Category: Things we do

Battle of 39th Avenue

The Viking’s favorite slow, indoor sport is Darts.  I’m pretty sure it’s because he can legally throw sharp, pointed objects, but also because he looks like the above picture immediately after the dart leaves his hand.  His form is magnificent!

After years of just playing against each other, we decided we needed some competition.  Unfortunately, we don’t know any other Dart enthusiasts.  So, we created our own competition – The Joneses* – and it became a little more competitive than we thought it would.

Commentator Bob: Welcome to the Battle of 39th Avenue, the Semi-Finals of the World Dart Championship 2021, and what a battle it has turned out to be!  It’s a good, old-fashioned Grudge Match, the kind rarely seen in the Dart Universe.

Commentator Hank: That’s right, Bob.  This competition has developed into a fierce dogfight, both teams equally determined to lay it all on the line. The Joneses are a pair of gritty, highly competitive, highly strung individuals determined to take no prisoners.  They have complete confidence in their abilities and are ready to show off their stuff!

Bob: The Vikings are not even slightly intimidated – giving up isn’t in their DNA.  They’ve been together for years, honing their skills and bonding into the perfect, competitive team.

Bob: Here’s the coin toss…..and it’s the Vikings who throw first.  Mr. Viking steps up and takes careful aim.  He looks good.  Laser focused.

Hank: He wants the most points possible on this first turn, showing the Joneses that he isn’t messing around.

Bob: Ohhhhh!  That’s a miss!  His first dart drifts to the right, earning him only one point!  You can feel the disappointment!

Hank:  You can hear the curses, all the way up to our broadcasting booth, Bob.  And….Holy Moly!  The Joneses are catcalling!  What are they chanting now?  Good Lord, they are calling him a loser!

Bob:  Mrs. Viking isn’t taking that shit sitting down!  She gives them an aggressive middle finger salute.  Mr. Viking has nerves of steel though, and he’s totally ignoring the sideline activity.  His second dart is much better, hitting the 20, but the third dart drifts left for only five points.

Hank: He’s scored the dreaded 26 points, Bob.  It’s every Dart Players’ worst nightmare.

Bob: Look at that!  In a show of terrible sportsmanship, the Joneses are celebrating!  There have been whispered rumours about alcohol use in the Jones camp which probably accounts for the poor gamesmanship.  They may come to regret their victory dances though, because the Vikings are barely domesticated and quick to take offense.

Hank: Mrs. Viking clapped the Mr. on the back and told him it’s fine.  It’s early days.  She steps to the line and takes aim.

Bob: I have to say, Mrs. Viking has a hot mess of a form.  I don’t even know what to call it.  Is she waving at a neighbour or playing darts?

Hank: It’s the talk of the Dart Universe.  To call her stance ‘Unconventional’ is an understatement.

Bob: Her first dart is…..BANG ON!  That’s a TRIPLE 20!  It’s 60 points with the first dart!

Hank: Say what you will, Bob, she gets it done despite that tragic stance.  Second dart is a solid 18 and the third dart IS A DOUBLE 12!!

Bob: WHAT A SHOT!!  That’s a total of 114 points!  A career best!  For a lady that’s only a Rookie, it’s a miracle!  Oh, look!  She’s giving the Joneses a shit-eating grin and a handful of fucks!

Hank: Mr. Viking is on his feet!  Throwing punches in the air!  He’s trying to lift Mrs. Viking for a celebratory twirl, but……he’s bogged down, Bob.  He can’t get her off the ground!  Awww…now that’s turned into the most awkward moment in Dart Competition history.

Bob: Go to commercial, for the love of Gawd!

Commercial Break

Bob: Welcome back.  Despite a commanding lead, The Vikings lost game One.  Trouble hitting a double one side-railed them and the Joneses took the win.  They are resilient, though.  Mr. Jones has scored a solid 32 points.

Hank:  Mrs. Jones steps up.  Ho, boy!  She’s only managed a total of 9 points!

Bob:  She’s pissed at herself, and who can blame her?  Perhaps she should ration her “refreshments”.

Hank: Mr. Viking just handed both the Joneses fresh beverage refills.  It looks like The Vikings have a strategy

Commercial Break

Hank:  Welcome back.  We are in the middle of the second game of the best-out-of-three match.

Bob:  Mr. Viking is on the Throw Line.  His game has improved dramatically since that disaster of a first throw.  The tension is really building.

Hank:  You could hear a pin drop, Bob.  The Joneses are ahead by 52 points.  This is no time to make a mistake.  A single bad dart at this point could lose them the match.

Bob:  Oh, yes!  That’s a well-played turn.  60 points is nothing to be ashamed of.

Hank:  Mrs. Viking only needs a triple 20, a 13 and a double 8 to win the game.  That triple 20 could be tricky – she’s not the most consistent of players.  It’s her form, in all honesty.

Bob:  That’s right Hank.  You need a solid form to be consistent, but a triple 20 isn’t beyond her.  Her first shot today was a triple 20.  It only remains to be seen if she can duplicate that shot.

Hank:  She’s CHOKED!!  What a disappointment, Bob.

Bob:  With only a total of 7 points, that gives the Joneses a huge opportunity to steal this game.  The Joneses are Turkey Dancing for heaven’s sake, and making Joker Grins.  These two couples really don’t like each other and it shows.

Commercial Break

Hank:  Welcome back to this intense third match.  The Vikings clinched a win on the last game, so both teams are super focused on winning this Semi-Final.

Bob:  Both teams have been jawing back and forth, hoping to intimidate.  It’s been effective in the past.

Hank:  Mrs. Jones is giving the Mr. a final boost of confidence and encouragement.  The Vikings look tense.  The Joneses are a dangerous team to underestimate.

Bob:  That’s exactly right, Hank, but the Vikings are warriors and can come from behind for stellar wins.  Losing isn’t in their blood.

Bob:  Jones looks good.  Focused.  Here’s the throw…..

Hank:  Holy Shit, Bob!  He’s missed the entire board!  That dart is needle deep in the door of the Ladies Room!  The Vikings are on their feet, performing their signature Slappy Ass Dance!  What a great stroke of luck for them and a hideous humiliation for the Joneses.

Bob:  Mrs. Jones is livid!  She’s belly-to-belly with the Mr.

Mrs. Jones:  WHAT THE FUCK?!

Bob:  She’s thrown her darts at the floor and one is lodged in the left foot of Mr. Jones.

Hank:  That can’t be good for Mr. Jones.

Mrs. Jones:  Are you trying to lose?!  Have you made a deal with the Vikings to throw the game?!  Are you a gawd-damned traitor?

Bob:  Commercial break!  Commercial break!

Commercial Break

Hank:  Welcome back, folks.  We are in the middle of game three of the Semi-Final match of the Darts World Championship and Mr. and Mrs. Jones have devolved into an alcohol-induced meltdown.

Bob:  You’ve got that right, Hank.  It’s not hard to see that Mr. Jones is completely and obviously drunk.  He’s trying to defend himself, but words are almost beyond him at this point.

Hank:  Mr. and Mrs. Jones have called for their only allowable time-out.  If they want to win the match, they need to shake this off and refocus all their attention on the game.

Bob:  Mrs. Jones is calling for coffee, and someone had better make that happen quickly.  She’s well-known for her short temper and fierce competitiveness.

Hank:  Remember the Championship of 2018, Bob?  She tore her right gluteus maximus kicking the Mr. when he missed a shot.  It took months to get back into game form.

Commercial Break

Bob:  And we’re back!  This has turned into the biggest battle in the sporting world since 1821.

Hank:  This match has taken the Dart World by storm.  I can’t look away from this train wreck.

Bob:  Here come The Joneses.  They look calm and ready to play.

Hank:  I would have paid good money to be a fly on the wall in their dressing room.

Bob:  Mrs. Jones is ready to throw.  Oh, boy!  Do you see the shaky hand?  I’m not sure she can continue.  I think we can both agree that the Vikings’s Slappy Ass Dance has annihilated her confidence.

Hank:  This is just tragic.  That dart didn’t even make it to the board.

Bob:  Mr. Jones is swearing.  He’s taken her darts away!  I don’t know what happened in that dressing room, but neither Jones is capable.  And……that’s the game, Hank!  The Mrs. has thrown in the towel.

Hank:  The Vikings are on their way to the Finals where they will take on the Brown Team.

Bob:  It’s not over yet!  The Vikings are singing.  Can you make out what the song is, Hank?

Hank:  Awww…..geez.  As if the Joneses haven’t suffered enough.

via GIPHY

via GIPHY

*To be clear…..we are the Joneses.  And the Vikings.

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What? I Can’t Hear You!

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

It Could Have Been Worse

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

DAY 1

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

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

Teddy:  So where am I supposed to go?

Izzie:  Don’t know, don’t care.

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

DAY 2

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

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

DAY 3

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

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

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

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

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

 

DAY 4

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

Izzie:  You are hogging the sofa.  Move over.

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

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

Teddy:  Nope!  I am well within my borders.

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

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

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

DAY 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

DAY 6

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

DAY 7

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

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

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

Me rattling the treat jug:  Teddy!

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

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

DAY 8

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

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

About five minutes later….

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

Not even 5 minutes later…..

The Viking:  Izzie!!  Stop slapping Teddy!

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

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

Teddy:  Who’s the ‘fraidy cat now?

DAY 9

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

DAY 10

Me:  Teddy!  Quit clawing the carpet!

I forgot his cardboard scratch board at home.

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

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

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

DAY 11

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

The Viking:  Get her Teddy!

Me:  Slap her harder, Teddy!

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

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

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

DAY 12

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

She ends up under the bed.

Teddy:  ‘Fraidy Cat, again?

DAY 13

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

DAY 14

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

Menopause and Strategic Drinking

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

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

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

Me:  Geez!  Someone needs to shave my legs.

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

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

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

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

Hey, Babe!  You have Bedroom Legs!

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

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

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

The Viking:  Whatever.  No one cares.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

*Thank you silver lining of COVID-19.

I Couldn’t Have Planned This Better If I Had Actually Tried

It’s our 3rd Wedding Anniversary today.  Aaaannnnd….National Orgasm Day.

I didn’t plan to have our Wedding on National Orgasm Day, but if I had decided to get married on any National Whatever Day, it would have been National Orgasm Day.  Sometimes, things just work out despite not planning them.

Oddly, I didn’t realize until today that I shared a special day with Orgasms which makes me wonder why I didn’t know this until today.  Two whole anniversaries have been wasted and I’m a little disappointed.

Til Death Us Do Part

The Viking found a website of old TV shows and while I was building a puzzle on my computer, he proceeded to list them.  Within 15 minutes, he was re-evaluating most of the life choices he’s made in the past decade.

Him:  M*A*S*H*!  That was a good show.

Me:  I love that show!

Him:  The Waltons.

Me:  Too church-y for me.  I always felt like I was failing every time one of those ‘goody-two-shoes’ made the right decision.  Too much pressure for regular kids who lie once in a while and will take the largest slice of cake instead of giving it to a sibling.

Him:  HA!  Columbo?  He was good.

Me:  I had a serious crush on him.

Him:  WHAT?!

Me:  Yup!  Completely in love with that guy.

Him (laughing in disbelief):  That’s funny, Babe.  The Rockford Files.  Did you have a crush on him, too?

Me:  Nah.  Too pretty.  The pretty guys are always too high maintenance.

Him:  CHiPS

Me:  ……

Him:  Six Million Dollar Man.

Me:  He was always squinting and that just gets annoying after a while, don’t you think?  You would think that if they had the technology to make a bionic eye they could do something about the squinting.

Him (squinting at me):  I’ve never really thought about it.  Kojack!

Me:  I had a crush on him, too.

Him:  Noooo.  You didn’t!

Me:  Yes.  I did!  He was a badass.

Him:  Little House on the Prairie.

Me:  …..

Him:  Gunsmoke.

Me:  Crush.

Him:  Fucking hell!  Hawaii Five-O.

Me:  Too arrogant.

Him:  WKRP in Cincinnati.

Me:  ……

Him:  Marcus Welby, M.D.

Me:  Oh, yeah!

Him:  He’s so old!

Me:  But in a good way.

Him:  The Love Boat

Me:  ……

Him:  Hogan’s Heros.

Me:  Nope.  There was something about that guy that just rubbed me the wrong way.

Him:  Kung Fu.  Noooo…..don’t say it!

Me (nodding my head):  Uh Huh!  And Scott Glenn too, because he looks a lot like David Carradine.

Him:  Fucking hell.  Quincy M.E.

Me:  YES!  I love his face!  Total crush.

Him:  ……

Me:  What?  He was hot!

Him:  Baa Baa Black Sheep.  Robert Conrad.

Me:  Crush.  But I felt bad about it because he was so pretty and I was riddled with guilt.

Him:  Trapper John, M.D.

Me:  Nope.  Something wrong with that guy too.

Him:  B.J. and the Bear

Me:  Double nope!

Him:  Vegas?  Robert Urich?

Me:  Again, yes. But with a lot of guilt.

Him:  Barnaby Jones.  Sigh.  If you had a crush on him…….

Me:  Oh, yeah!

Him:  ……

Me:  You’re regretting that you married me, aren’t you?  Too late now – you’re stuck with me till death do us part.

I’m just surprised that The Viking is surprised.  He should be accustomed to me by now.  What I find attractive about a person has nothing to do with their appearance.  Except with Robert Urich and Robert Conrad of course, but I won’t feel good about it.

Wait.  Both are Roberts.

My father’s name is Robert.  Fuck.  Excuse me while I do an online Psychological assessment.

A Pain in My Ass and Shiver Me Timbers!

It’s going to be fast and dirty today because I have shit to do.

Last Saturday was supposed to be beautiful so The Viking pulled Goldwing out of the corner and got her running.  We decided to go in the exact opposite direction that we projected most other people were going to go and that meant we would go east.  Our destination?  Drumheller!

At first, we were enjoying the ride and the fresh air and getting out of the house, but then my Back decided to mutiny.  It started in my left ass cheek, but true to most mutinies, it spread – to my right ass cheek and down both legs.  Gawd!!  And guess who didn’t bring her super-duper pain meds to deal with this shit.

I started squirming around and stretching my legs to alleviate the pain but it didn’t help much and The Viking couldn’t find a place to pull over to give me a break.

When we stopped at the ‘Welcome to Drumheller’ sign, The Viking had to help me get off Goldwing.  After walking around and stretching a bit I felt much better which was a good thing because how would I get home, right?

And then we thought we could just grab a burger someplace in town but all we could find was an A&W and the line-up to get food was really, really long so we decided ‘fuck that, we didn’t want to eat here anyway!’ and started home where we had two delicious steaks waiting for us.

And then the wind suddenly arrived!  Holy!  Hell!  If I turned my head just a little, the wind would grab my helmet and nearly rip it off.  The Viking was having some difficulty holding on to Goldwing and at one point the wind grabbed us and pushed us to the very edge of the pavement and we both thought we were goners but The Viking roared in the face of Father Wind and saved us!

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The mutiny in my ass returned with such vengeance that it inspired Goldwing to mutiny too, and The Viking was forced to use his motivational shouting-cursing which encouraged her to get us home because who wants to disappoint a shouting-cursing Viking, right?

We both needed several drinks when we got home and I got drunk* and started telling The Viking how much I fucking love him and we almost got into a fight about who loves who the most.  I was drunk enough that I actually prompted him to give me more shots of Pernod which is totally not like me at all because I really hate salty licorice but I suppose this is one of the reasons he loves Drunk Lori so much.

Due to the outbreak of Drunkenness, The Viking had to manage supper on his own because I can’t be trusted with a BBQ when I’m drunk.  Or tongs.  He confiscates them immediately citing that time I pinched his ass with them.

The Viking did an admirable job making supper and I was so enthusiastic in my praise that he finally told me to shut up and eat.  He appreciated it though, I could tell.

I decided we should have sex because getting drunk does that to me which is just one more reason The Viking loves Drunken Lori so much, but the whole thing turned into a disaster despite our best efforts because…. well…. drunkenness.  To be honest though, I probably won’t learn a lesson from the experience.

And then we both fell asleep and woke up at midnight.  Like irresponsible teenagers who have no internal clock and can go back to sleep two hours later.  We were useless on Sunday.

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*Because I also needed some pain meds just to move.

 

 

It’s All Fun and Games Until a Viking Starts Cheating!

Since the weather was shit this weekend and we didn’t feel like sitting out in freezing temperatures and drizzle, we opted to amuse ourselves inside.  And what better way to amuse ourselves than engaging in Stabby Sports – Darts, for the less stabby people.

The Viking is far better at Stabbing than I am – it’s probably a Viking thing.  He’s so good that he gives me a substantial handicap to try to even up the odds – the first one to 301 points wins and the last stab has to be on a double.  Except for me…..I don’t need to hit a double because we both recognize that just hitting the dart board is an achievement.

So, I made myself a Lemon Gin and Tonic and he indulged in Beer with Clamato Juice and we picked up our darts.  I went first.

Me (throws darts):  Oooooo……that’s a 43!

The Viking (throws):  What the fuck?!  3?

Me (shaking imaginary Pom-Poms):  Oooooo….nice job!  Keep up the good work.

The Viking:  Just throw your darts.

Me:  Wow!  That’s a 47….best score so far!

The Viking (throws his darts):  For fucks sake!  9?

Me (dancing like a witch at the Spring Solstice celebrations):  YES!!

The Viking:  Pfft!

Me (throws):  WooHoo!  64!!  Has the student surpassed the Master?  (Evil laughter)

The Viking:  19 for fucksake!  And you had better watch out, Karma is going to get you.

Me (shrugging philosophically):  Of course it is.  It always gets you in the end, but I will dance with the Devil until it does.  Besides…..I prefer to celebrate my wins when I can because you know it only takes one throw and you’re on top again.

The Viking:  Throw your darts!

Me:  37!

The Viking (glaring at the dart board and then adjusting it):  This thing has moved to the right.  Why does it always do that?

The Viking (throws his darts):  113.

Me:  What the fuck?!  I find it highly suspicious that you suddenly throw 113 AFTER you adjusted the board.  I want to go to the Official for a decision.

The Viking:  What official?

Teddy wanders by.

Me:  Teddy!  The Viking is cheating!

Teddy:  Are you talking to me?

Me:  Yes!  The Viking is cheating.  He adjusted the dartboard and now he gets 113 points in a single turn.  I need you to sanction him by 100 points.

Teddy:  You don’t happen to have any treats, do you?  I find it difficult to make informed decisions when my stomach is rumbling.

Me (giving him treats):  Okay.  Now rule and force him to subtract 100 points as his penalty.

Teddy (licking lips):  I don’t really understand the rules so I’m just going outside to patrol the perimeter.

Me:  Turncoat.

Teddy (shrugging):  I bet you regret blaming that fart on me last night.

The Viking (singing):  Karrrrrmaaa

Me (throwing my darts):  15.  I blame you for this.  You ‘adjust’ the board and suddenly the whole game is rigged in your favour.  I’m pretty sure that’s against some sort of ‘Viking Code of Honour’.  Before we play again I’m going to install a proper Official.  One that you haven’t paid off.

The Viking (throws):  92

Me:  29

The Viking stepped up to the line, assumed his Dart-Throwing Stance and took aim.  And then………….. “Ouch!  What the fuck?!  Did you just stab my ass with your dart?!

Me (straight face):  I don’t know what you’re talking about.  Maybe someone has a VooDoo doll under her desk.  And even if she does, you deserve it for cheating.

The Viking:  I’m not cheating.  The board had moved.

The Viking assumes the Stance again and tries to aim but, clearly, he’s nervous because I’m petting one of my Darts and testing the sharpness of the point.  He tries again and then laughs when I kiss it ever so gently.

Finally…..

Me:  The unknown person, or persons, with the VooDoo doll is probably satisfied with just the one poke so you can relax.  Everyone knows it’s only funny once.

He smoked me in that game.  And the next game.  I won the third game, purely by accident when I blundered into a triple 19 and two other high points.  That deserved a celebratory Turkey Dance!  In reality though, I couldn’t hit what I was aiming at to save my life.  If we ever had to defend ourselves against our Enemies* with nothing but darts, I could maybe hit the attacker but it’s anyone’s guess whether it would be with the pointy end or not.

So, it’s a good thing that I don’t take Stabbing very seriously.  I go in knowing the odds of winning are close to zero.  And that’s okay with me.

Besides, it’s all fun and games until a Viking starts cheating.

*Not that we have Enemies.  At least I don’t think we have Enemies, but who knows?  There might be someone out there with less than warm feelings for us but that just means we need to be careful about telling new people our real names and hope everyone else has forgotten already.  

My Headlights Are On!

Sunday morning, Furnace decided it was done keeping us warm.  No explanation for abandoning us in the middle of winter.  No notice.  Perhaps it was overwhelmed with the recent cold snap when it had to step up its game, or maybe it was totally out of patience with our lack of appreciation for all the hard work it does.  It wouldn’t even answer The Viking’s “What the fuck is your problem?”

After some cursing and swearing, it turned out that the Ignitor developed what can only be described as a Hernia.  On a Sunday.  When all Heating/Cooling Professionals and Parts Suppliers are taking a day off for obviously selfish reasons.

The Viking had turned the heat up to 20°C when he got up in the morning, but he was still freezing at noon.  “It’s fucking freezing in here!!”

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That’s when I noticed that his headlights were on!  So I checked my headlights and yup! they were on too. The high beams!  That’s a collection of four headlights where 3 of the 4 agreed that it was freezing in the house.  That 4th one* has always been a petty bastard and thought ‘freezing’ was a little dramatic and insisted it was only ‘frigid’.

I hollered at The Viking, “Geezus!  It’s only 16.5°C in here!  It’s no wonder our collection of headlights are on.”

The Viking sprang into action…..okay, it was more trudging than springing but still, he went to have a conversation with Furnace who, it turned out, had no intention of cooperating.  There was poking and prodding and muttered incantations and twice a, “Izzie!  Get the fuck off my neck!”

Having exhausted all avenues to repair Furnace’s hernia, The Viking began constructing a detailed Survival Plan for the night because the only way to get him to call an actual Repair Person is to hook up booster cables to his left headlight and the car to the right headlight (or is it the other way around?  I can never remember) and zap him into reasonableness.

I took a moment to have a discussion with Furnace, explaining that I was very disappointed in its commitment, performance and lack of determination.  It didn’t change anything, but I felt better for firmly voicing my feelings.  We turned on the electric fireplace in the living room and The Viking fetched a space heater from the shed.

In the meantime, I turned my heated mattress cover to the ‘Fry’ setting and made a sad face at The Viking because he doesn’t have one.  The reason he doesn’t have one is that he can feel the wires, through the padding and sheet, and it irritates his delicate ass skin.  This, from the guy who routinely tapes gaping wounds closed with Duct Tape.  Who knew the original version of The Princess and the Pea was actually a Viking and a wire?

Rather than brave the bedroom that might get a bit cold overnight, he took his pillow and duvet and built a nest on the sofa, close to the fireplace.

I slept great.  The Viking?  Not so much.  Amazingly, the fireplace and space heater kept the house at about 17°C all night long.

I set off first thing in the morning to pick up an Ignitor and The Viking had Furnace up and running again before noon.  Of course, you don’t let the entire household down in the middle of winter and think there won’t be some name-calling, Furnace.  And you got off easy if you ask me.

And, thankfully, our collection of Headlights have calmed down.  It gets awkward with customers when my High Beams could poke out an eye.

*Unsurprisingly, it is my left headlight.

Before I Get Drunk

Welcome to my Drunk Season – Bailey’s in my coffee, whiskey in my chocolate, wine in my orange juice, beer in my Clamato and gin in my tonic.  Plus….Akvavit with my Julefrokost that may or may not end with my head resting on a blessedly cool toilet between heaves.  I swear that this Christmas I will know when to refuse that one final shot.

Anyway, since I will be drunk for the better part of the next 10 days, I thought I would do up a ‘Year In Review’ while I’m still sober enough to do it.

January

The Viking cheated at Rock, Paper, Scissors  by creating a Super Weapon and broke the World’s Pre-Eminent Decision-Making Tool and then laughed and laughed and laughed like he didn’t just unleash chaos throughout the universe.

February

The Viking insulted his English Doctor before she gave him his Prostate Exam by explaining that his hemorrhoids are the result of his English genes, courtesy of his Mother.

Also in February, The Viking’s Brother, Erik, and his beautiful Annette came for a visit and I cried for a week when they left.

The Saddest Song in the World

March

The Viking hung up a Dart Board, gave me a stiff Gin and Tonic, and 3 Darts.  It went as well as you can imagine.

April

A Girl Guide sold me a box of horrible cookies and I got angry at Dare Inc. because they should be giving better products for poor Girl Guides to sell.  Seriously!

May

The Viking decided to get into a Viking Lawn Mowing Competition with the neighbour but he had neglected his mower so much it needed some serious love.  My favorite Honda Parts Man, Adrian, had a better suggestion.

June

Teddy struck up a relationship with a foul-mouthed Magpie we named Alice Pooper who likes to squawk abuse very early in the morning at the top of its lungs.  Of our two cats, Teddy is the least likely to participate in an insult contest, while Izzie, the Queen of Mean, enjoys nothing more than a shouting and cursing match.  And it’s all icing on the cake if she can dish out slaps for emphasis.

July

I described the joys of the Blanket Fort and gave everyone permission to host their own Pity Party; I even provided a short list of suggested activities.

August

We took a road trip on the Goldwing and I annoyed The Viking by knocking on his helmet every time I needed to communicate my desires.

September

My Father passed away on August 23, 2019, and I wrote the ‘Worst Eulogy in the History of the World’ so I wrote another one that is a far better Eulogy than the one given at the Funeral.

October

I embarrassed myself at Dad’s Funeral because Anxiety makes me do stupid things and it took me over a month to talk about it.

I finally finished writing the book about my parents and while I was transcribing my Great Grandmother’s book in the back of my Parents’ book I found a Skeleton in our closet that is famous in the “Haunting & Spooks” community.

November

Snow arrived and the cats left paw prints on every single horizontal surface, including the stove and my boobs, and I’ve been cursing and shouting ever since.

I also learned the difference between a Carved-In-Stone Law and a Suggestion and made The Viking get all squinty around the eyes because he hates conversations like these.

December

The Viking almost cut off his finger, I almost fainted and an Emergency Doctor was impressed with The Viking’s cutting skills.

And, there you have it.  2019 in a nutshell.  It’s been awkward, sad, wonderful, shocking, heartbreaking and annoying in turns which sums up life in general, I suppose.  I’m pinning my hopes on a better year in 2020.

May 2020 make all your hopes and dreams come true.  For me and The Viking, too.