwasher.

Me: “Are you leaving me?!”

Him: “What the fuck?! No! Of course not! Why would you even ask that?!”

Me: “Are you dying?!”

Him: “NO! At least I don’t think so.”

Me: Am I dying?! Did my Doctor call and tell you I’m dying and now you are trying to make my last few hours on earth as pleasant as possible?!”

Him: “No.”

Me: “Then what the fuck are you doing?!”

Him: “What do you mean?”

Me: “You’re being all nice and doing things for me and you’ve never done that stuff before.”

Him: “Maybe I’m trying to be less of a Grumpy Asshole.”

Me: “Why? I’m accustomed to the Grumpy Asshole.”

Him: …..

Me: “Oh my gawd!! You’re coddling me!!”

Him: “I am not!”

Me: “Yes you are!”

Him: “No. I’m. Not!”

Me: “Yes you are!”

Him: “Shut up and watch the show!”

The Viking coddled me the entire weekend. Even when I said that Leftie was starting to feel better. It was wonderful and I loved it!  Who wouldn’t? But, you know when something is so good that you start wondering how you got so lucky? And then you think there must be a downside? Like if chocolate were calorie free but it gave you Diarrhea?

Me: “Are you having an affair?! What’s her name?”

Him: “I’m not having an affair, for fucksakes! When would I have time?”

Me: “You went to Barney’s last night! Or maybe you didn’t go to Barney’s! Is he covering for you?!”

Him: “He’s not covering for me because I’m not having a fucking affair!

Me: “Then why are you being so damned nice?!

Him: “Maybe because I love you and I’m usually such a Grumpy Bastard but now I’m trying to be better!!”

Me: ……….

Him: ………

Me: “Well, STOP IT! YOU’RE DRIVING ME CRAZY!!”

via GIPHY

Without a Blood Offering We’re Screwed

We’re screwed! Completely and utterly screwed!

Sorry. That’s a little rude of me.  Come in and sit.  Here’s some coffee and a piece of cake.

Yes, I was on a diet, but that’s done. No reason to diet when we’re screwed!

“How are we screwed?”

The Viking did it! You would think he would have known better considering Viking Gods are a little more interactive than the regular run-of-the-mill Gods.

What am I talking about? I’m talking about The Viking challenging the Gods. It started with him telling me that his friend Barney hit an elk on the highway the other day, and his truck is a write-off. And if The Viking had stopped there we would be fine. But he didn’t. He carried his thought just that one step further and screwed us!

He said, “That’s so weird because we spend way more time on the highways than Barney and we’ve never hit anything.”

Half way through that sentence I started waving my hands at him, “DON’T SAY IT!!” But he just kept talking! Even the cat looked horrified!

Well, normally I’m not superstitious. I have a black cat and I walk under ladders all the time and I’ve never thrown salt over my shoulder, but this is different. This was a direct challenge to the Gods. Right now, Odin and the gang are laughing their asses off?! The Norns have just changed the threads of our fate.”

Of course I believe that! The better question is “Who doesn’t?” That’s why I never count my chickens before they hatch and I always knock on wood. The worst part is that we don’t know when or how retribution will arrive. Maybe they’ll just throw an elk in front of us next time we hit the road or maybe it will be a Mack truck. The Gods can be vindictive that way.

I put some flowers, grains and a couple of apples on the back step as a form of appeasement but I don’t think the Gods were interested. It didn’t look like they even passed by. I dumped a beer on the lawn – that was the closest thing to mead I could find – and tossed a chunk of my hair out there, too, for good measure. I’m not feeling very un-cursed though.

Oh! Hey! You’re not a virgin are you? Because I think if I could find a virgin…….

Okay, okay! I was only joking. Mostly. Besides there isn’t a volcano within a 1000 miles of here.

So that just leaves us with a blood offering. The Gods are probably hoping for a bull or a goat but the best I can do is a chicken from Safeway. I wonder if I could get the butcher to keep the blood from one chicken and a heart? They wouldn’t think that’s weird, right? I can’t be the first person to ask. And while I’m thinking about it, why am I the one doing all the appeasing work around here? I’m not the offensive one!

If the chicken doesn’t work, then the only thing left is to sacrifice The Viking himself.  Hopefully the Gods will accept just some of his blood.  He is very useful around here and I would miss him terribly if I had to give all of him to the Gods.  According to my research though, they might be appeased with just a cup of blood and some mead.

If this works, maybe, just maybe, we might not be as screwed as I think we are.  And I hope he learns the lesson that he can’t go around, willy-nilly, challenging the Gods and think he can get away with it.

Thanks to Part Time Monster for hosting Weekend Coffee Share

First Aid Kits and a Missed Opportunity

I’m so glad you came for coffee. Have a seat. Yeah, it’s gross, right? Sure I’ll tell you how it happened.

On the third day of our vacation I banged my right foot on the Seadoo trailer. Considering we were at a very busy gas station I thought I did well to keep my wails and curses from all but the closest people. The Viking was as sympathetic as always.

“What the fuck did you do now?” There wasn’t a hint of concern in his voice.

“I banged my foot!  And there’s blood!”

A loving person would stop fueling and check my injuries but he opted for the ‘fuelling is more important than you are’ approach. I was left to poke at my toe – the main victim in the accident – and wonder if I could die from blood loss. There were two (2!) fairly big cuts after all. What if a major artery was nicked? Do big toes have major arteries?

Disappointingly, the blood started clotting – too soon in my opinion. I was hoping for a small puddle of blood congealing around my foot; surely he would spare a little sympathy for that.

“I’m done. You can go get the change.” He called as he finished up.

You see?! Zero sympathy! If he cut his toe in 2 places and there was blood I would definitely have sympathy.

“Fine!” I said as I hobbled back to the cashier. “If I die from blood loss before I get back, you are totally to blame. Make sure you tell the kids that!” Unfortunately, I didn’t die so there was no accountability and he just got away with severe indifference.  There is no justice in this world.

When we got back to the trailer I tried making my toe more noticeable. I called attention to a cat toy and pointed to it with my red, bleeding toe. He looked at the toy and completely ignored my toe which annoyed me.

I take care of everyone! You got a cold? Here, let me get you some Neo-Citran and a warm blanket. Does your back hurt? Let me get you some muscle cream and the heating pad. You need a ride? Let me drop what I’m doing and help you out. Feeling sad today? Come here and I’ll baby you with a fuzzy blanket, a cup of tea and Netflix.

But WHO BABY’S (BABIES) ME?! I get a cold and I have to go to the store myself to buy some meds, come home and make my own damned Neo-Citran and find my own damned blanket. When I’m sad? Pfft. My back hurts? I go find my own pills and keep going.

I’ve been taking care of people for over 30 years now. Yet I can count on one finger how many times someone has told me to sit down and handed me a warm blanket while they fixed me a cup of Neo-Citran. So when I bang my damned toe and it bleeds and it hurts like hell……someone had better give me some fucking attention! How hard can it be?

“Oh Honey! That looks nasty! I bet it hurt. Let me get some disinfectant and antibiotic cream. Would you like a cup of tea? A warm blanket? Can I tuck you into bed?”

See? Not hard at all!

Finally, I poked one of the cuts until it started bleeding again and said, “It’s bleeding again. And my beautiful neon pink toe polish with the lovely white flower is ruined.” Then I lifted my foot so it was inches from his face. “Does it look infected to you?”

“No. I think it’s fine if you quit fucking with it.”

“I don’t think it’s fine and it feels like it’s getting infected!” Of course it was fine and would heal nicely if I just quit fucking with it, but I was fully invested by now and there was no going back.

“So what do you want me to do?” The Viking was annoyed. For some reason Facebook was more important than the gangrene growing on my toe!

So I went to the bathroom and got a bottle of peroxide and a cotton ball. “You could disinfect it.”

I saw the question in his eyes.  Why can’t you do it yourself?  Maybe he read something in my eyes because he sighed heavily then rummaged around in a cupboard to produce an enormous First Aid Kit. I said, “Holy Shit!”

He opened it up; it had everything you would expect a well-stocked emergency room would have. It was almost as big as the First Aid Kit in the garage at home, and only slightly bigger than the First Aid Kit he had in the house. And then I remembered there is another one in one of the Seadoos and one in my car as well.

The Viking has been stockpiling First Aid Kits! Why would he think he needs a Trauma Kit around us at all times?

And that took the wind right out of my sails. Sonofabitch! I hate it when this kind of thing happens. So he actually does care…………but not in the way I recognize care and when I finally do recognize his brand of care I have to accept it and forget about the kind of care I really wanted because I’m a fucking adult! No cup of tea, no warm blanket and no getting tucked into bed with a kiss on my forehead.

FUCK!

What I got instead was a disinfectant swab made of cardboard banged repeatedly on the cuts until I said it didn’t feel infected anymore, a swipe of antibiotic cream and the joy of putting the First Aid Kit away.

2 weeks later it became apparent that an ugly dark purple splotch was taking over my toe nail. It’s now living proof that I should have been coddled and an opportunity was missed.  But…..we have 5 industrial sized First Aid kits which proves The Viking loves me.  I guess.

And that’s how my toe got gross.

Naps, a Slap Chop & I May Have Been Wrong

You know when you have one of those moments when everything you thought you knew turns out to be completely wrong? Like you find out that Karen is actually Sharon and you’ve been calling her the wrong name for 3 months? Well, I had one of those moments on Sunday.

Since our return from Vacation, The Viking and I have been exhausted. We are just barely hanging in there, waiting for Day Light Savings to kick in on the 6th. So, when Saturday rolled around, I went for a nap and it was the loveliest nap I’ve ever taken!

There was a moment though when a terrible banging was going on in the kitchen. At first I thought maybe The Viking wasn’t happy about my napping and he was being Passive Aggressive. This wasn’t a vague, barely audible banging, this was a deafening, shake-the-house kind of banging. I was too tired to really care at that moment, and while most times I would have charged out of the bedroom, wild-eyed, bellowing “What the fuck was that noise?!”, this time I just waited until it stopped and then fell into a warm, dreamless cocoon.

Once I was awake enough…..

Me: What was all that banging earlier?

The Viking: I didn’t hear any banging.

Me: That’s impossible. It shook the whole house.

The Viking: Seriously. I didn’t hear any banging.

Me: It was you! You were out here banging something like you weren’t happy that I was taking a nap!

The Viking: I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have an issue with you having a nap. You can do whatever the fuck you want.

Me: So you weren’t banging just to ruin my nap?

The Viking: No. That would be childish.

And here’s where everything went sideways.

Me: Then I would like to have naps like that every day!

The Viking: Only on the weekends. Week days are for working, not napping.

Me (indignant): Of course only on the weekends! You don’t need to suggest that I don’t know enough not to nap on work days!

The Viking: I just wanted to be clear.

Me: What if I’m sick?

The Viking: Well, of course if you’re sick…..

Me (shrugging): I just wanted to make sure I understood the Fine Print.

The Viking: Ok……….Mim.

An explosion happened in my head. Actually….several explosions. My face must have gone slack with shock because The Viking started laughing. “You didn’t think of that, did you?”

No. I didn’t.  But that sounded exactly like something Mim would say.  I’ll bet she has actually said that to me at some point.  I always thought Mim was like her father.  Could I have possibly gotten this wrong for twenty…..how old is she again?…..2016 minus 1989 equals…..where the fuck is the calculator?!…..TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS?! Is she really twenty-seven years old?! That makes me…..

Focus. Age is for another time.

I start scrolling back in time, flashes of memories examined through this new filter.

Fuck!

I did get it wrong. There’s no other explanation.

Double Fuck!

Of course that’s what I would have done if my mother had taken my Beanie Babies away (except I grew up in a corporal punishment world and never had anything worth taking away). And that’s why she sucked at math! And that’s why she doesn’t have the grace of a gazelle. And that’s why she hates turnips and sauerkraut! And that’s why she has trouble with clocks!

Well, I can’t tell her any of this. I can’t admit that I got it all wrong….for 27 fucking years! Right now I have plausible deniability. If she suspected…..well….there would probably be a Turkey Dance and some “I told you so”s. She probably knows the exact number of times I told her she was just like her father. Of course there is a whole conversation here that Freud would have loved but I’m not going to get into it. The fact remains that since The Viking gave me permission to just be me, all my weirdness looks exactly like Mim’s weirdness.

Triple Fuck!

So, how do I contain this? I know I won’t tell her because….well….I’m the Mom and Moms are always right! Right? But when The Viking has a couple of drinks he gets all honest and sincere and will spill the beans. I need to explain to him the catastrophic effects of Mim finding out that her Mom might have been wrong about something fundamental to her childhood. She might have considered the possibility but a confirmation would completely change the dynamic, undermine the entire child/parent principle.

The Viking is the weak link here. This may call for the application of a Headlock again. I don’t condone violence so it will be a gentle Headlock, more like a caress really, but he tends to listen closer when there is nothing to distract him. Well, there is the problem of my boobs but a thick sweater and a tight sports bra will camouflage them enough to get the job done. And I should try to catch him off guard, like when he’s putting on his socks or in the shower.

The Viking: Why are you looking at me like that?

Me: What? Um. Nothing. So why were you banging so loud if not to annoy me out of a nap?

The Viking: I wasn’t banging.

Me: Yes, you were.

The Viking: Maybe it was Junior.

Me: IT WASN’T JUNIOR!! It was you! In the kitchen! The neighbors must have heard it!

The Viking: I think you dreamed it.

Me: I didn’t dream it! It sounded like you were banging two pots together.

The Viking: Ohhhhh. I was using the Slap Chop to cut up the onions.

Me: You do remember that we have that small electric chopper don’t you? No banging required.

The Viking: It’s not the same.

Me: Of course it’s not the same. It’s quiet.

The Viking: Whatever.

I made a mental note to make that Headlock/Caress just a fraction harder. When I catch him off guard.

Coffee Gawd

Bless me Coffee Gawd, it’s been a month since my last visit. In my defence I’ve been busy. First there was the holiday to Arizona and then there was the fallout of said holiday.

What is it about a vacation that makes you more tired when you get home than you were before you left? Are the Vacation Gawds assholes? Shouldn’t we be leaping out of bed on our first day back at work, excited to see what the day has to offer? Shouldn’t the ringing phone be a pleasant sound instead of a deafening siren of impending doom? I thought the whole purpose of vacations was to revitalize and re-energize, but I have about the same amount of vitality and energy as a damned Bassett Hound.

We’ve been home for six days and our Overnight Bag hasn’t unpacked itself yet. I’m tired too, but that’s no excuse to make me search the bag repeatedly every day looking for another toiletry. And the laundry hasn’t sorted itself either! It’s only one bag and it only takes a minute to start the washing machine. What is it waiting for?  It hasn’t been on vacation! There’s a bra in there that I need!

I dragged my ass to the grocery store so we at least had some coffee and a sandwich. The fridge is behaving as though it has all the time in the world to restock. Where are the salads and cheeses?! This is the perfect weather to make a nice beef roast with mashed potatoes and gravy and maybe some sesame carrots. The stove is just waiting to get going. You’re holding up the proceedings, Fridge!

Izzie seems to be the only person happy to be home again. She’s running and leaping and jumping and whatever the fuck else she does in the middle of the night. “Yes, I know you want to play but can’t you see that I’m in no shape to be moving from my computer chair? And the lacerations and bitings are not helping your case! And we aren’t in the truck anymore so find somewhere else to sleep that isn’t my shoulder!

The Viking comes into the house and plops in his computer chair. “Is there anymore coffee?” He’s so tired his lips barely move, combined with the Danish accent it comes out more like “Z en mo kuf e”. I mumble back, “S” while I jerk myself back to a vertical position and my eyes snap open. Where the fuck is Daylight Savings Time when you need it?! NOVEMBER 6th?! I can’t wait that long! I need that hour now!

It didn’t help that we must have eaten something on our way home that didn’t entirely agree with our intestinal tracts. That’s the problem with driving 2300 kilometers (1430 miles) in a day and a half – you are at the mercy of the Fast Food Industry. The Fridge didn’t help matters by being empty; it’s not like it didn’t know when we would be home. I specifically told it so we wouldn’t be shocked and surprised if it had a date over.

Anyway, that’s why I haven’t been by for a visit, Coffee Gawd. If you think about it, it’s probably for the best that I didn’t come sooner. I wouldn’t wish myself on anyone in this condition. It’s Saturday though. Maybe The Viking won’t notice that I’m not getting out of bed. If the fucking Fridge and Stove would cooperate and put something hot on the table for him at dinner time I could conceivably stay in bed until Monday morning at 8:58am. I need time to dress and commute to my computer chair. Apparently the phones won’t answer themselves.

Bastards.

 

Divorce, Sex and a Pub Fight

How long does it take for a repressed, depressed, anally retentive, ultra-sensitive, terrified, divorced woman to become normal? 10 years. Well, 9 years and 4 months for sure but I’ll be positive and give myself an extra 9 months to get the job done.

I’m not going to tell a long, sad tale of abuse; a lot of people have those. Too many people have those. What I will tell you about is that moment when I was feeling like shit because I had just had my gall bladder removed. I was lying on the sofa, sort of whacked out with drugs, listening to the husband holler because he had to warm up a bowl of soup for me. When he handed it to me I looked in his face and it hit me.

On the day I die, I don’t want this man to be anywhere near me.

Death is such a personal thing. It’s intimate and heart-breaking. It is vulnerability and hopelessness and fear. And a man that can’t bring me a fucking bowl of soup after major surgery doesn’t deserve to be there at the end of my damned life. Especially that guy who has been coddled for more than 2 decades by yours truly.

I went to see the Psychologist who had saved me from myself several years earlier. I asked him if I was making the right decision because once you’ve had depression you learn that sometimes your emotions lie and you can’t always trust them. I told him I didn’t want to end a 23 year marriage because of fucked up reasoning and emotions. It took him 32 minutes to say that my logic and emotions were just fine and he wasn’t sure why I had come to see him to begin with.  I needed to be sure though.

Having embraced the idea that I would rather die alone and homeless than be married any longer, I moved on. I found a lawyer. I bought a condo and a car and found a job I loved. Dissolving a marriage doesn’t transform one overnight; it doesn’t quiet fear and it doesn’t make one care-free. There’s baggage. And I carried all the baggage alone. I was worried about the kids and my future and money and because that’s just what I do. I had determination though and I was bloody well going to learn to love life and love myself, even if it killed me.

I met an English, childrens book writer. He was….well…..English. He was also the second man I ever had sex with. And he was the first guy who’s approach was “It’s not the size of the army but the fury of the attack!” I went for a glass of wine and ended up on my back on the floor with an impressive rug rash. I thought of my childhood dog that used to hump my stuffed tiger the whole length of the basement. I drove home slightly stunned and wondered if all Englishmen are so enthusiastic and if so it’s a wonder the entire world doesn’t speak with an English accent. I didn’t see him often; he wasn’t looking for a relationship, just very fast sex. When he found someone else for speed screwing he asked if we could remain friends. I said we never were friends so why would I want to be his friend now? I figured he kept women as friends so when he hit a dry spell he could always call up a friend who had a spare 5 minutes.

I met a couple other guys but none were of note. And then I met The Viking and fell in love with his mantra of “Who gives a fuck?” before I actually loved him. He won me over with things like:

“I was an asshole! You should have just said so instead of having hurt feelings for 6 weeks.”

“Who cares if you farted?!”

“I filled your car up with gas.”

“Why in the fuck would you spend your money on lingerie when I just have to waste time getting it off?!”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s burnt. I’ll eat it anyway!”

“It’s just a sex store! Everyone has sex! There’s nothing to be shy about!” and “Yes, he’s creepy but we’re only buying the dildo from him, not inviting him to join us.”

“I’m going to make supper for you.”

“How could I not love you? You drive a manual transmission car and it’s not a piece of shit Ford!”

He introduced me to his friends in Denmark and I learned about loyalty and who has your back. It came in a pub where a guy called me Canada and kept touching my ass and brushing (accidentally) against my boobs. I thought I might have to punch him but if I got into a fight then The Viking would be in a fight and if The Viking was in a fight then his best friend would be in a fight and if the best friend was in a fight then the best friend’s giant of a son would be in a fight and then the whole pub would be in a fight……so I decided to maneuver closer to the corner away from Mr. Too Friendly.

Over the course of 9 years and 4 months I’ve changed a lot. I’m not afraid anymore. I can let things go. I don’t hold a grudge for more than a day or two. It hasn’t been easy and sometimes I thought I’d never make it but it seems that as good as The Viking was for me, I was just as good for him.

There is a school of thought out there that no wo/man is complete without a partner, that alone s/he is only half of what s/he could be. The right partner brings the balance and harmony that is required to be whole. Despite being married I was alone and, to be fair, so was my husband.

Now, together, The Viking and I have been transformed into one viable, complete human being.  But just one. I could never be so impertinent as to suggest that we could possibly be two complete humans. He curses too much for that. And yells.  And throws things.  While I drop things.  And fall over things.  And get lost.

So as long as I don’t curse and he never drops things we qualify as one whole person.  Which is all we ever wanted to begin with.

Transformation

I Barely Survived the Ultimate Seadoo Owner’s Ride

There’s a reason we go to Arizona every October.  We time our arrival to coincide with the International Jet Sport Boat Association’s (IJSBA) World Finals because The Viking’s friend Mike Klippenstein is one of the world’s best.  During the week-long event, BRP holds an Ultimate Seadoo Owner’s Ride from Lake Havasu City, through London Bridge Canal and down the river to The Pirate’s Cove where lunch is provided and prizes given away.  This year there were 71 Seadoos on the ride, including The Viking and I.  It’s a very nice event and BRP pulls out all the stops to appreciate their customers.
To be honest though, I am no Water Enthusiast.  The Viking, having grown up in Denmark, is a Water Baby and I spend a good deal of my life trying to convince him that we shouldn’t have anything to do with water that doesn’t come out of a tap.  It’s a losing battle, I’m afraid.  And before we even leave home he’s already talking about the Owner’s Ride and how much fun it’s going to be.  Frankly, I’m groaning on the inside while smiling on the outside.  He throws water words around willy-nilly, like swimming pool and lake and river.  I think he just likes to see me flinch.
Until I met him, I hadn’t even been in a boat.  I’m a Mountain/Forest/Prairie Girl!  I may have waded through a stream once or twice, most likely by accident, but that’s the end of my desire to flirt with bodies of water.  I watch the Discovery Channel and I know what’s hiding in lakes and oceans and it’s not comforting.  But, because I’m a supportive and loving partner, I endure the water.  Honestly, I’m a ‘Fair Weather PWC Enthusiast’; ‘Fair Weather’ being the key words.  And, I have one less spinal disc than most other people so when the water gets rough, I pay the price in agony.
Which brings me to the Seadoo Owner’s Ride this year.  It was my second time showing my support and love to The Viking by participating in the Ride; there would be a lot of Seadoos, and a lot of Seadoos make a lot of waves and cross waves and water sprays and cross water sprays.  The riders that go in a straight line are fine because you can ride in their wake but there’s always at least one Yahoo that likes to slalom and create nightmares for me – this year there were definitely 3 and maybe more.
In the beginning it was lovely.  Except for the fact that Ron (my Seadoo) began wailing because the battery had a low charge.  When I say ‘wail’, what I really mean is a piercing, brain dissolving, eye squinching beep that can be heard 13.6 miles away.  And it didn’t happen when we were going at speed, only when we were idling so everyone could hear it.  I was already out of my comfort zone and Ron was announcing my presence in the most annoying manner possible.  Just great!  The Viking was laughing and said “It’s perfect for your blog!”  That doesn’t help, Viking!!
at-london-bridge
We idled, and Ron shrieked, our way through the London Bridge Channel.  The organizers wanted us to make a Seadoo Chain across the channel for a photo-op but that sounded exactly like the makings of chaos to me.  I have a tendency to panic and curse when I have to get my boat too close to someone else’s boat and there were children participating who shouldn’t be subjected to that.  So we hovered behind the Seadoo Chain in our own brand of Anti-Social, where we weren’t doing what we were supposed to be doing but at least everyone was safe and no Seadoos were damaged in the making of the photo-ops.
Once we cleared the channel, 71 Seadoos roared to life and blistered across the lake toward the river entrance.  The Viking started to go with the rest of them; the feeling of being one with the roaring, snorting, whining mass of Seadoos was music to his soul.  Unfortunately, he was saddled with me.  I tried to go, I really did, to be one of the crazies, to hit the throttle and soar over the waves, but I was caught in the cross waves and spray of all the other boats.  I tried standing up but that only worked for a short time because my back ached even more while my ass was being spared.
So I did what any other sane person would do:  I started shouting curses as I held onto the handle bar for dear life.  I cursed six ducks and 3 fishing boats and threatened a goose.  F-bombs were peppered throughout my sentences for a brief amount of time until I ran out of real words and just started shouting F-bombs in a never-ending loop.  The harder I squeezed the throttle, the more hair-raising my curses became.  Thankfully no one heard me over the sound of the Seadoos or I may have had to apologize to people and animals alike.
And then I hit a big wake and Ron’s nose drove into the wave and water drenched me from head to toe.  My glasses were useless and WATER GOT IN MY MOUTH!  I had to pause the cursing while I spat out the fish poo/algae/pee.  I wiped it off my glasses and my face.  I vowed to never go on this ride again!  I bellowed at Gawd for even allowing Seadoos to be invented!  I cursed The Viking and the day I met him.  I cursed Ron for slapping my ass with his seat and jerking my arms out of their sockets and making my right hand numb from vibration.  I cursed the guy with the drone and the driver of the Seadoo boat and I especially cursed the guy with the pimped out boat who cut me off and nearly dislodged me from Ron.
And then The Viking was close enough to yell at me “Go wide where it’s smoother!”  He had a smile a mile wide and I hated him.
I said, “F-Bomb, F-Bomb, F-Bomb, weeds, F-Bomb, you’ll pay for this!  F-Bomb, F-Bomb, F-Bomb!  Never again!  F-Bomb!”  And then I realized that every time I opened my mouth more fish poo/algae/pee got in so I shut up and just endured, focused on surviving this ordeal.
The smile never left The Viking’s face.  He loves this shit!  I plotted a slow and painful death for him.  My shoulders ached, my hand was numb and my ass was taking a beating.  I just don’t understand why people love this so much and I gave everyone around me the Stink Eye.  Either they didn’t notice or didn’t care, I’m sure which.
copper-canyon
I had to admit that all these Seadoos running together down the river was probably an amazing sight and everyone, aside from me, was loving the hurricane-sized waves.  It’s beautiful going through Copper Canyon and stopping for a rest at the Sand Bar.  The ‘no wake’ zones protect bird habitats and riders have the time to appreciate the scenery.  I can’t think of another place that could be more lovely.
Maybe if I was 25 years old again I would be more adventurous with water sports.  On second thought….no.  I just can’t unlearn the things in lakes, rivers and oceans.
img_0320
Finally, we arrived at The Pirate’s Cove.  I love this place.  The food is great, the view is wonderful and there is booze.  Lots and lots of booze.  It took us a few minutes to find parking spaces because 71 Seadoos take up alot of beaching space.  The organizers reserved an area of beaching and docking for us so it wasn’t long before we joined the rest of the riders.  The staff at The Pirate’s Cove were wonderful.  Despite the number of hungry people arriving all at the same time, we didn’t wait long for our food and it was as good as usual.  There were really nice gifts given away to people that were not us.  Unfortunately.  A T-Shirt would have been nice.
at-pirates-cove-2    at-pirates-cove
us-at-the-cove
We were all on our own for the ride back to Havasu, which was good because I wouldn’t have to deal with such messy water.  Or at least that’s what I thought.  It was still quite early in the day though, only about 2:30, so there was quite a bit of traffic on the river.  At one point a deceptively small fishing boat went past, leaving a huge wake behind it.  I hit that wake at about 70 kph.  I stood up in anticipation but it was bigger than I thought.  My feet left the foot wells, my shoulders took the full force of my upward flight and abruptly reversed my direction back down.  My mouth opened involuntarily and filled with fish poo/algae/pee.  My left boob hit the handle bar, my chin hit the crossbar, clacking my teeth together and my ass hit the seat.  My hand was jarred off the throttle and for a moment there was a distinct possibility that I may end up in the water/fishpoo/algae/pee!
“F-BOMB!  F-BOMB! F-BOMB!”
When we got back to the marina I reported my close call to The Viking but he didn’t seem to care at all!  Instead he showed me the huge cut on his right leg.  Apparently it happened when he was loading Ron onto the trailer.  Shit.
“Are you saying your cut trumps my bruised boob?  It’s not a competition, you know!”
I suppose I’ll have to let it go, though.  He wins this one because it really is a big cut.  But he’s not allowed to touch the left boob for at least 3 days.