Category: Things we do

Good Golly Miss Molly!

We babysat our youngest grandchild this past weekend and it went surprisingly well. Molly was a totally different child than she was the last time we babysat – a few weeks when they are just over a year old makes a huge difference. Last time she was a ‘mouth-wide-open’ screamer totally determined to punish her mother for abandoning her even when her mother wasn’t there to appreciate the punishment. Apparently, she was fully capable of crawling, but we saw zero amount of that; she was just a screaming lump in the middle of the living room.

This time was shockingly different. The Viking and I spent most of the time just staring at her like she was a changeling. We had only babysat a month previous – how can this little human be the same human from a month ago? The whole experience was a revelation.

The Highlights
  • She mastered the sippy cup. Last time she wouldn’t even pick it up. This time she was a rockstar, one-handing it and performing stunts as she drained the last drop of juice.
  • SHE WALKS! And runs! All around the house like it was an Olympic Speed Walking track. She stuck her little hand up to grab my finger and started dragging me around behind her. Amazing.
  • She loves getting her hair combed. Especially if you accidentally squirt her in the face with a water bottle. When she woke up in the morning, her hair was kind of knotted and sticking in all directions and I thought I should get her looking spiffy for her mom. I assumed I needed to sneak up on her because who likes getting the knots out of their hair when they are 14 months old? She turned around at the last second and got a face full of water and it wasn’t even warm. SHE GIGGLED! I started combing her hair and she got that look on her face that everyone on the planet makes when they are getting a head massage. She grabbed for the spray bottle and tried to squirt herself and when that didn’t work, she handed it back to me. So, I sprayed her in the face again and combed. And again. And again. Until the bottle was empty and she still wanted more.
  • The turkey baster is no longer her favourite toy.

  • She has the smelliest farts I’ve ever been forced to smell.
  • She found a remote control and held it to her ear like it was a phone. She went to the kitchen and started chatting on the ‘phone’, so The Viking and I started answering her from the other room and the conversation became quite complex.
  • She is an epic chair dancer.
  • She TALKS! I had given her a sippy cup of juice and when she had no interest in it, I set it on the table. An hour later she stood beside me, reached toward the table and demanded “JUICE!” Well, knock me over with a feather.
  • She has a stuffed sloth that is almost as big as she is, and she never puts it down.
  • She squinches her face when she smiles and it’s fucking adorable.
  • Watching her facial expressions is like looking in a mirror. She has a ‘what-the-fuck’ face.
  • Fruitloops received the ‘what-the-fuck’ face. Pretzels didn’t and are the preferred snack after grapes.
  • When she poops, she gets this still face and faraway look like she’s listening to aliens.
  • Cook an egg for her and she stuffs it in her mouth with both hands and no, she doesn’t want a spoon, thank you very much.
  • She gives hugs for no reason at all. It’s a ‘wrap her arms around your neck and lays her head on your shoulder’ kind of hug that makes you feel warm and squishy inside.

So, it was a win. More than just a win, though. It was a spectacular success! The one takeaway was that we don’t have enough toys to entertain Molly and keep her mind working. Lids off Tupperware containers and pill bottles filled with beads won’t cut it anymore. And that’s how I found myself scrolling through dozens of listings on Facebook Marketplace. We want to be prepared for next time, after all.

A Naked Treasure Hunt and Aqua-Viking

The continuing saga of our vacation. Here’s a link to Part One.

The morning we were leaving, all the luggage bags were on the floor at the back door and the neighbours were getting out their lawn chairs and spiked coffee. I was determined to cheat them out of the usual gong show and sing-along this time and I was about to find out if I succeeded.

The Viking selected the bags he wanted to load first and I trotted behind him, carrying the other two bags. I stopped well short of the bike and gently put down the bags. I was careful to avoid The Viking Stink Eye that happens when I get too close to luggage. While he called on his Gods to bless his packing, I went back in the house to dig out the jackets and helmets, cleaned the coffee pot, made sure the garbage and compost bucket were empty, changed the message on the answering machine, watered the plants, and put on my boots. Then I played Solitaire until he showed up sweaty and panting from all the packing. He looked like he’d been in a fist fight.

Our destination: Vernon, BC. We were managing to leave two full days earlier than we had anticipated, so we booked a hotel for the days before the cabin reservation kicked in. The Viking had scrolled through hundreds of hotels in the Vernon area until he found what he wanted – reasonably priced rooms and a pool. A POOL! Because not only is he a control freak about packing, he also has a water fetish.

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I don’t understand what it is with him and water. He’s like AquaViking! For me, a hotel with a pool is like going to Hawaii for a root canal. Sure, it’s great to be in Hawaii, but…well…you get my point. A pool means a bathing suit and it’s impossible to find a bathing suit I’m willing to wear in public. Apparently, the swimming costumes I am willing to wear went out of fashion in 1910.

It turned out that putting on my bathing suit wasn’t an issue after all. By the time we reached Vernon, the temperature had soared to over 30°C (86°F) and we were both melting in our big jackets and jeans. Our melting intensified while we reverse-VooDoo-ed all the packing and carried it to our room. Just so you know – The Viking allows me to help with unpacking the bike. Sure, he’s all…

“Be careful….ooooh….no! you have to….just a minute….watch out!….you can’t do that…..STOP!…for fucksake!” but he wore himself out once I had successfully unloaded a bag without breaking the bike into a million pieces.

I started peeling off clothes before the room door was completely closed. At that moment I really didn’t care what I looked like in a bathing suit if the pool could stop the sweating. Of course, it took quite a while to find the bathing suits because someone didn’t make a luggage map. It was sort of like a Naked Treasure Hunt, but I had to be careful with my nipples because the air conditioning was on ‘high’, and my boobs aren’t twenty anymore. My mood improved dramatically when we found that the pool was deserted, though.

The second thing I don’t understand about water: what are you supposed to do with yourself once you’re wet and no longer sweating? If I were a surfer or a water polo enthusiast, I would know exactly what to do in the water, but 1). The pool was too small for a surfboard and 2). Water polo usually has more than two people and we didn’t have a ball. So, I paddle around for a couple of minutes and then what? I have watched The Viking very carefully over the years to see exactly what he does in the water that he loves so much and as far as I can tell, he doesn’t do a damned thing. He just stands around. There wasn’t even something interesting on the wall except for a life preserver which seems a little redundant when the pool is only 3 meters (10 feet) by 6 meters (20 feet).

“I wonder how many times they’ve had to use that life preserver?”

“Probably never.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” End of conversation.

There was a clock on the wall, but it seemed to be mocking me. After 3 hours in the pool, I thought I could suggest we search for drinks back in the room, except the clock said we had only been there for 9 minutes.

I did notice an odd reflection on the door to the pool area. There were trees and about 5 flags, but when I looked at the windows all I could see was blue sky. I spent about 10 minutes trying to locate the source of the reflection. I even went so far as to get out of the pool and stand in front of the door, but I still couldn’t see anything. The Viking was wondering what I was doing, and he started looking too.  It was a mystery.  So, we gave up and went back to standing around doing nothing. It was probably the best time I’ve had in a body of water since my last water polo game – in 1975.

Nine hundred years later….

“Maybe we should go back to the room and have a couple of drinks.”

“Are you sure? We can stay longer if you want. I’m quite happy here.” I was already running for my towel.

“No. I’m done here.”

Drinks in the room, dinner in the hotel restaurant, and a quick tidy of the exploded luggage. I curled up to read, my head resting on The Viking’s stomach.

“Do you know that we didn’t have a single ‘incident’ today? Yes, there were a few stabby, snarky comments when we were unloading the bike and melting, but overall, it was a good day.”

“They were your stabby, snarky comments.”

“Hmmm. I think there were a couple from you.”

“Nope. All you.”

“Really? That doesn’t sound like me at all. I am the soul of kindness.”

“HA!!” His stomach catapulted my head toward the ceiling. “A little bit of sweat and you turn into The Hulk.”

“Pfft! I don’t know what you’re even talking about.”

It Could Happen to Anyone!

Sigh. I don’t usually screw up this bad. I’ve honed a combination of anxiety, chronic over-planning, and self-doubt to such an advanced level that it’s rare that I forget something of such importance. Sure, the occasional toothbrush or deodorant gets missed, but they aren’t really important in the grand scheme of vacations.

In my defense, we were leaving for vacation a day earlier than the original plan because The Viking decided, and that condensed my preparations from two days into one day. That’s important because my usual pre-vacation check, check, triple check, self-doubt, check, check, second self-doubt, and a final check was cut off after just two checks, and I only had one day to run all errands and chores. Also, The Viking usually fuels up the bike the day before we leave so we just get on the bike and go first thing in the morning, but this time he decided he should mess with our scientifically proven process of vacationing and would fuel up on the way out of the city. In other words, we were throwing all caution to the wind and recklessly hoping the Vacation Gods were in our favour. They weren’t.

The first sign of the colossal clusterfuckery headed my way happened at the gas station before we ever left the city. The Viking opened his wallet to pull out the credit card to stick into the pump….

“Where the fuck is the credit card?!!!”

During one of those errands the day before, I needed the credit card, so I just stuck the card in my wallet. Had I returned the card to his wallet immediately, he would have been none the wiser, but I hadn’t and that one little thing was nothing short of a sin of biblical proportions and, trust me on this, The Viking is extremely good at pinpointing sins of biblical proportions and exactly who is to blame for those sins of biblical proportions. And, since I didn’t need my wallet on the first day, it was buried in the depths of Jolene’s over-stuffed side bags. At that point, we both decided that it was easier to just pay with cash than scatter our belongings all over the parking lot of the gas station to find my wallet. We should have known better. This is what happens when we fly by the seat of our pants, with no method to our madness. And, had The Viking fueled up Jolene the day before, he would have caught my clusterfuck. But, he didn’t. Our fate was inescapable at that point.

So, we drove four and a half hours, blissfully ignorant. We pulled into the parking lot of our pre-booked hotel and dug out my wallet.

Time.

Stopped.

Blink. Blink.

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My wallet did not contain the credit card.

The Viking grabbed my wallet out of my hands and looked for himself. No credit card. He pulled his wallet out again and nope, no credit card.

Shit.

The Viking started a curse-y stream of mutterances of doom and the ending of all our hopes and dreams forever more, while I prepared for the biblical consequences of my clusterfuck. How could I have lost the credit card?! If it wasn’t in either wallet, then it had to be in my coat pocket or still sitting on the counter at the parts store.

The Vacation Gods must have decided to give us a small bit of luck though when the hotel desk person didn’t ask to see the credit card. We had booked and paid for the room on Expedia, but usually, we are asked for the card anyway. This time they didn’t, so at least we had a bed for the night.

Six o’clock the next morning, we loaded Jolene up again and drove four and a half hours back to Calgary in sub-arctic temperatures which The Viking had tried to avoid by leaving a day early!

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I ran for my coat and…no credit card!

I ran to the car and frisked it thoroughly…no credit card!!

I must have left it on the counter at the parts store. My head was ready to explode. I don’t lose things! How could I have lost THE CREDIT CARD of all things?! The Viking was pacing.

I reached for the phone to call the parts store, and there, on the top of The Viking’s computer tower, was the credit card. I almost cried. It took me only a second to realize that I must have been sidetracked on my way to put the credit card in The Viking’s wallet. A phone call? A customer? With the panic of changed plans and the parts run and talking with the house sitter and getting more cat food and finishing laundry and customers coming at the last minute…it could happen to anyone.

So, 8 hours of driving just to get back to where we started, and then another 8 hours to go where we wanted to go and where we had a hotel room waiting for us. A 12-hour driving day. And it was fucking cold until we got back to where we started that morning.

In a post-apocalyptic clusterfuck de-brief we decided that getting a second card for me to keep in my wallet at all times would protect his card from being pinched from his wallet and the $100.00 for that second card was more than worth it.

Pickles and Lotion

One more sleep and we’re on holidays. A motorcycle holiday, no less. We have a hotel room in Trail, BC for a base and will take day trips from there.

The Viking lovingly freed Jolene from her winter clothes and checked her over for any possible concerns. He bought a new GPS since Jolene’s is making noises about retirement and wanting a pension. He also bought a dash cam. Don’t worry though, it doesn’t have a microphone in case cursing happens and an insurance adjuster or a cop needs to see footage. It just makes sense to proactively avoid offending anyone who may or may not approve an insurance claim.

I, as usual, am in charge of making lists and piles of things we need to take with us. The Viking is in charge of packing it all in bags and wedging them into Jolene’s trunk and side bags. Because he’s a control freak and doesn’t think I have the skills to pack a bag. I do, of course, but I’m not prepared to die on that hill when I can just sit back and watch him do all the work. I just offer drinks and snacks while I play Solitaire.

“How’s it going in there? Do you need a drink or a snack?” I don’t even bother getting up from the computer.

“NO! Why in the fuck do you need eight different jugs of lotion?!”

“Because I have eight different lotion requirements for my body. Face lotion, hand lotion, foot lotion, arm lotion, leg lotion, and three different lotions that overlap so no part of my old lady skin is left un-lotion-ed.” I answer over my shoulder.

“For fucksakes! You get ONE LOTION!!”

Control Freak. “Fine! But, if I pre-maturely age while we’re on vacation it’s your fault.” Heavy sigh.  “If I am forced to choose, and you are forcing me, I need the face lotion because it has sunscreen and then the hand lotion because face lotion is too expensive to use on my whole body and hand lotion doesn’t have sunscreen.”

I hear the rattling of lotion containers bouncing across the living room floor. There is muttering and cursing, but I don’t even pay attention anymore. If he wasn’t such a control freak, he wouldn’t be in this situation.

After about 10 minutes. “WHAT THE FUCK?!”

I was wondering when he would get to that. He took so long I thought maybe he missed it. Or, more likely, knew immediately that I was fucking with him because he’s a control freak and just put the extra-large jar of pickles to the side without a word. The 8 jugs of lotion were on purpose, too, but he fell for that.

And, sure, I suppose I shouldn’t fuck with him when he’s in the middle of a complex and grandiose packing plan, but I can’t just let the whole control freak thing go without some sort of punishment, can I? Give him a pass and what’s next? He’ll be organizing my purse or going through the freezer and pointing out things that have been in there since 2017. Or insist on driving whenever we go some place together.

Wait…

…

…

I probably should have been on top of this way before now.

I’m Too Lazy to be a Criminal

The Viking and I have computers sitting right beside each other – it’s a marriage-saving strategy so we don’t have to share. Everyone knows that there are limits to love and generosity when it comes to time on Facebook and YouTube.

In my downtime, I like to listen to documentaries on YouTube while I play Solitaire – it helps me to unwind – but because The Viking is sitting right next to me, he is forced to listen to whatever I’m listening to, and sometimes it’s a problem.

If I’m learning about the Hittites and their social hierarchies, The Viking usually just tunes it out. On the other hand, if I’m listening to expert opinions on western expansion, or the decline of the middle class, he becomes extremely interactive. Curses and shouts, to the point that I can’t hear the video over Viking political views. The cats usually rocket out the cat door to escape the heated and sometimes lengthy debate between The Viking and YouTube.

In order to protect YouTube’s feelings and the judgemental dagger stares from the cats, I’ve narrowed down the safe topic selection to……murder/crime.  Thankfully, YouTube has an extensive number of channels offering as much gore and dodgy motives as a person could hope for.

After months of videos, it occurred to me……

Me: I don’t think I can be a murderer. There is far too much work involved.

The Viking: If there was no work involved would you reconsider?

Me: Hmmm…..you know, there have been moments…..but, even if no work was involved, I would still have to be a good liar in case someone started asking questions and we both know that I am a lousy liar.

The Viking: …

Me: What surprises me most is how willing these criminally minded people are to work so hard for so little personal gain. This guy, for instance – he just wanted some weed and whatever cash he could find lying around his girlfriend’s house. He ends up going to a great deal of effort to murder her, then clean up the blood, replace the carpet, dismember the body, dig holes in various remote locations to bury the body parts, and then manufacture a fake alibi. That’s a lot of work. AND, he had to do it all in like 6 hours. I can barely de-bone a chicken in 6 hours.

The Viking: …

Me: Also, have you noticed that everyone involved in solving a crime is given the title of “Forensic”? Forensic Accountants, Forensic Shoe Print Analysists, Forensic Water Analysists, Forensic Internet Specialists, Forensic Reporters. My favorite is the Forensic Hypnotist who hypnotised a witness to get a partial license plate number. So, I suppose as long as you are talking about a crime, anyone can be a Forensic Something.

The Viking: …

Me: How many times a day do you get annoyed because someone has treated their machine with criminal neglect? That makes you a Forensic Mechanic! Right? I’m going to put that on your business cards.

The Viking (snorting): What does that make you?

Me: A Forensic Chef. Forensic Laundress. Forensic Business Accountant. Forensic Shopper. And a Forensic Wife. I’m going to need bigger cards.

The Viking (almost eyeball rolling): Really?

Me: You’ve never heard me folding your laundry when every t-shirt is inside out. You’re just going to have to believe me when I say I’m entertaining criminal thoughts. And don’t get me started on family reunions in grocery store aisles.

The Viking: A Forensic Chef?

Me: Every time I ruin a meal. Every. Time. All that wasted time and food. That’s criminal all on its own.

The Viking had to give me a point for that because it’s absolutely true and we both know it.

Meet the MoFos

Having Grandchildren is surprisingly easy.  And, unsurprisingly, The Viking is a stellar baby cuddler/entertainer.  He’s a Viking on the outside and a marshmallow on the inside.  Don’t tell anyone though, because we don’t want to encourage our enemies.  Okay.  We only have one enemy, but others could crop up over time.

While I plop down on the floor with Luna, the two-year-old, to play with Picasso Tiles, The Viking makes faces and plays peek-a-boo with Molly, the 6-month-old baby.  We’ve mastered the Tag Team method of child herding, changing diapers, and mixing formula powder.  Overall, we make a pretty good team.

Izzie has turned out to be extremely surprising.  We were a little anxious about how she would react to babies and toddlers given her previous behavior interacting with adults, but she follows Luna around constantly, jumping onto her cat tree if Luna gets a little touchy.  She’s brilliant.  Which is surprising.  We thought Teddy Bear would be the Baby Whisperer, but he prefers a less loud environment and heads for the cat door.

There is a small challenge though. The girls have 3 sets of Grandparents and we all need different titles so the girls know who is who when Mim talks about us.  Two of the Grandparent sets took the traditional titles which left The Viking and I to decide how we want to be addressed.  Easy Peasy!  We’ll use Danish terms.

A short lesson in the Danish language:  In Danish, Mor is the word for mother, and Far is the word for father.  But then it gets tricky.  When you talk about the mother of the child’s mother you say, Mor Mor – mom’s mom.  The father of the mother is Mor Far – mom’s dad.  There is a whole different set of combinations when you talk about the child’s father’s parents, but it’s not relevant right now. So, since I am the mother of Luna’s mom, I am Mor Mor.  The Viking is the stepfather of Luna’s mom so he is Mor Far.

The last time Mim brought the girls for a visit, she confided that Luna decided this whole Danish word jumble is too messy and too much so she calls us…….

………

………

The MoFos.

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I HAVE NEVER LOVED ANYTHING MORE!!

From this day forward……we are the MoFos!  I never want her to stop calling us that.  She can tell her friends that she loves her MoFos, that she’s going to visit her MoFos.  Her MoFos can come to her school pageants and concerts.  She can tell her other grandparents all about her MoFos.  She can introduce us as The MoFos to her teachers, Doctors, friends’ parents, employers, boyfriends/husband(s)……whatever!  And I certainly hope that Molly does the same thing when she starts talking.

Besides, if someone is shocked beyond words, the girls can just shrug and say, “It’s Danish!”  What are people going to do?  You can’t punish a kid for being bi-lingual.

girl hiding behind a white wall, isolated on a white background

 

 

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Joleeeeeene!

Wow!  It’s been a while, hasn’t it?  Life, though, right?  The everyday drudgery always seems to take more time than I have.  We did have a few moments to remember though.

The Viking got the New-To-Us Goldwing – Jolene* – put together and he spent quite a lot of time getting to know her.  Alarmingly, during one of our early rides, while I was sitting on my backseat throne, oblivious, enjoying my music and the scenery, The Viking was having a torrid love affair.  Right in front of me!  It turns out that Jolene is The Viking’s Dream Girl – he asks for more speed, and she just gives it to him.  No questions asked.  I can hear his ‘HeHeHeHe!” over my music and through my helmet every time he passes another vehicle.  I call it his George Bush laugh, which makes him laugh more, which makes me laugh more at his laugh.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that The Viking would cheat on me – he’s a sucker for horsepower.  Our old Goldwing was like driving a Ford Focus – Jolene is like driving a Bugatti or whatever the motorcycle equivalent is because he loves ‘really fast’!

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Except for women.  He doesn’t like his women to be ‘really fast’.  This shouldn’t surprise anyone either, given his choice of a wife.  I don’t do anything really fast.  I do try, but it usually ends with a broken something and a lecture.

Like any cheating spouse, The Viking started buying me stuff.  Like I wouldn’t know what he was doing.  First was an edgy motorcycle jacket with microdots that keep me cool even when it’s smoking hot outside.  Then came the motorcycle boots, motorcycle gloves, motorcycle rain suits, motorcycle luggage, and a motorcycle helmet with a built-in sun visor and hinges at the chinny part.  I can swivel half the helmet up so I can sip coffee or swill G&Ts while we’re riding.

He wanted to get us helmets with Bluetooth so we can talk as we go, but that was a hard NO.  The last thing I want while I’m enjoying the time in my head is a Viking rambling on and on about his mistress and all the ways he wants to fondle her when we get home.  He tried to sell it as a way for both of us to enjoy my music until I mentioned the Operas I like and then the helmets were too expensive anyway.

Still, we spent many weekends on the road and even managed a full week-long vacation.  Sadly, Jolene is a fair-weather strumpet, and she has been stored for the winter.  It hasn’t stopped The Viking talking about her though.  He’s already shopping for armrests for my throne and cup holders with special travel mugs.

Is he buying me off?  Of course, he is, but Jolene has been extremely effective in getting me out of cooking, cleaning, and making the bed.  I now have hotel cleaning staff, chefs, and drink mixers.  So, I’m not going to complain about the new Sister Wife.  Unless he starts sleeping with her.  I might draw the line there.

 

*Her original name was Lucille, but given her slutty ways, I’ve changed her name to better reflect her harlot/trollop/strumpet personality.

Do they look pointy to you?

I walked past a mirror last week and thought, “Geezus! Why are my boobs so low?” And, of course, the first thing that pops into my head is that stupid little song:

Do your boobs hang low?

Do they wobble to and fro?

Can you tie them in a knot?

Can you tie them in a bow?

Can you throw them over your shoulder 

like a continental soldier?

Do your boobs. Hang. Low?

The answer is Yes.  Definitely, Yes.

It seems that my bras have, spitefully, given up the fight.  All of them.  At the same time!  I couldn’t find a single bra that was willing to put in some effort.  It’s a whole-scale mutiny!  Sure, I’ve lost a little weight, but that’s no reason for a bra to stop trying.  Perhaps I haven’t treated them with the respect that manufacturers insist I use – I throw them directly in the washing machine – but it’s not like I’m scrubbing them on a washboard with lye soap.  If a bra can’t handle the mildly rough treatment of a washing machine on delicate cycle, it has no place in my life.  I have shit to do, places to go, a Viking to annoy.  I don’t have time to delicately swirl a bra in tepid water and sissy soap.  I am willing to hang them to dry though, sparing them the rigors of a dryer, but that’s as far as I go.

So now I have to bra shop, and there is only one thing worse than bra shopping, and that’s swimsuit shopping.  Ugh!

So, I’m test-driving bras.

The Viking: What the fuck are you doing?

Me (rolling my shoulders): I’m trying to get these stupid bra straps to sit properly on my shoulders.

Him: If it’s uncomfortable, why bother?

Me (bending over and flapping my boobs around to get them to sit nicely in the cups): Do they look pointy to you?

Him: …

Me (twisting around in front of the mirror): Gawd!!  There is fat spillage over the back strap!

Him: …

Me (looking down at my boobs): Are they pointing in different directions?  I’m pretty sure the left one is looking east and the right one is looking west.

Him: …

Me (bouncing up and down to judge supportive ability): What do you think? Will there be too much up and down movement when I’m walking?  Side to side movement?  I don’t want to be that one woman in the store whose boobs are making a spectacle of themselves.

Him:  What are you doing later?

Me:  When?  After dinner?

Him:  Or before.

Me:  Why?

Him:  I was just thinking that maybe I could help you get everything sorted with that bra.

Me:  I’m not sure that it’s a two-person job, because only one set of hands can fit in the cups at a ti……..Ohhhhhhh!

Him (wiggling his eyebrows): Now you’re getting it.

Me:  Lock the door.  We aren’t expecting anyone for a while……..

Clearly, bra testing isn’t all bad.  Particularly if a Viking happens to be in the room.

 

Lori Vs. Washing Machine

Once was a time when I thought there was something very wrong with me because I was very unloved.  When I first met The Viking, I told him my suspicions and he snorted at me.  Snorted!  I thought he should have fair warning so he could back out before he was in too deep, but hey, if he wanted to recklessly ignore my warnings I may as well play along because maybe he would never find out.  Sure, I suppose that could be construed as stringing him along if suddenly three years down the road something would happen, and he’d be like “Fuck!  There is something very wrong with you Lady!”.  But I would have three years, right?  Isn’t it easier to beg forgiveness than ask for permission?  That applies here, doesn’t it?  However, I was dealing with a Viking and didn’t have any peer-reviewed studies on Viking forgiveness.  Philosophically, I decided to be just as reckless as The Viking and stopped trying to convince him.  It’s his own fault if he eventually finds out.  He had his chance, after all.

The reason I’m mentioning it now is that I did a thing.  All by myself.  Without any input from The Viking.  In fact, he didn’t even know there was a thing and that I was doing that thing alone.  And the reason this is important is that The Viking loves me.  Lucky for me, he still hasn’t figured out what’s wrong and I’m smart enough not to bring it up.

We show each other our love in many different ways, but at the moment I’m talking about one specific way The Viking proves he loves me.

He does things for me.

And, just as importantly, I let him do things for me.  And that’s important because I’ve never had anyone to rely on, so I tend to just take care of things by myself.  Purposely allowing him to control/fix things is an actual act of love on my part.  So, it’s kind of a gift back at him to let him do things.  I know.  It’s complicated.

Anyway, he’s quite vigilant watching for moments when he can do things for me, which means that I frequently have a can yanked out of my hands so he can open it for me.  If I’m doing something and accidentally curse at whatever the fuck I’m doing, The Viking shows up immediately and takes over whatever the fuck I’m doing.  It’s like I can summon him, like a demon, with colorful curses.

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And that brings me to the thing I did.  I was doing laundry, and everything was going splendidly until Washing Machine decided to take a vacation.  I tossed in the clothes, closed the door, added detergent and poked the power button.

Nothing.

I said, “Hey!  What’s your problem?”  I checked that the door was completely closed and checked the fuses.

Still nothing.

Dryer was working just fine so it wasn’t a plug problem.

Well, shit.

My first thought was to summon The Viking with curses, because after 14 years I’ve become less dependent on my own resourcefulness.  Except, every once in a while, I feel like a loser when things are yanked out of my hands.  I’m an intelligent woman and I can figure out how to open a damned can!

Deciding to figure this out on my own, I went searching for the Owner’s Manual.  Finding the Owner’s Manual is a triumph all on its own since I have 14,927,062 places where I store Owner’s Manuals and I have Owner’s Manuals for things that we haven’t had for 10 years.  I managed though and flipped through to the Troubleshooting page.  It was written by a man.  Obviously.

Owner’s Manual:  Is it plugged into a power source?

Me:  Yes.  Ass.

OW:  Check your fuses?

Me:  Already did that.

OW:  Okay, I’m out of ideas.

Me:  I can’t believe I’m saving you.  You are not worthy of storage space.

Google was much more helpful and much less condescending by suggesting a reset.

Unplug Washing Machine.  While the machine is unplugged, poke and hold the power button for 5 seconds and then poke and hold the start/pause button for 5 seconds.  Plug Washing Machine back in.

AND IT WORKED!! WOO HOO!!  I HEALED WASHING MACHINE!!   VICTORY DANCE IN THE LAUNDRY ROOM!! 

I had been fully prepared to summon The Viking.  I had my curses ready to go.  For my own self-respect though, I wanted to do my due diligence.  There’s nothing worse than summoning The Viking only to find out I missed something a toddler could find.

After I finished my Victory Dance, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself.  I had proven that I am smarter than Washing Machine, and if I’m smarter than Washing Machine then I’m probably smarter than Dryer.  I wouldn’t take on Microwave or Refrigerator though, because that seems like a bridge too far and could result in a disastrous hit to my newly found confidence.  It’s probably for the best that I quit while I’m ahead.

So, I’m taking this as a win.  It’s marked on the Calendar as “Lori Vs. Washing Machine Day”.  In the meantime, The Viking will just have to prove his love by doing the dishes.

Because I’m smarter than Washing Machine.

Are You Even Listening?

I’ve got nothing to say.  Yes, I know.  Shocking.  Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t be a problem but when one has a blog having nothing to say is a bit of a problem.  The Viking is likely happy enough though because I usually chat his ear off with mostly nonsense except for the odd flash of brilliance that he doesn’t even hear because he’s tuned me out.

Me: “So, I was watching a video this morning on how to use epoxy to make a table that looks like a beach and I think I should make one.  It’s so hypnotic watching all the grinding and polishing.  What a sense of accomplishment when it’s finished.  You have a grinder, right?”

The Viking: “hmm……”

Me: “You aren’t even listening.”

Him: “hunn…..”

Me: “The neighbour lady came by yesterday afternoon and suggested a threesome which does sound very intriguing.  Apparently, I need a very large sheet of heavy-duty plastic and a four-litre jug of cooking oil.  I’ll have to host because they have their handicapped child and also because her parents are always popping in, unannounced, which could become awkward.”

Him: “hhzzzzzzzz…”

Me: “Of course, you’ll have to stay out in the garage during our ménage à trois event.  I will probably just lock the door, so you don’t forget and decide to come in for a coffee or something.  I think the neighbours are a bit shy.”

Him: “mmmmuh”

Me: “Unnnless….you would like to join?  I’m pretty sure the neighbours would be more than happy to upgrade from a ménage à trois to a ménage à quatre.  I’ve seen the Missus watching you over the fence sometimes and she seems interested.”

Him: “uh..hmmm”

Me: “How big of a plastic sheet should I buy?  Is there a mathematical equation to figure that out?”

…..

Me: “I should probably google how this all works, too, because I’m not very clear on how we can keep a grip on each other when we’re all greased up with the oil.  I watched a Greased Pig competition once and it doesn’t look easy.”

…..

Me: “So, I should just volunteer you to make up the foursome?”

Him: Grunt

Me: “You make me so happy!  Should I book for this weekend?”

Him (turning to look at me): “What?!”

Me: “Does this weekend work for you?”

Him: “For what?!  There is MotoGP this weekend!”

Me (heavy sigh): “For the menage et quatre with the neighbours!”

Him: “What the fuck are you talking about?!”

Me (heavier sigh plus an eye roll):  “A menage et trois!  Except it’s now a menage et quatre since you decided you wanted to join.  With Steve and Kathryn.  We are supposed to provide a large sheet of plastic and a four-litre jug of cooking oil!  Home Depot would have that, wouldn’t they?

His left eye starts to twitch.

Me: “And we’re hosting so we should provide some snacks.  That’s the classy thing to do.  We probably want something high in protein for energy, don’t you think?  And fluids with electrolytes.  It’s important to keep hydrated.”

Him: “For fuck’s sake!  We aren’t having a men…..whatever!”

Me: “Hey!  You were the one that volunteered!”

Him: “I did not!”

Me: “You did!  And, you have no one to blame but yourself because you don’t listen to me and now, we’re locked into a menage et quatre with the neighbours.”

 

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