Category: Things we do

Knock, Knock!

We did something daring.  That’s right.  We dared.  And, it was glorious!

We have a Honda Goldwing – a great old girl that has seen better days but when The Viking blows in her exhaust and whispers sexy things to her injectors it’s like she’s 10 again.*  He dusted her off and fueled her up and we went through the mountains to Cranbrook, British Columbia.

We’ve never dared to ride for so long before because my Spine gets cranky about its missing disc and potholes.  However, you never get adventure from sitting on the sofa, so I packed some hefty pain meds and we hit the road.   I stuck earphones in and turned up my music.  While The Viking was driving like a Boss, I was conducting orchestras, doing drum solos and singing opera – happy as a clam.

We don’t have the fancy helmet to helmet communication because I prefer my solitary time.  However, I have created a complex method of communicating with The Viking, just in case I have something important to say that can’t wait until we stop for a stretch:  I knock on his helmet with my knuckles.  I would knock on his helmet with a pretty Scepter but apparently he doesn’t think I’m Queenly enough for one.  Whatever.  So, I knock on his helmet and he turns his head and I yell my important information at him.  It’s almost perfect.

Knock, Knock

The Viking turns his head.

I’VE BEEN HIT!!  A GIANT BUG JUST CRIPPLED MY RIGHT KNEE!

Shrug.

He’s obviously not concerned enough to pull over for triage.

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

WHY IS MY NOSE ALWAYS ITCHY WHEN I RIDE THIS BIKE?!

Shrug.

I spend more time with my finger scrubbing my nose than actually looking at the scenery.

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

I CAN’T CHEW MY GUM BECAUSE THE HELMET IS TOO TIGHT!

Shrug.

Seriously!  Do motorcyclists never chew gum?  Helmets should have cheek pouches. OR…..the back of his jacket should have a TicTac pocket.

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

I HAVE TO PEE!

Makes several hand signals that I believe meant that I’d just have to hold it until we reached the next gas station OR it could have meant that he’d stop if I wanted to squat in the ditch.

I decided to wait for a gas station.

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

MY BACK IS ITCHY AND IT’S DRIVING ME NUTS!!

Shrug.

I tried to keep my squirming to a minimum.

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

I ALMOST LOST MY PHONE WHEN I WANTED TO CHANGE PLAYLISTS!

Muffled curses and lewd hand gestures.

If he had a pocket on the back of his jacket to hold my phone, this wouldn’t be an issue, you know.

We had a wonderful trip though.  The weather was perfect, the hotel was clean and dinner out was lovely.  We should do this again.

As soon as I get finished sewing an organizing system to the back of The Viking’s leather jacket.

*He’s very good at whispering sexy things to old girls.  Trust me.  I know.

Hello Deer! And Who Was In Charge of The Food?

Spring has finally arrived, if only temporarily.  When you live in Alberta though, you hustle out and enjoy the good weather whenever it happens.  In the case of The Viking and I, we do less hustling and more shuffling, but we eventually get the job done.

Such was the case on Saturday.

The Viking has been searching for the perfect campground for a week-long escape with the Fifth Wheel and he wanted to take a nice drive to a couple of places to see exactly how they rate on the ‘Possible Location List’.  Finding a place isn’t as easy as you’d think.  We have standards that need to be met:

  • Are there actual trees? You’d be surprised at the number of places that have concrete slabs laid out like RV Prison Camps.
  • Is there electricity? We aren’t interested in ‘roughing it’ – we’re too old for that shit.  There are few things worse than battling moths and mosquitoes when you’re huddled around a lantern trying to play cards.
  • Is there a water hook-up? I like to have a shower once in a while to wash off the Bug Spray and smoke residue.  Oh, I know that it is the International Standard Perfume for summer camping but I’m not a fan of ‘Eau d’Smokey DEET’ 24/7.
  • How about a sewer hook-up? We’re human and humans poop and hanging my ass over a pit clogged with nasty is not something I can compromise on.  Just doesn’t happen, unless it’s a matter of life or death.
  • Can anyone walking by see us and think we are happy to chat?  We’re not.  We are Introverts.  We have nothing against other people, we just don’t want to talk to an endless stream of them trying to be neighbourly.
  • Is there a playground close by? If there is, we’ll want a site well-removed from said playground.  We don’t have anything against kids but they’re loud and annoying.  We’ve outgrown that stage in life where every kid is adorable and deserves a homemade cookie.
  • Is there anything of the slightest bit of interest to go see in the general area? Or walking paths?  That’s even better!  We/I get bored easily.
  • A Swimming Pool? The Viking likes being wet for some ungawdly reason and a swimming pool is one of his favourite things.  If there are a couple of chairs so he can booze it up in between refreshing his wetness, he’ll stay there all day and most of the evening.  I sit in a chair with a book, explaining over and over that I’m sure the water is wonderful and No, I’m not interested in wetness.  It doesn’t discourage him at all.

Anyway, there was one campground that we wanted to get a look at before committing, so we jumped in the car for a lovely afternoon drive.  In typical fashion, we didn’t discuss food and we didn’t discuss our route to the campground.  Needless to say, we were in an argument before we ever left the neighbourhood.  Last minute changes to his itinerary has a way of irritating The Viking.  I probably should have filed the proper paperwork in advance.

Since the day was so lovely, I didn’t let a little skirmish ruin the day.  We only went about an hour and a half from Calgary, but that hour and a half is packed with beautiful.

Hello Deer!

We found a gorgeous picnic spot; it’s just too bad we hadn’t thought to bring any food.  I’m not sure who was supposed to be in charge of the Lunch, but they obviously suck at their job.  A sandwich, a cracker, anything really, would have been appreciated.

We’ll have to get the Goldwing out one of these days and go back.  Once the food organizer gets his/her shit together.  We should probably file the proper request in advance with a list of menu options we would like.

As for the campground….well….it didn’t meet the standards*.  Unfortunately.  It was a very nice campground.  If you happen to live in the area and are looking for a great campground that has electricity and drinking water – Sandy McNabb Campground, west of Turner Valley is for  you.

*First world problems, right?  Pampered Queen?  Spoiled?  Unapologetically guilty.  😏

 

Hello Deer! And Who Was In Charge of Lunch?!

Spring has finally arrived, if only temporarily.  When you live in Alberta though, you hustle out and enjoy the good weather whenever it happens.  In the case of The Viking and I, we do less hustling and more shuffling, but we eventually get the job done.

Such was the case on Saturday.

The Viking has been searching for the perfect campground for a week-long escape with the Fifth Wheel and he wanted to take a nice drive to a couple of places to see exactly how they rate on the ‘Possible Location List’.  Finding a place isn’t as easy as you’d think.  We have standards that need to be met:

  • Are there actual trees? You’d be surprised at the number of places that have concrete slabs laid out like RV Prison Camps.
  • Is there electricity? We aren’t interested in ‘roughing it’ – we’re too old for that shit.  There are few things worse than battling moths and mosquitoes when you’re huddled around a lantern trying to play cards.
  • Is there a water hook-up? I like to have a shower once in a while to wash off the Bug Spray and smoke residue.  Oh, I know that it is the International Standard Perfume for summer camping but I’m not a fan of ‘Eau d’Smokey DEET’ 24/7.
  • How about a sewer hook-up? We’re human and humans poop and hanging my ass over a pit clogged with nasty is not something I can compromise on.  Just doesn’t happen, unless it’s a matter of life or death.
  • Can anyone walking by see us and think we are happy to chat?  We’re not.  We are Introverts.  We have nothing against other people, we just don’t want to talk to an endless stream of them trying to be neighbourly.
  • Is there a playground close by? If there is, we’ll want a site well-removed from said playground.  We don’t have anything against kids but they’re loud and annoying.  We’ve outgrown that stage in life where every kid is adorable and deserves a homemade cookie.
  • Is there anything of the slightest bit of interest to go see in the general area? Or walking paths?  That’s even better!  We/I get bored easily.
  • A Swimming Pool? The Viking likes being wet for some ungawdly reason and a swimming pool is one of his favourite things.  If there are a couple of chairs so he can booze it up in between refreshing his wetness, he’ll stay there all day and most of the evening.  I sit in a chair with a book, explaining over and over that I’m sure the water is wonderful and No, I’m not interested in wetness.  It doesn’t discourage him at all.

Anyway, there was one campground that we wanted to get a look at before committing, so we jumped in the car for a lovely afternoon drive.  In typical fashion, we didn’t discuss food and we didn’t discuss our route to the campground.  Needless to say, we were in an argument before we ever left the neighbourhood.  Last minute changes to his itinerary has a way of irritating The Viking.  I probably should have filed the proper paperwork in advance.

Since the day was so lovely, I didn’t let a little skirmish ruin the day.  We only went about an hour and a half from Calgary, but that hour and a half is packed with beautiful.

Hello Deer!

We found a gorgeous picnic spot; it’s just too bad we hadn’t thought to bring any food.  I’m not sure who was supposed to be in charge of the Lunch, but they obviously suck at their job.  A sandwich, a cracker, anything really, would have been appreciated.

We’ll have to get the Goldwing out one of these days and go back.  Once the food organizer gets his/her shit together.  We should probably file the proper request in advance with a list of menu options we would like.

As for the campground….well….it didn’t meet the standards*.  Unfortunately.  It was a very nice campground.  If you happen to live in the area and are looking for a great campground that has electricity and drinking water – Sandy McNabb Campground, west of Turner Valley is for  you.

*First world problems, right?  Pampered Queen?  Spoiled?  Unapologetically guilty.  😏

 

The Viking’s Stabby Sport

When it comes to recreational activities, I choose them carefully, based entirely on the potential for humiliation or injury.  And in the age of smart phones with good cameras, my humiliation won’t be limited to just a few lucky by-standers but could be posted to Youtube before I get finished dusting my pants off.

So, when The Viking first mentioned how much he enjoyed playing Darts I was, understandably, alarmed.  Playing Darts involves stabby things and that’s never a good idea for me.  You would think The Viking would know this by now – we’ve already established that I shouldn’t play with fire, automatic weapons, or knives.  As much as I would love to Fence, we all know that I would fumble the Foil and fall on it in a weird kind of Japanese ritual OR fumble the Foil and accidentally stab an observer.  It’s just in everyone’s best interest to keep stabby things out of my hands.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that a Viking would like a Stabby Sport because it’s kind of in their genes, along with boating activities and looting churches.  To be fair though, I haven’t heard of any recent looting or even pillaging, so everyone should stay calm.

Anyway, The Viking hung up a Dart Board, gave me a Gin and Tonic*, handed me the stabby things and said, “Let’s play!”  Obviously, his enthusiasm for the sport over-rode his better judgment.

Of the first 6 Darts I threw, 3 missed the board and stabbed the wall, I dropped one which nearly impaled my right foot, one bounced off the cabinet and almost stabbed the cat, one stabbed my left boob and one hit the Bullseye.

I gave The Viking a look.

via GIPHY

Truth be told, it went better than I anticipated.  By the time we closed the cabinet there were only 6 stab holes in the wall, the cats were happily unstabbed, and the wound to my Jugular Vein was only superficial.

It’s still a good idea to have the First Aid Kit handy though, in case The Viking wants a rematch.

 

*What the fuck?!  The potential for a catastrophic event triples as soon as you give me booze.

What the Fuck is That?!

The new season of Grace & Frankie is finally out which means The Viking and I are binge-watching!

I gathered all the standard Binge-Watching Necessities – water, chips, chocolate, licorice (for The Viking only) and the remote control.  After two episodes, I needed to fill up our water.  Two episodes later another refill and a pee break.  Two episodes after that the water needed to be filled again but I was so comfortable I didn’t want to get up.

If only there was a way to encourage The Viking to do the refill this time?

Me:  My water is empty.  Rock, Paper, Scissors – the loser gets the water?

Him:  Okay.

Me:  Alright.  One….Two….Three (I went for scissors)

……

……

Me:  What the fuck is that?!

Him (staring at his hand):  …..

Me:  Are you seriously trying to combine all three into one Super Tool?

He starts laughing so hard he can’t talk.

Me:  I can’t believe you’re cheating at Rock, Paper, Scissors!  Who does that?

He’s still laughing.

Me:  This is no laughing matter!  Rock, Paper, Scissors is the pre-eminent Decision-Making Tool worldwide, next to The Magic Eight Ball.  What if everyone started cheating?  Imagine the chaos this could unleash on the world.  You may have, single-handedly, brought about the end of civilization.  It’s shameful is what it is.  Obviously, you have to get the water.  Cheater.

Now, I have to find a new way to settle disagreements because apparently he can’t be trusted with such a powerful Tool.  Thumb/Pinkie Wars and Arm Wrestling gives The Viking an unfair advantage because he lifts shit all the time, so I’ll have to settle with Leg Wrestling.

This is what happens when someone fucks around with a good thing, Viking!

The Cats Are Pissed and The Viking gets a Brain Freeze

The Viking and I decided it was time to simplify our lives.  And then we promptly went about making our lives 100 times more complicated.  This involved making two 2500 km (1553 miles) trips to Lake Havasu City in Arizona within the space of a month and an additional trip to Mount Vernon, Washington.  All of this to sell our humungous Toy Hauler and buy a smaller trailer that has more living space.

There were cross-border inspections, and taxes and mountains of forms to fill out.  It’s been crazy, but at least we hit the peak and are heading back downhill.  Not a nice, un-catastrophic slide downhill, but more of giant, out-of-control run with arms flailing and girly screams.

The cats quit talking to us after the second trip.  Even Teddy – who normally loves me to pieces – isn’t giving me the ‘love eyes’ or purring – he’s just giving me wounded looks over his shoulder as he goes to Junior for his loves.  Izzie, on the other hand, transformed into an evil, angry, clawing succubus.  She’s already half feral on her father’s side and our absence gave her an excuse to completely embrace the wild side.  We managed to pull her back from the brink with several discussions, all of which involved her dangling by the scruff of her neck.*

There were good times during those dark days, though.  We got drunk at a hotel swimming pool and I fell off a chair.  To be fair, the chair was compromised before I ever sat in it.  A group of lady Norwegians on the other side of the pool were totally prepared to help me, but The Viking managed to get my laughing ass off the cement.

I made friends with a salesman at an RV dealership who appeared to really like my boobs.  Under normal circumstances I would be a bit offended, but the poor guy was so bedazzled he sold us the trailer waaaaay below what he should have sold it for.  My boobs saved us about $5000.  I let him have a hug as a consolation prize.  As for the boobs…..it’s about time they started to earn their keep.  Bras are expensive!

On another note:  This is a cat with a brain freeze.

via GIPHY

 

 

 

 

And this is The Viking with a brain freeze.

 

 

 

And here…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And here….

 

 

 

I think we offended an elderly couple in a restaurant with our goofiness, but it’s okay, they were old and if anyone asked them to pick us out of a line-up I’m confident they wouldn’t recognize us.  Unless The Viking has a Brain-Freeze while they are looking.

We still aren’t completely Simplified but there is progress.  Our First Anniversary was last weekend, so we took our new-to-us trailer out for a spin and I have to say that it’s wonderful.  More than wonderful actually.  It’s brilliant.

Only a couple more items and we will be almost hassle-free.

 

*Please don’t get all shocked about this.  Izzie was taken from her mother when she was about 5 weeks old.  We almost had to get rid of her because she was a monster – attacking and biting and scratching everyone.  It was only the intervention of a couple other well-socialized cats and dealing with her bad behavior like a mother cat would do that saved her. 

Tina Turner, Hondas and Shoe Horns

I used to drive a Toyota Corolla, 5-speed, manual transmission car.  I loved her.  I called her Midge.  She was quick and nimble and had lots of power with the manual transmission.  She was comfortable and dependable and even The Viking liked driving her.

The thing with Midge was that she was a small car.  She wasn’t intimidating; bigger vehicles and pretentious Hondas always bullied her on the roads.  And if you don’t believe me about Hondas……just start noticing the vehicles that are responsible for slowing traffic, cutting you off, failing to merge properly.  Trust me on this – 75% of the time it’s a Honda.  Mim and I have conducted numerous experiments and the evidence is overwhelming.  You’re stuck in traffic?  Chances are a Honda is to blame.

Where was I?  Oh, yeah.  Midge got bullied a lot on the roads.  So, when the occasion arose that I needed to take The Viking’s vehicle I was always just a little excited.  Because The Viking’s vehicle, Tina Turner, is a behemoth – a one-ton, dual axle, diesel Chevy truck.  She is a brute – a completely obnoxious brute and I must admit that sometimes I become a Harpy with a bad attitude when I drive her.

It’s not my fault really.  Any reasonable person with that kind of power under her seat will put the pedal to the floor when a Honda cuts her off in traffic.  Or when a slow Honda is driving in the fast lane.  Or when a Honda passes her and then slows down just to fuck with her.  It’s completely natural that given the chance to be obnoxious to that Honda she’s going to do it.

But things have changed around here.  I have a RAV 4 now with all the bells and whistles available.  I don’t get bullied on the road and I’ve become accustomed to the high level of convenience and comfort that Charlotte provides.

Yesterday, The Viking put Tina Turner in front of Charlotte in the driveway so I decided I would just take her to the store and then park her properly when I came home.

I immediately got annoyed, before I even made it into Tina Turner.  I actually had to unlock the truck by remote control!  That the hell?!  I couldn’t stuff the keys into my pocket and just touch the door handle the way I do with Charlotte.  I would have to deal with keys!  And once I made it over that hurdle, there was more to come.

Something happens to The Viking’s legs when he drives Tina Turner – they become very, very short!  I get in to drive and suddenly my knees are up in my arm pits but it’s not worth the bother to change all the settings in the seat just for a quick run to the grocery store.

Tina wouldn’t just automatically play my music from my phone either!  She wanted me to plug it in to her USB port.  Well, that’s a pain in the ass!  Charlotte has Bluetooth and she knows what I like.  Instead, I was subjected to Classic Rock Radio when I really wanted to listen to my favorite Classical music.  That is a major problem!

Also, the turning radius – it takes Tina half a city block to turn around.  I had to shuffle 3 times to get her into the parking spot and then her ass hung 4 feet further out than any other vehicle in the parking lot.

And to add insult to injury, there wasn’t a single Honda between our house, the grocery store and back home again.  So, the one thing I really enjoy about Tina Turner was useless for lack of opportunity.  That’s like meeting the real Tina Turner and she isn’t wearing sequins, jiggling her ass or singing Proud Mary.  What’s the point then?

I know what you’re thinking.  First World problems, right?  Well, I agree.  But I would argue that once you’ve grown accustomed to a new technology, it’s a bastard to suddenly go without.

My electric can opener stopped working and because I had never really liked it in the first place (it wouldn’t stop when I wanted it to stop so it always ended in a wrestling match), I just bought a good, old manual can opener.  Now, I have to stop half way through and shake feeling back into my hand before I can get the whole top off the can.  And when it comes to big cans like coffin tins, well, that is a job for The Viking.

I bought one of those long shoe horns from IKEA and after three years of faithful service, it broke, leaving only about 8 inches.  What a clusterfuck that was!  Suddenly I had to bend over and put this shitty little thing in my shoe to get it on my foot!  I have big boobs and leaning over like that can end in a catastrophic tumble.  I went directly to IKEA and bought six more long ones because short ones are so 1900s and I deserve a better shoe horn than that.

At the end of the day, technology has ruined my love of Tina Turner.  Unless there’s a Honda around somewhere – then she’s my girl.

 

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I’ve Been Scolded

I hate lectures that revolve around bad habits and lack of effort. Okay…….to be clear, I enjoy listening to lectures that involve other people’s bad habits and lack of effort, just not my own. I would find it endlessly entertaining if someone attempted to lecture The Viking. I wouldn’t recommend it, but it would be entertaining to watch if only for the cursing and tool throwing. If you think you’d like to give this a try, please let me know in advance so I can have a comfortable chair, goggles, old clothes and a glass of wine on hand. And maybe a camera.

Where was I? Oh yes – lectures. I especially hate lectures given by Computer Gurus – they are worse than doctors and born-again Christians. They get that condescending look on their face and say things like “Did you plug it in?” and “When was the last time you cleaned it?” So when my computer needed a restart and it didn’t come back to life, I said, “What the FUCK?! Start, damn you!”

When that didn’t work I threw my hands in the air, rolled my eyeballs, and yelled, “My computer won’t start!!”

The Viking’s supportive, caring and encouraging response was “I TOLD YOU NOT TO PLAY THOSE FUCKING GAMES!!”

After poking and fiddling with it, he decided I blew the video card again. AGAIN! He muttered about my fucking games some more and then bought a new video card. He pushed the power……and nothing. “What the FUCK?! Start, damn you!”

I said, “That’s what I said!”

After exhausting all his ideas and most of his curses, he admitted defeat. “Call Tommy.”

I heaved a sigh & shuddered. “He’s going to yell at me.” The Viking didn’t seem to have a fuck to give about that.

When Tommy arrived I tried to run, but he saw me and said “Freeze, Lady!”

I said, “Aaahhhaaggg!” and waved my hands over my head in frustration.  He laughed because we both know what comes next: the Lecture.

“Do you shut it down every night?”

“No.”

“When was the last time, before this, that you shut it down?”

“Um……7…no, 8 months ago because it threatened me.”

“When was the last time you cleaned it?”

“9 months ago.”

“Do you play online games?”

The Viking decided to take Tommy’s side in the matter. “I told her not to play those fucking games! I told her!!”

Sigh. “Yeeees. I play online games.” Flipping my middle finger at The Viking. Traitor.

“You need this computer for work, right?”

“Yes.”

“But you still play online games with it?”

“Yes. But I have a good Anti-Virus program and Malwarebytes!”

“You do know that online games are played by millions of people and if they get a virus, then you’ll get a virus blah blah blah blah blah…..”  The only thing missing here was a metal table, handcuffs and a bare lightbulb swinging slowly back and forth overhead.

“Can you fix it?” Really, that’s all I want to know.

The short answer came 6 hours later. “No. You need a new motherboard, one of your drives is fine, one can be saved and the other one is toast. My advice: build a new computer.”

Of course that’s his advice.

So, now I’ve been scolded and I have to pay, at a bare minimum, $1500 for a new computer and all the fucking programs. Dammit!

Stupid computer! That’s the problem with machines: they are ungrateful bastards that look for the first excuse to fuck you over. How am I supposed to relax now? Read for 4 hours a day? I fall asleep after 3 pages of a book nowadays and then the tablet falls out of my hand and lands on my toes and then I swear a lot. I almost never fall asleep in the middle of a mission on my games. I suppose I could finish that damned Cross Stitch Baby Blanket project that has been in my closet for 11 years. Or worse, I could clean.

I wish I could point a finger at someone and blame them, but I can’t. No one forced me to play computer games, but in my defense, if computers weren’t intended to play games they shouldn’t be making games for them. I’m only human after all. How much control do they think I have? I already battle temptations involving chocolate and Toffifee and jewelry and cake and shoes.

Now I will have a computer that is useless for anything other than work.  Sigh. The Computer Gawds are no friends of mine. Apparently.

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Our Faces Are Trying to Kill Us

This is going to be a fast and dirty post so hang on to your panties/gaunch.

In the middle of last week, one of my teeth decided to be an asshole and host an infection party that probably included hookers and pimps and dope dealers.  The music was terrible and my TMJ started complaining bitterly.  Long story short, there was a trip to emergency where they pumped me full of antibiotics and ordered me to their HPTP clinic the following morning to be installed with a pump and bags of antibiotics.  I would have an extra appendage for the next four days.

I was positive that I deserved some pampering.  It’s not every day that I have the excuse of a massive infection to just loaf around the house being waited on hand and foot by The Viking.

Unfortunately, The Viking had other plans.  On the way home from Emergency he says:

“My neck hurts.”

Me:  Oh no you don’t!!  It’s my turn!  You always take over my illnesses.  I get a cold, you get a cold too, only worse so I have to take care of you even though I’m sick too.  Why do I always have to be the one that has to ‘soldier on’?  I want pampering!

Him:  I didn’t plan it, you know!

And he didn’t plan it, but it happened anyway.  The following morning his neck was swelling up quickly.  So, while I was getting my pump installed, he went to Emergency.  Once I was finished, I found him and we waited for the results.

Which said exactly nothing.  They sent him home with a preventative course of antibiotics but they didn’t think it was an issue.  In fact, the Doctor was sort of condescending.  Fast forward to Friday afternoon and we were back in Emergency and the Doctors were impressed at the size of the lump on the left side of The Viking’s neck. And it kept growing!  I think it was starting to develop its own brain.  They pumped him full of morphine and antibiotics and sent him for tests.

FYI……those people who ferry the ill back and forth to radiology are antelope.  They aren’t people at all.  They look like people but just try keeping up with them as you juggle your IV bags, 2 coats, a purse, a water bottle and 2 tablets.

I started to judge them on the length of their legs.  One Flamingo showed up and, I swear to Gawd, her legs were 8 feet long.

“Holy Shit!  You look like a ‘fast walker’ if I’ve ever seen one!”

She looked down on me.  “What?”

I mumbled “Nothing.  Please don’t lose me or I may starve to death in the maze that is this hospital.”

They laugh like I’m making a joke, but I’m not trying to be funny.  By the time we reach radiology, I’m bent over and sucking in air like a jet engine, my legs are shaking and I’m gasping out curses at fucking Olympic athletes loping around the gawd-damned hospital killing the innocent relatives of the fucking ill.  And then an orderly comes out and sees me about to pass out.  “Are you okay, Ma’am?”

“Do I fucking look okay?  I’ve just run a bloody marathon with Usain fucking Bolt and I’ve got my own IV nightmare going on if you don’t mind (I wave my IV’d left arm under his nose)!  Get me some water already!”

The rest of the time is spent in crushing boredom.  Fighting off my own infection, I was finding it difficult to cope with the length of time this was all taking.  I assumed they would fill him up with antibiotics and install a pump like they did with me.

That didn’t happen though.  They admitted him right into the hospital because they thought they could drain some of the infection and because they were starting to get alarmed at how quickly his head was building another entire person.  And then there were more trips down to radiology and more cursing.

The cats are pissed off.  Well, Teddy is just concerned but Izzie wants answers and someone to slap!  What the fuck is going on here?!  Where’s The Viking?  He always holds the spoon for me to lick.  You stink like Hospital – don’t touch me, that’s gross!  I chewed the container of chicken broth and made a mess.  That’s how pissed I am.

I gave them treats and tried to spoil them a bit.

The following morning there was a single paper towel on the kitchen floor with two small corner bits torn off.  As a communication it was brilliant.  They are still pissed but only this amount of pissed and not an entire roll of toilet paper pissed.  I thanked them both for their understanding and promised to be more attentive when I could.

Back at the hospital, The Viking was scheduled for yet another ultrasound.  The ferry person turned out to be a penguin and I dared to think that I might be able to keep up with her.  HA!  Her little legs were pumping like pistons as she careened around corners.  The Viking’s gown was riding up around his belly and IV lines were streaming behind like ribbons.  I was running to keep up, the Tic Tacs in my purse shaking like Maracas.  Finally, I had to yell at her….

“Wait a fucking minute….gasp….I have nerve damage….gasp….in my fucking leg….gasp….and I….gasp….can’t keep up!”  Gasp, gasp, gasp.

I heard a faint apology drifting back to me but she didn’t slow down at all.  Thank gawd she had to wait for an elevator.  When we arrived at our destination, The Viking smiles into my sweating face and says….

“You’re getting a little bit of exercise, Babe.”

….as he reclines comfortably, pushing his dressing gown to cover his sex area.

And that, my friends, is pure bravery coming from a man laying on a stretcher in a dressing gown that leaves his ass exposed.

 

 

My Vacuum Cleaner Sucks

I’m pretty sure I wasn’t meant to be poor.  Okay….I’m not poor….but I’m not rich.  And by ‘rich’ I don’t mean like Bill Gates Rich but more like a marginally good actor that only takes on small parts where he dies almost immediately.  Like Sean Bean (read Sheen Been*) rich.  He seems to support his ‘Playing Rugby With His Mates’ and ‘Hanging Out In A Pub’ activities quite well by dying two or three times a year.

Not that I want to be Sheen Been; rugby is a rough sport and one I would only consider playing if I had a loaded pistol with at least 15 20 30 rounds (I had to google how many people are on a Rugby Team so I knew the minimum rounds of ammo I would need, multiplied by the number of times I might miss a target and then a little extra in case a referee objects).

Anyway.  I’m pretty sure that I was meant to be, at least, Sheen Been Rich.  Because I hate cleaning.  And my vacuum cleaner sucks – in a bad way.  I should have gotten the canister model except  The Viking’s canister was a pain in the ass because the wheels wouldn’t roll over its own electrical cord and I thought an upright wouldn’t have that issue.  And it doesn’t have that issue.  Instead, it has 321 other issues that make me holler and curse every time I have to use the fucking thing.

My stupid back hates vacuuming anyway (no matter the model) because my torso is always bent slightly forward.  Same thing goes for mopping the floor, cleaning vegetables and dusting low places because that’s what happens when you don’t have a disc in your lower back).  And we won’t even talk about the epic nightmare cleaning the bathroom has become.

What does all this have to do with being rich?  Well, a lot, actually.  If I had the money I would throw this stupid vacuum cleaner in the garbage and get a better one.  And if I were rich, I’d get a cleaning person to just live in the spare bedroom and spend his/her days cleaning up after The Viking and me.

Ugh!  The house is pretty small for three adults so I should probably just buy a slightly bigger house with a wing for the maid.

And if I have an entire wing of the house dedicated to a maid, maybe I could have a cook too.  I’m not really fond of cooking and I don’t know how to cook to be skinny, so having a cook present us with tasty, healthy food three times a day would be lovely.

And now that I’m thinking of things that I don’t like……I don’t like door-to-door sales wo/men or religious groups** that keep trying to save my soul at the front door, so a Butler would be awesome.  Surely the Butler would make the person wait at the door while he/she came to inform me that “Religious Panderers are begging an audience, Madame” and I could say “Unleash the dogs!”

OH!  And a driver for long trips.  I should have a limo so I can just nap or play games on my tablet.

Speaking of long trips, I really hate economy class on airplanes.  It’s terrible.  I should just have my own jet so I don’t have to share air with 300 other people.  And then The Viking’s family could say they want to visit for a couple weeks and we would say “I’ll send the jet for you tomorrow.”

Huh.

I’ve talked myself right out of being Sheen Been Rich.  I’m going to need more than the amount of money he makes.  Maybe Mr. Bean Rich?  He certainly has more money than Sheen Been, unless he has a gambling problem.  Let’s leave the Beans behind and go for the Golden Goose then.  At one point in time, The Viking and I thought I should marry Phil Collins for a year and then get a multi-million dollar divorce settlement (Phil does that a lot!) but then The Viking had to trick me into marrying him so that plan is down the toilet.

Thinking….

Thinking….

Thinking….

There’s just no way around it.  I do need to be Bill Gates Rich.  But I won’t flaunt it and I won’t let it change me and I promise to stay humble.

Trust me.

*I could have gone with Shawn Bawn but I like the Sheen Been better.

**I was interrupted while writing this post by a door-to-door sales woman.

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