Category: The Viking

Dear Road Trip Diary

Day One

The Viking and I have a 37 foot Fifth Wheel trailer, two Seadoos and a little Honda motorcycle in storage in Lake Havasu City, Arizona.  Every April and October we drive down to visit our belongings and enjoy the sizzling heat for 3 or 4 weeks.

This October’s trip began without much ado, which concerned me.  Every  vacation must have its drama and I prefer mine to happen before we actually begin the vacation rather than in the middle or near the end.  Let’s just get it out of the way so we can enjoy.  There should be hair-raising curses, arm waving, tears and mumbled threats while we try to find all the shit we haven’t used since the last time we went to Havasu.  We should sit in the truck in stoney silence until we hit the Tim Horton’s in Fort McLeod where we strategically pee, order coffee, breakfast sandwiches and Tim Bits.

But I changed things up this time.  I decided to try a new approach – leave everything to the last minute and then panic.  As a strategy for a fairly long vacation, I don’t recommend it.  At one point, The Viking looked at me like he was about to say something so I screeched to a halt and said “Just do yourself a favor and don’t comment on my organization skills, alright?  And it might be a good idea not to talk to me at all!”  He must have decided it was sound advice because he didn’t make a sound – he just backed up slowly, not making eye contact until he was close enough to the door to make an escape.

And that’s where we made the mistake.  He should have accused me of being lazy and I should have yelled that he was insensitive and then he should have questioned my intelligence and I should have outlined my theory on why he’s never been married and he should have hollered about my procrastination and I should have bellowed about him leaving everything on my shoulders.

But we didn’t and I dared to think that this trip would be different than all the other ones.  Sucker.

Once the cat, The Viking and I squeezed in the truck with all our shit, we set off.  It became clear almost immediately that Izzie wasn’t happy with the mode of transportation because she started shouting and calling us names, some of which I’d never heard a cat use before.  And, to be honest, I was a little impressed with her eloquence.  The Viking and I are constantly surprised by her capacity to swing wildly between beautiful, gentle sweetheart to a biting, vengeful Harpy in a micro-second.

izzie-in-the-back-window

She carried on for several hours, only stopping for a few moments when The Viking and I started shouting and yowling too.  She wasn’t amused.  Eventually, she crawled up between the back of The Viking’s head and the head rest.  It was the perfect position to minimize the bouncing and bumping of the truck, but it also gave her the ability to stare at my left ear with The Stink Eye for the next 300 kilometers.

Having failed miserably to get me to return her home, she then took up a position between my head and the head rest in order to gift The Viking with The Stink Eye.  And that was her location when we crossed the border into Montana.

Border Guard:  What’s the purpose of your visit?
The Viking:  Vacation.
Border Guard:  And what is your destination?
The Viking:  Lake Havasu City, Arizona.
Border Guard:  How long will you be staying in Arizona?
The Viking:  Three weeks.
Border Guard:  That’s a long vacation.
The Viking:  Yes.
Border Guard:  Do you have $10,000 or more in your possession?
The Viking:  I wish!  I mean, no.
Border Guard (squinting suspiciously):  Any firearms?
The Viking:  N….
Border Guard:  Is that a cat?!
The Viking:  Um…yes.
Border Guard:  Does she ride there all the time?
The Viking (turning to look at Izzie behind my head):  Um….yes.
Border Guard:  She’s a cutie.  It’s okay.  I don’t need to see her documents.
The Viking:  ……
Border Guard:  Here’s your passports, have a wonderful day.
The Viking:  Um….thank you.

We were both a bit stunned for a few minutes.  Finally, I said:  “I guess he’s a cat-loving Border Guard”.  In hindsight, I think he was just taking pity on us.  He could probably see the sheer evil residing in the eyes of the ‘cutie’.

She was very needy but overall she weathered the first day sort of fine.  The Viking and I were sort of fine as well.  We arrived at our target of Arco, Idaho about 8:30pm and Izzie was….well…..fucking ecstatic!

Day Two

We loaded all our shit back into the truck to an audience of 3.  I don’t know who these people were, they didn’t appear to be staying at the hotel, but they seemed to like what we were doing.  Maybe it was a new thing the residents of Arco were supplying to tourists.

Without really trying, The Viking and I can produce a Laurel and Hardy-esque performance.  I would try to help load stuff up and The Viking would unpack the things that I packed and then pack other things instead.

He says “Please stop.”
I say “I’m just trying to help.”
He says “You’re doing it all wrong.”
I say “I didn’t know there was such a thing as a wrong way to put shit in the truck.”
He says “There is and you’re doing it.”
I say “Just because it’s not your way of doing things doesn’t mean it’s wrong, you know.”
He says “Yes it does.”
I say “Fine.” and stand on the sidewalk beside the other 3 spectators and watch him do something like solving a Rubik’s Cube in the back seat of the truck.  It makes me want to go pull something out from the bottom like ‘Jenga’ but I keep my impulse under control.

We wave goodbye to our audience and hit the road.  And that’s when things got interesting again.

Izzie is howling like we’re torturing her.  When we stop, just down the road, to fill up with fuel, I make a small change to the backseat Jenga puzzle.  I move the Sirius Boom Box from the middle of the back window to the right side of the back window and make a bed for the damned howling cat so she can see out the front window.  It didn’t help.

We had barely cleared the town limits when Izzie lost her fucking mind and in a complete frenzy of slashing claws and snapping teeth she attacked The Viking!  Yup!  It was a rodeo in the front seat as he tried to push her away and stop the truck while I tried to get a grip on the scruff of her neck.  Once I got a handle on her we sat in shocked silence, staring at the cat who was still spitting.

“Holy Fucking Hell!”

I wrapped her in my arms and put my hand over her face in an effort to calm her down.  “I guess we know how she feels about another day in the truck.” I ventured.

I had packed a small spray bottle of stuff called ‘At Ease’ and sprayed it in the truck.  She calmed down, closed her eyes and hunkered down against my boobs.  And then I noticed a pronounced rattling in the back seat.  It was the damned Boombox banging against the window!  Fucking Jenga!  Another stop to rectify that problem and several moments of The Viking staring at me in accusation and enduring the silent lecture on doing shit his way all the time from now on!  Gawd!  I hate it when he has proof to be self-righteous.

When we reach Wells, Nevada, we stop for a pee, coffee and some Dunkin’ Donut equivalents of Timbits.  The Viking went in to pee first because it was already getting hot and we couldn’t leave Izzie in the truck without the air conditioning.  While The Viking was inside, I sat watching a cluster of state troopers – six of them – and a couple other people fiddling with the engine on a car two parking spots down.  I thought maybe an animal got caught in there or something because I couldn’t quite explain to myself why 6 troopers would be fixing a car like mechanics but apparently that’s exactly what was going on.

In the meantime, The Viking came back out and I went in to pee and buy the coffee and donut holes.  Then things got even more interesting.

While I had been fetching refreshments, Izzie was berating The Viking, calling him names and biting and he had finally had enough!

“I’ve had enough of this fucking cat!!  What the fuck is her problem?!  This is bullshit!  Does she need more space?!  I suppose I have to take everything out and put it in the back of the truck?!  FUCK!!”

And he proceeded to do just that.  The carefully constructed Rubiks/Jenga puzzle in the back seat was unceremoniously tossed in the box of the truck: power inverter, our orthopedic pillows, the CPAP machine, the cooler and a couple other things were heaved out, accompanied by shouted curses and death threats against the cat.

I grabbed Izzie and pushed her into her kennel.  I tried to calm The Viking but there is no talking to Blood-Eye the Beserker – ‘At Ease’ doesn’t work on Vikings apparently.  I climbed into the back of the truck and tried to arrange things so they wouldn’t fly out of the box while we were driving.
Blood Eye shouted at me to “Leave that fucking shit right where it is!!!!!!” and he promptly got into the cab and waited for me to join him.

As I was getting out of the box of the truck I happened to glance up and 2 of the 6 state troopers were walking past.  At that point I may or may not have actually rolled my eyes and tipped my head back in resignation.  I got into the truck and was putting on my seatbelt when there was a tap on the driver’s side window and there were the 2 troopers.  The Viking rolled down his window.

“Afternoon, sir.  Is everything alright here?”

“The fucking cat is driving me nuts!”  The Viking said reasonably shouted.

The closest Trooper looks past The Viking over to me.

Okay, let me just say that I’ve have only been pulled over by police once in my entire life and that was a routine traffic stop checking everyone’s driver’s license and registration.  I almost cried.  I was 24 years old.  I’m more than twice that age now.

And I’m fairly sure that I looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Sir.  Would you step out of your vehicle please.”  It wasn’t a question.

The closest cop puts his hand on the pistol case on his belt.  The second cop takes a position slightly behind and to the side of the first cop.

“Shit.”  A small part of me wanted to just drive away and leave him with his new friends.  I’m a reasonable woman though, and decided that instead of making a shiv out of his toothbrush, I should probably go and save him.  I can hear The Viking shouting about the Boombox and the cat and the Rubiks Cube construction in the back seat and his frustration.  I should probably intervene.

I got out of the truck and smiled nervously at the troopers.  “Sorry.  It’s just been a long drive, and we’re a little tired and the cat is being bad and we just needed to blow off a bit of steam.  We’re fine now.”  I smiled again.

The second Trooper takes a step towards me and looks me in the eyes.  “Are you sure, ma’am?”

“Yes.  I’m completely sure.  Sorry for the bother.”

“No problem, ma’am.  Have a good trip.”

And with that, The Viking and I climbed into the truck, put our seatbelts on and left Wells, Nevada.  Gawd.  We won’t be able to stop here on our way home.

We spent the remainder of the day not speaking to each other.  Izzie spent the next hour and a half in her kennel until she finally stopped name calling and making threats.  Our plan was to overnight in Laughlin, Nevada but apparently there isn’t a single hotel/motel that allows cats.  Fuck you, Laughlin!

We found a place called the Red Roof Inn in Needles, California though, that would allow the cat.  The room was spotless and very nice.  So, for anyone travelling with pets – especially cats – go to The Red Roof Inn in Needles, California.

Day Three

I had a lengthy conversation with Izzie about getting back into the truck.  It’s only for about an hour and then she can go into the trailer.  It seemed to have worked because she was completely reasonable, curled up on my boobs.

Epilogue

Izzie slept for two solid days once we were settled in the campground.  The Viking didn’t break any laws for a solid week.  And I did my level best to stay relatively sober.  Someone needs to keep their wits about them around here.

Coffee With Izzie – Disney, Destiny & My Inner Assassin

Good Morning! Come on in! The Coffee is almost ready and I’m in a terrific mood!

So, yesterday started like every other day. The Viking is supposed to get up at dawn but he rarely ever does. It’s almost like he doesn’t know he’s supposed to get up with the sun. It’s left to me to get him out of bed; it’s a chore but I try to have fun with it.

Once he’s vertical, we can talk……

Me: Play time! WooHoo! Come on! The plastic straps, the plastic straps, the plastic straps! Fuck! Okay. The fishing rod, the fishing rod, the fishing rod!  Really?  The crinkle toy, the crinkle toy, the crinkle toy!

The Viking: Coffee first.

Me: Dammit! Fine! Hurry up. Faster! Is that the absolute limit of your speed?

The Viking: Give me a minute! Stop sticking your feet under the faucet! I’m not drinking coffee that tastes like your fucking litter box!

Me: My feet are clean! I cleaned them myself!

The Viking: Are you ready for your breakfast?

Me: Now that you mention it, I’m starving!! Oh, wow! I am seriously starving! Hurry up with that food! Gawd! Are you ever slow! You’re useless! I bet you come from a long line of useless people. It’s a wonder you can dress yourself in the mornings. Come on Asshole! Get a move on! I am seriously going to shit on your pillow if you don’t get that food in the bowl…….

The Viking: Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m coming.

Me: It’s about fucking time! Leave. So I can eat. Now.

I know, right? The shit I have to put up with. Of course I actually say that to him.  I’ve never claimed to be a nice cat.  Really?  Why not? Then you are human whipped.  I say whatever the hell is in on my mind.

The Missus played with me for a little while – not nearly long enough in my opinion. I told her exactly how useless she is as well. So I had a short nap until The Viking came in for his morning constitutional. But he casually went to the bedroom like he might be thinking of playing with me, so I followed him and then he made a mad dash down the hallway with his tablet in hand and closed the bathroom door against me! I said:

“HEY!! HEY!! WHAT THE FUCK! THE DOOR IS CLOSED! LET ME IN RIGHT NOW! THIS IS THE KIND OF THING THAT MAKES ME LIKE YOU LESS! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU LOCKED ME OUT! YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I ENJOY LYING IN THE SINK, WATCHING YOU. I DON’T CARE IF IT SMELLS LIKE SHIT! I USE A LITTER BOX! TRY GOING THROUGH THAT FLAP DOOR AND THEN WE’LL TALK ABOUT SMELLING LIKE SHIT! OPEN THE DOOR RIGHT FUCKING NOW OR IT’S SHIT ON YOUR PILLOW. I SWEAR I AM GOING TO SAVE AN ESPECIALLY SMELLY, LARGE ONE JUST FOR YOU! OKAY…..YOU ASKED FOR IT BIG GUY! I WILL NEVER LAY ON YOU EVER AGAIN!”

And then he finally opened the door – that threat almost always works. No, I didn’t say ‘thank you’ because I shouldn’t have had to make those threats in the first place.

The remainder of the day went by slowly because The Missus only played with me once. There was one guy, though, who came through the door. He stuck his hand toward me and I thought I was going to get a bite in but then The Missus was all “Careful! She bites!” and he jerked his hand away. I did slap him a good one on the back of his hat when he walked past me to leave though. It’s something, I guess.

It was after supper that things got interesting. The Viking and The Missus were watching TV and I was laying on my castle perch. Then I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. It was moving slowly in jerky movements so I got down to get a closer look.

IT WAS A THING!! A LIVE THING!

I tried to high-five it but it took off running. I bounced after it and stepped on its tail. It smelled interesting. Why has The Viking and The Missus never brought me a toy like this before? It made little noises when it ran and I batted it around and tossed it into the air. I think the THING really liked it! We had a great time. The Viking wanted to know what I was doing but The Missus said:

“Shht! Leave her alone! She’s not bugging us!”

Eventually, the THING quit moving. I thought it might be sleeping so I lay down beside it and waited for it to wake up.

What did it look like?

dead-mouse

Oh! Haha! You mean before I killed it?

live-mouse

What? Well I didn’t know I killed it until The Missus said I killed it. I didn’t know it was called a mouse until The Missus said it, either! Don’t look at me like that! It’s instinct! I couldn’t have stopped myself from killing it any more than a bird could stop flying…..unless it’s an emu or an ostrich…..well, that’s just muddying the waters now.  The important point is that it’s our purpose in life! Embrace your inner assassin.

After a while The Missus went past for more water. On her trip back into the living room she stopped and really looked at the toy.

She said: “Holy Shit! That’s a real mouse!!” The Viking didn’t believe her at first but he got up and took a look for himself.

He said: “Yup. That’s a fucking mouse. How in the hell did it get in here?”

Her: It’s a pity mice don’t actually make and mend clothes like Disney would have us all believe.

Him: What?

Her: You know! Cinderella? The mice that made her dress? And birds don’t actually help the mice make the dress in real life, either.

disney-mice

Him: ….

Her: I’m not picking it up.

Him: I’m not either until I find something to grab it with.

Then The Missus turned her attention to me and she was all “Good girl, Izzie!! You killed a mouse! Yah!!!!” What followed was an orgy of treat giving and petting and praise and exclamations of “She’s only six and a half months old!” I basked. I think I like basking. Especially in praise.

And that’s why I’m in such a great mood today. I found my life purpose. And I’m still young! I can channel all my energy in one direction. I’m focused, like a lazer! I’m creating a patrol pattern throughout the house so I can be certain the perimeter won’t be breached without detection. I need a chase strategy – I can’t allow the intruders to find ‘bolt holes’ where I can’t reach them.  Soooo much to do!

Well, I suppose it would have been better to have found my purpose helping cats in need or in cat search and rescue, but that’s not up to me. I just answered the call of destiny, my friend.

Coffee, Wedgies and Nipple Flicking

Come in! Coffee is ready.

OH! Watch the kitten…..she bites! I know she’s absolutely adorable but she’s like a rose with extra thorns. And it’s probably not a good idea to sit on that particular chair because she uses it as a launch pad to get to the window or as an aid to change directions in a flat out race. You’ll feel like you’ve been molested by the time you leave.

Okay. You’ve been warned.  :o)

So, I decided that I just don’t get enough fun time during an ordinary day. I haven’t pulled The Viking’s pants down in the garage for eons or given him a Wedgie either. I think it’s because he doesn’t react; he just stands there putting that carburetor together without missing a beat while his pants are around his ankles. Honestly, I’ve gotten bored with his lack of reaction and gone in the house. I did wonder once if I should just pull his pants up again for him but then I thought “No way! What little fun I did get out of Pantsing him would be obliterated!” I think he’s being Passive Aggressive or something. One time he cooked a whole pound of bacon and fried 4 eggs with his pants around his ankles.

No. I’m not kidding you. I stood beside the table the entire time and he never pulled up his pants. I think I even asked, “Aren’t you going to pull up your pants?” and he said, “What the fuck for? You’ll just pull them down again.” Which was probably true.

The one time I actually did get a reaction was when I started flapping his left nipple when we were reading in bed. I kept reading but my finger was flicking the nipple at approximately 6 flicks per second. He didn’t do anything! So I moved it up to about 8 flicks per second. Still nothing! Finally, at about 15 flicks per second he said, “What the fuck are you doing?” I’m not sure what kind of reaction I was hoping for but that wasn’t even close! Maybe mutual nipple flicking? I don’t know but after a while I got bored and stopped flicking it.

Exactly! That would have been a load of fun! There would be laughing and giggling and finger flicking…..it would have been awesome! Instead, it’s a bloody shame.  Sometimes, when I’m walking past him, I’ll give one of his nipples a half-hearted flick but I’m beyond expecting a reaction anymore.

And then, night before last, we had a conversation:

I said to The Viking: You know what we’ve never done? Wrestle. We should wrestle.

He said: No.

Me: Why not?

Him: I don’t want to hurt you.

Me: What kind of wrestling do you think I’m talking about? Optimus Prime vs. Megatron?

Him: Someone always gets hurt wrestling.

Me: Not always! When it’s love-wrestling no one gets hurt and maybe it’ll end up in something else entirely.

Him: No.

Me: Come on! You’ve never chased me around the bed before either.

Him: Why would I chase you around the bed? That just wastes a lot of time and we don’t need that shit!

Me: Well….not a lot of time because the bedroom isn’t that big. And now that I’m thinking about, it we can’t run around the bed so we’d have to crawl over the bed. That would make it the slowest chase in recorded history – like getting run over by a steam roller. And there would be a significant risk of me getting a boob caught under my knee. Fine! You don’t have to chase me around the bed.

Him: Pfft!

Me: That doesn’t excuse the lack of love-wrestling going on in this house.

Him: I’m not fucking wrestling with you. You’ll get hurt!  I’m only trying to protect you!

Me: …..

Him: …..

Me: You’re one of those people who are ‘in it to win it’, aren’t you!

Him: …..

Me: You always have to win, don’t you?!

Him: Oh for fucksakes!

Me: You always have to have the last word too.

Him: I do not.

Me: Yes you do.

Him: I do not.

Me: See? The last word.

Him: FOR FUCKSAKES!! I’m going to read!

Me (calling after him as he stomps down the hallway): Last word!!

So, I guess wrestling is off the table. I’m down to prank phone calls now. When I go shopping and he’s all alone to answer the phones I’ll call and ask if Mike Hunt is there. He’ll probably recognize my voice though. Sigh.

OH! Let me get you a Bandaid. And some Peroxide. I told you she bites. I’ve been buying Bandaids in bulk since we got her.

I’m so glad you dropped by. I’ve missed you terribly. We have to get better at staying in touch.

Slogging or My Muse must be on Vacation

When I woke up this morning my plan was to write a post. Sometimes this only takes a couple of hours because I’m in the groove and other times it takes the entire day because I have to slog through ideas that went nowhere, ideas that went somewhere I didn’t want to go, ideas that turned me into an angry Harpy or, most likely, no ideas at all. But today I was optimistic that it would be the former; I slept good and I was in a relatively good mood given that I wasn’t on vacation and I wasn’t a Millionaire. And I even managed to play with the Feline Fiend before I had coffee. I hoped the play time would buy me some uninterrupted writing time but Izzie is never that gracious. Still, the Writing Gods were obviously in my corner.

Or not.

In hindsight, I think I mistook the Writing Gods for the Just Kidding Gods who were, most probably, laughing. It was barely past 9:00am when I opened my email and realized that my plans for the day were……well……fucked. Hunkered down in my In Box was the offending email. “Your parts have arrived and are ready for pick up.”

Shit.

I am the parts picker upper around here. The low wo/man on the Totem Pole. The Gopher (basically a rodent when you don’t sugar coat it). There is no one else that I can foist it on. The buck stops here.

The Viking has fairly firm rules regarding the position at the bottom of the Totem Pole:

He/She who makes the least amount of money shall be The Rodent and shall perform all Rodent-y duties including picking up parts, making meals and doing laundry. Also, The Rodent shall help look for lost tools, the misplaced telephone, missing keys and small parts that have been put down somewhere and now can’t be found.

Addendum: The Rodent shall also smile, nod and make appropriate sounds of support during random outbreaks of cursing, finger pointing, and blaming.

For the most part I totally agree with the rules, except when it’s inconvenient and then I start looking for loop holes. Unfortunately there’s very little wiggle room in the ‘earnings’ section of the rules. So, I am the Gopher / Gnaveren / La Rongeur / Das Nagetier! Whatever you want to call it……I am the rodent.

And don’t get me wrong either.  I don’t usually mind picking up parts because it keeps The Viking busy so he doesn’t bother me with little things like accomplishing something. Ordinarily, I like driving; I turn the music up too loud, sing terribly but loudly, conduct the orchestra and enjoy the sunshine. But I had plans!

Sure, I needed to go to the grocery store and pick up Lottery tickets but that would only take an hour out of my day. I would have plenty of time to write, right? Adding a jaunt to the other side of the city and back would take a significant chunk of my time though – especially when the City insists on throwing Construction zones in my way.

I can’t say for certain but I suspect that construction sites are where guys and, to a lesser degree, girls go to just hang out – like a daycare center for grown-ups. They laugh and play and generally do nothing until someone (The Viking?) tells them I need to go somewhere and suddenly they spring into action and stop traffic in all directions.

They also put people on the road with huge signs that say “SLOW”.  I don’t know why.  Don’t those people have enough challenges without being forced to stand on the side of the road with a sign? Are the Construction Gods hoping that I will feel so bad for the slow people that I won’t notice the Construction Zone? If that is their reasoning I would really like to see people standing there with signs that say “STILL DRUNK” or “SLEPT WITH THE BOSS’S WIFE” or “NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR”. Now that would brighten up my day and make me far happier slogging through construction zones!

Once I’m finally through the construction zone, I think people abandon their earth movers, backhoes and hard hats and informal games of baseball or soccer resume. It’s only a theory but it certainly would explain the ridiculous amount of time it takes to put an overpass together.

Anyway……….

I didn’t get my post done yesterday. Who knows what brilliance might have happened? Instead, I can only complain about lost opportunities and foiled plans. When I finally finished with my errands for the day and found myself sitting in front of the computer I was completely stumped. Zero inspiration. I trolled through Facebook. Nothing. The clock kept ticking and the cat kept laying on my boobs (It’s hard to think – not to mention type – when your boobs become lodgings for a pet). I played Solitaire for half an hour and felt guilty. I scrolled through my Reader. And then…….

The Bloggess has something new. Inspiration! She hadn’t accomplished anything either except forgetting something that she didn’t know she knew. It makes more sense when she says it. However, I managed to slog through useless ideas, and several construction zones and found enough to say/complain about for a post.

I’m pretty sure that I’m not going to win a Pulitzer with it.  Not a single word of this post has fallen onto the page the way some posts do. This one was a slogfest. Edit after edit after edit. It seems less than what I would expect for two days work but here it is.

PS: The cat accidentally stepped on the adding machine paper advance and scared the living shit out of herself. Best thing that happened all day.  Or yesterday, for that matter.

Slog

Culture, Throwing Axes and Tradition

It can be no surprise that a woman born and raised in Canada and a man raised in Denmark may have a few culture clashes. Sometimes they are just little discussions and other times they are nothing less than Shield Walls, Throwing Axes and shouted Curses. And, as you may suspect, The Viking is better at shouting curses than I am. He’s also the one who taught me every single thing I know about the Danes.

Here is a list of things that are affected by our cultural differences:

Food

Especially pork because Canadians have absolutely no idea how to cut up a pig, apparently. Also Pickled Herring, Thin brown cardboard called Rye Bread, Red Cabbage, Licorice Liqueur/Shooters/Candy and anything Cheese.

Me: What do you mean we don’t eat Turkey?! Everybody eats Turkey!

The Viking: I fucking hate Turkey. In Denmark we eat Pork Roast, Duck, Caramel Potatoes, Plain Potato chips and a side of Pickled Red Cabbage.

Me: Caramel Potatoes? That sounds horrible! You are supposed to eat Mashed Potatoes with Pork Roast! Duh!

The Viking: That’s bullshit. You never, ever, ever, ever serve Mashed Potatoes with Pork Roast. They are merely boiled – not Mashed. It’s fucking tradition!

Me: So when do I get Turkey and Stuffing and Mashed Potatoes and Corn Casserole and Sweet Potatoes and Pumpkin Pie?!

The Viking totally ignoring me: On New’s Year Eve we will have a Julefrokost.

Me: Not Turkey again?! Fuck!! Easter? What do Danes eat for Easter? Let me guess…..Pork Roast again?  Ham?  Thanksgiving? Nevermind, I’ll just guess.

 

Gifts

They don’t give gifts to each other, I guess. Gifts are a symptom of over-commercialization and spoils the true meaning of Christmas which is to watch Nisseman (Elves) on TV and then feed them a bowl of rice, boiled to a stew-like state with one almond in it; the first Nisseman that chokes to death on the almond wins a small toy. At least that’s what I think it’s all about. I find it all confusing.

Me: What?! No gifts? Where’s the fun in that?!

The Viking: It’s bullshit! You spend all your money buying junk for people who don’t even appreciate it and then you spend the next six months trying to pay it off.

Me: Not everyone does that. I’ll admit that some people do that but I don’t.

The Viking: If you want something go buy it yourself! I bought you a Dryer last month and that’s your Christmas gift!

Me: But I want to give you gifts. I would rather give one than receive one anyway.

The Viking: Not good for the fucking wallet, now is it!

Me: Sigh.

 

Walls

They must be painted white. Always white. Actually, everything has to be white. Kitchen cabinets, tables & chairs, carpets, dishes and flooring. Except the ceiling which is wood that has been white-washed.

Me: Why is everything so white?

The Viking: Because it’s usually overcast through the winters in Denmark and white brightens things up.

Me: What about the summer? Don’t they get blinded by the glare when it’s sunny?  Don’t they lose all depth perception like people with snow blindness?

The Viking: It looks neat and clean.

Me: A lovely caramel color on the walls would look bright and neat and clean, too.

The Viking: Caramel is for Potatoes.

Me: Sigh.

 

Beds

They don’t share bedding. Ever. Each person has their own Duvet which they wrap themselves in to sleep. When they get up in the morning, they fold their Duvet lengthwise and lay it on the mattress.

Me: But that’s UGLY!

The Viking: Who’s going to see it?

Me: Someone might see it if they walk all the way down the hallway.

The Viking: …..

Me: Well, I would see it! It should be a beautiful room not something that would look comfortable as a University dorm room! It should be a place that exudes love!

The Viking: I don’t need a fucking room to remind me that I love you!

Me: Ack!! It’s not about that! Well it is about that but it’s also about an intimate and inviting environment, Dammit! Nothing ruins the mood for me faster than Frat Boy Décor!

The Viking: Fuck’s sake! It doesn’t look that bad!

Me: YES IT DOES! It looks awful! I want to stop and admire what a beautiful bedroom we have instead of looking away from the ugliness, shielding my eyes with my hands so I don’t get an accidental freak peek.  I have to walk into the room backwards so I don’t have to look at the horribleness! Gawd!!!

Christmas Decorating

They cut out paper Nisseman and paste them all over the house. The tree is decorated with crafty woven paper heart-shaped pockets and filled with candy…..licorice, no doubt. The tree skirt is burlap. Yes, you read that right, burlap. They put real candles on the tree, light them up and then dance around it singing Christmas Carols.

Me: Wait. I can’t put all the decorations I’ve been carefully collecting for the past 25 years on the tree?

The Viking: Your decorations aren’t even Christmasy. You can put a couple on but then we should put traditional Christmas Balls and paper heart pockets on it. Mostly paper heart pockets.

Me: So I have to make these things?

The Viking: You can buy little kits with pre-cut paper at the Danish Store.

Me: So I have to make these things?

The Viking: I can help you.

Me:  Do I have to fill it with Licorice or can I put something delicious in them?

The Viking:  You can put whatever the fuck you want in them.

Me: I have to cut out all these Nissemen? What if I cut myself? I’ve never had to do arts and crafts that could kill me for Christmas before. Why can’t they be perforated or something to make it less Arthritis-y?

The Viking: I can help you.

Me: Somehow I doubt that. And I have to put a crudely stamped, burlap tree skirt around the tree instead of my beautiful iridescent, gold-beaded skirt?

The Viking: What does your skirt have to do with Christmas?

Me: It is embroidered with golden Christmas Trees! What makes your Burlap skirt Christmasy aside from the stamped Candle on it?!

The Viking: It’s TRADITIONAL!! Fucksakes!!

Me: There is no way our arms will reach around this tree so we can dance around it singing carols.  And, by the way, that’s probably a dangerous thing for me to do.  One slip of the foot and the whole house could burn down.

The Viking: We can skip that part. But we should have candles.

Me: Isn’t that a fire hazard? A passing Fireman could look in the window and see the live candles burning next to the tinder dry branches! He might think he needs to save us so breaks the window and starts throwing snow on the tree! Wait! What if it’s a brown Christmas like last year?! He might have to PEE on the TREE! I’m not cleaning that up!

The Viking:  For fucksakes!  We only light the candles while we are singing carols and then we blow them out!

Me:  Fair warning:  I only know the dirty version of the Twelve Days of Christmas.

The Viking:  Sigh.

 

hansisland_png_653x0_q80_crop-smart
Hans Island

Thankfully, The Viking and I are reasonable people and I’m pretty sure I can convince him to let me have Turkey, Stuffing, Mashed Potatoes, Corn Casserole, Sweet Potatoes and Pumpkin Pie sometime in the next 5 years. After all, if the Danes and the Canadians can leave each other whiskey on a deserted but contested island for over 30 years, I should be able to have turkey.

Canadians and Danes leave each other whiskey gifts on Hans Island

PS: Once again, I learned every single thing I know about Danes from The Viking. Address all complaints to him. Thank you.

PPS: I actually love our Julefrokost! It’s just him and me but we get smashed on Akvavit and share our love and laughter and it’s amazing.

Streaking and A Change in Scheduling

I was sitting at my computer last night, playing a mindless card game, wasting time until I could justify going to bed. But then there was a commotion in the hallway and muffled curses from the bathroom. I smiled.

The Viking has a shower every night before bed because he’s a motorcycle mechanic and he gets dirty. Izzie joins him in the shower because water fascinates her. It’s ‘their thing’. Every night Izzie waits patiently until The Viking streaks from the bedroom to the bathroom – okay, it’s a very slow streak but he’s still streaking. I can provide proof if it’s absolutely necessary but I’m hoping you’ll just take my word for it.

Last night there was a change in scheduling though. The Viking’s plumbing decided that what should have happened in the morning would now happen at night, just prior to his shower. In order to save time, he streaked….struck?….Straked?….to the bathroom even though he had something else to do before he got in the shower.

Try explaining that to a cat!  Especially to a cat that has been waiting for several hours for The Streaking Viking already and now finds the bathroom door firmly closed against her.

Izzie: Woooaaaahhh! Muuwah! Aaaaa!

The Viking yelling through the bathroom door: Izzie! Stop it!

Izzie: Aaaaaaa!!! Eeeeooowww!! Muuaa!

The Viking: I’m taking a shit, for fuck’s sake!

Izzie, slapping the bathroom door like a drummer in a rock band: Waaaaaa! Aagg!!!

The Viking: You don’t want to be in here! It smells like shit!

Izzie, now sticking one front leg all the way under the door, slapping the inside of the door, and the floor for good measure: Wah!! Eeeeeeoowww! Eeyahh! Wooaahh!

The Viking: Go away!!

Izzie: Eeeyaaahh!! Muuuuaa!!

The Viking: Fuck sakes! You’re going to smell like shit too!! Okay, fine!

The bathroom door opens and then closes quickly. This is actually an impressive feat because the door isn’t all that close to the toilet; there is significant leaning and stretching involved in the maneuver.

The house becomes quiet. For a minute or two. Then, very muffled, I hear a little squeak.

Izzie: Waah?

The Viking: …..

Izzie: Waahh??

The Viking: …..

Izzie: Wah!!

The Viking: I told you it smells like shit in here! Now you have to wait until I’m done.

Izzie: Waaaaaaahhh.

The Viking: Maybe this will teach you to let me take my shits in peace.

Izzie: …..

The Viking: Uuhhkk! Don’t touch that!

Izzie: …..

The Viking: For Fuck’s Sake!! You know you’re not allowed to do that! Leave the paper alone!!

Izzie: …..

The Viking: NO! Don’t do it!

Izzie: …..

The Viking: I need that now! No! Give me that!

Izzie: …..

The Viking: You little Fucker!!

The toilet flushes.

The Viking: Wait! No!! Let me clean it out first! Stop it! Fucks sake! Toilet flushes again. Okay. There!

2 minutes into the shower The Viking is whistling and cooing endearments to Izzie who is happily slapping water droplets on the floor.

Toilet Paper, a Swiss Army Knife and a Massacre

Saturday was Viking Days at the Danish Canadian Museum. The Viking and I were…..well, not giddy exactly….but pretty excited. We’ve never attended a Viking Massacre before.  Now that I think about it though, perhaps The Viking didn’t think this whole plan through because maybe I shouldn’t be trusted with knowledge involving massacre-ing Vikings. I’m only human, after all, and not always in a good mood. But…..too late now! It’s not like I can un-learn it.

We stuffed the Goldwing with a blanket, Swiss Army Knife, food, water, sandals, a sweater each, next of kin notification in a fire-proof box, driver’s licenses, bear spray, antacids, matches in a water proof/fire proof container, Tylenol, first aid kit, night vision goggles, extra earphones, a jerry can full of gas, a machete, compass, toilet paper, bug spray and The Viking’s contribution – an extra set of helmets (Don’t even ask because I can’t explain it).

I was in charge of what to pack while The Viking was in charge of complaining about what I wanted to pack.

I shouldn’t have to explain this every single time we want to go somewhere but apparently I do. Things happen when you leave home:

  • We could be hit by a car because the driver was texting 911 as he was having a heart attack.
  • An abnormally large insect could smash through the windshield of the bike, through the mask on his helmet and lodge itself in his left eye causing us to careen out of control, over an embankment and blow up in a fiery explosion. Admittedly, Polysporin probably wouldn’t be much help in this instance but maybe we would survive and then it would come in handy.
  • One of the Vikings could go rogue and we’d be forced to fight for our lives with our bare hands until we could steal a battle axe and then we would have to flee into the woods and maybe get lost and have to spend the night huddled together for warmth under a tree.
  • One of us could get heartburn from our picnic lunch.
  • There could be an earthquake and we might be cut off from civilization for whole minutes where my cell phone won’t work and we’ll have to make a fire to send smoke signals to the kids that we’re okay and that we will find them one day soon.
  • My earphones may stop working which would be a disaster because all I will be able to listen to is muffled wind or worse…..The Viking’s choice of music.  Shudder.
  • We could run out of gas on one of those range roads and suddenly the movie ‘Deliverance’ could happen and we’d have to slog our way through steamy swamps to escape.
  • One of us may need to pee/poo while we’re on one of those range roads and squatting in the ditch behind a shrub might become necessary and we’ll hope this doesn’t coincide with the scenario above because that would be really embarrassing.
  • We could be attacked by a bear while we are stopped for a drink so we have to stand and fight it to the death.   Or hit it with bear spray.
  • What if we’re motorcycle-jacked and have to track the culprits down and take our revenge?
  • What if your tipping maneuver going around corners does what physics says it should do and we slide and I’m spit out by centrifugal force to land in a stranger’s car? I should probably pack a box of chocolates or something to say thanks for the great catch.
  • What if we break down and have to catch a ride in the back of a truck hauling 3 pigs and a goat? I should pack a big jug of Febreez.

The possibilities for catastrophe are infinite! The Viking might swear and grouch but if something ever did happen he’d be like “You are the best woman ever! So smart! Thank Gawd I have you or I’d be fucked!  I’m so sorry for yelling at you.  Can you ever forgive me?” Or something like that.

So, loaded up and dressed in my best facsimile of Biker Gear, we headed out. We met Mim and Darb part way, who then proceeded to make The Viking and I feel stupid by pointing out that Mim has a GPS on her phone and doesn’t need the 18 pages of directions we printed at home. Fuck.

We had to take one gravel road which is never fun on a motorcycle and it’s even less fun when you are following a vehicle. By the time we hit pavement again we looked like those sand creatures from Star Wars. Why didn’t I think to bring our Shark Vacuum?! I should have known we might need to vacuum ourselves off!  Instead, we had to spend 5 minutes smacking the shit out of each other to get most of the dust out of our clothes.

The weather was beautiful at the Museum and crowds were already gathering for the big Massacre. We found a great vantage point on a grassy knoll and sat down to wait for blood and gore.

Soon, a big guy decked out in chainmail, helmet, shield and sword strode into the impromptu arena and started declaring himself the best warrior ever. And then another guy came out and declared the first guy was ‘Full of Shit’ and a fight ensued where the second guy died and the ‘full of shit’ guy proved he actually wasn’t ‘full of shit’. A woman came out and declared that she was a Shield Maiden and would kick his warrior ass but instead, promptly died. Booooooo! Boooooo!!

Another 4 guys came out trying to prove the first guy was ‘full of shit’ but they all died too which left no one for him to kill.  The crowd shouted ‘MEAD’! and all the dead people came back to life so the first guy could kill them all over again. By then he was just being a bully.

The violence ended when an army of children arrived, armed with short pool noodles and massacred every Viking on the field. The crowd shouted ‘MEADE’! again and all the dead people came back to life so they could be massacred all over again. The death and violence was awesome and it was great to see all the kids dressed up for massacre-ing with their little helmets and shields. Good wholesome fun! I wish my parents had taken me massacre-ing when I was young. I would probably be a much better Viking now.

There were some very good artisans set up and we enjoyed browsing. The Viking bought me a beautiful set of amber ear rings (I hope we don’t get robbed on our way back to the bike because I left the machete in the side bag) and we found out where we can buy free-range pigs. That in itself was worth the admission fee.

The trip home was uneventful except for the Iced Maple Cappuccino we stopped for in Olds, which turned out not to be an event but delicious anyway. So we didn’t need the machete for sure. Or the night vision goggles and the water proof matches.

I’m sure that the next time we want to go somewhere The Viking will cite this one trip as evidence that we don’t need such things as Machetes or Night Vision Goggles. But he’s not in charge of what we pack. I am. He’s only in charge of The Complaints Department and the Putting It All In The Vehicle Department.

Because that’s what he’s good at.

 

If You Suddenly Smell Flowers……

I never thought I would need to write about this but it’s become a very big issue lately. It’s so big, in fact, that I’ve resorted to carrying a can of Air Freshener and a large fan.

When our bathroom was renovated The Viking wisely found the largest, fastest, smell-suckingest fan on the market. It’s like a jet engine; it spools up with a whine as it reaches its full rpms and our hair gets pulled toward the ceiling. This is a small house with only one bathroom and the fan plays an important role in our marital happiness.

Ordinarily, it’s The Viking who needs the fan most. We eat the same things but his body does something with food that my body doesn’t. He’s very good about closing the door and turning on the fan but every once in a while I’m concerned Cadaver Dogs will come calling.

Full Disclosure: I will admit to one evening 3 months ago when something happened in my digestive tract. I sat in the livingroom, watching a movie, silently leaking noxious odors and covertly looking at The Viking to see if he could smell what I could smell. And every time, he just continued to watch TV like everything was fine. I was having difficulty keeping a straight face because I couldn’t remember a time when I leaked anything that smelly and because smelly farts are just funny.  Particularly to the Farter.  And the fact that my eyes were watering made it even funnier!

The weird thing is that I was farting in an almost constant stream but 3 out of 4 of those farts were completely innocent, non-smelly, quiet gusts of wind.  However, at one point Izzie woke from her nap in my lap, gave me a nasty look and stomped over to the trunk in front of the window to continue her nap.   And still The Viking said nothing.  The fucking cat, that plays in her own litter box, couldn’t stand the smell but The Viking could?!

Finally, after at least an hour of toxic emissions:

Me: “Oh come on! Can you not smell this!?”

The Viking: Yes.

Me: So why haven’t you left the room?!  Or told me to leave the room?

The Viking: It’s a good movie.

Me: You are willing…..sucking breath in…..to inhale…..Bahahaha!…….noxious fumes so……I can’t breath!……you don’t have to……..wipes tears from eyes……pause the movie?  Didn’t you see…….wiping more tears from eyes……the Cat?!

The Viking: It’s just farts!  It’s not like you shit on the sofa!  And yes, I did see the cat and I almost laughed out loud.  I wanted to know how long you would keep this up without saying anything.

I was laughing so hard I peed my pants a little bit.  Not once in the past hour did he wave a hand in front of his face or try to blow the stink away.  He did attend a boarding school though so I can only assume his odor detectors are fried.

Aside from that one and only time, I emit flowery fragrances. If you’re in our house and you suddenly smell flowers – it’s me. I did that. It’s a gift.

The Viking usually gives a loud courtesy horn that an odor may be seeping into the room and I really appreciate it. If it’s a bad one, he says, “Phew! Sorry, Babe!” and I run. I once walked into the garage to give him a message and it was like walking into a very large and very stinky wall.  I shouted the message from 6 feet away.

Izzie isn’t quite as polite. Day before yesterday, she was in her Cat Castle, ostensibly sleeping, but about every 15 minutes or so a horrible smell floated past my desk while I was trying to work. I waved my hand under my nose and gave her a filthy look but she was smiling.  Payback I assume.

Izzie has also discovered that she loves water, so anytime anyone – especially The Viking – goes into the bathroom she streaks in behind them before they get the door closed. She’s hoping the water in the sink will accidentally be left on so she can do the Hokey Pokey and shake water all around. The real trouble is when The Viking is done with his deposit because it takes him extra time to get Izzie out of the room. That extra time means extra smell seepage and greater spreadage and there is a limit to what the Jet Fan can do.

And then Junior showed up last night. We chatted for a little while then he needed to pee. But he didn’t pee! He pooed! And he didn’t turn the fan on either! After he left I needed to pee. I opened the door to the bathroom and immediately fainted. Holy Shit!! What in the hell is that guy eating?! Due to his fried odor detectors, The Viking braved his way to the fan switch and grabbed the air freshener. It took the combined efforts of both of us to tame that Stink.

We’ve considered putting in a second bathroom – a Poop Room – but we’d have to give up a closet and we don’t have enough of them in the first place. Maybe I should just get one of those nose thingys that Synchronized Swimmers have. They look like they could keep out smells but that would make me a ‘mouth-breather’ and I couldn’t handle the stigma involved.

But look what I did find! I could stuff the beak full of flowers and other nice smelling things. FYI, these are not my pictures. I found them by Googling “beaked masks”.

For everyday wear.
For everyday wear.
For Formal Wear
For Formal Wear
For Family Functions
For Family Functions

And also, Fart Patches for underwear. I wouldn’t have to wear a Beaked Mask at all if people – and certain cats – were responsible Farters!  It might be uncomfortable to remove the patch from Izzie’s rear end though – for both of us.

Not my picture
Not my picture, Googled it.

And on this note I’ll bid you ‘farewell, see you again’ because I’ve had 3 cups of coffee and I need to pee. The Viking made his deposit an hour ago so I think the stink should be gone!

Telepathy, Shit and Leonardo Da Vinci

When I first met The Viking just over 9 years ago I didn’t have high hopes that we’d end up in a long-term relationship. At first blush we didn’t have much in common. He’s a guy’s guy while I am a girly girl who has man hands and, among other things, big feet. However, according to him he started falling in love with me when he saw my car had a manual transmission. That’s as good a foundation for a long-lasting relationship as any other. Right?

When I moved in with him I brought all my shit from my condo. And my shit wasn’t shit because I had collected it over the 4 years since I had left my husband. It was shit that made me happy, shit that made me smile every time I saw it.  It was shit that reminded me to take care of my soul and to find joy every where I happen to be. The Viking’s household shit though was mostly shit. Wal-Mart shit. Shit that a guy’s guy would buy to serve a function regardless of sex appeal. But his shit was his shit and my shit was my shit and we squared off in front of our respective piles of shit to decide what shit to keep and what shit to trash.

Continue reading “Telepathy, Shit and Leonardo Da Vinci”

Bruised Boobs, Neon Socks and Herman Munster Shoes

I stuck earphones in my ears and then encased my head in foam, rubber and hard plastic yesterday. It was so tight that every little bit of fat, muscle and skin on my head was pushed up toward my eyes and nose and made me look like a Shar Pei.  Yup, we went for a ride on the old motorcycle.  I pushed as much of my face as possible back into the helmet so I could at least see, but cheeks being cheeks, they weren’t overly cooperative.

Continue reading “Bruised Boobs, Neon Socks and Herman Munster Shoes”