Category: Things we do

A Cow Pissed On Us!

We’re home.  We’re also still in shock that we didn’t suffer any catastrophic event while we were in Arizona.  Usually there is some sort of shittery that sends us both into a tornado of spiraling stress, curses and name-calling.  But this time The Viking wasn’t almost arrested and I didn’t get into any fist-fights (the chances of this happening are slim, admittedly, but still….).

Of course, there was the pre-departure clusterfuckage, as usual.  It wouldn’t be a vacation if we didn’t hate each other for the first six hours on the road.  We’ve become infamous in the neighbourhood for our attempts to go on holiday.  We quit telling them the exact day we were leaving because they were bringing out the lawn chairs and popcorn.  There was plenty of this though…..

and a little of this….

…..behind each other’s back and continual profanity as we packed the truck but we did managed to keep the volume down.  There wasn’t a single lawn chair in sight by the time we started the truck and idled out of the alley.

Once we were speaking again, the trip became enjoyable – we both love road trips – and everything was fine until we hit Idaho.  Sigh.  Idaho.  Never go to Idaho without a super-sized jug of Wind Shield Washer Fluid because the entire state is infested with bugs whose guts are so sticky it takes a sandblaster to get them off the front of the truck.  Also, cows piss on you there.

We were following a cattle liner who wasn’t going nearly fast enough for our happiness (we are driving 2400km/1500miles and want to get the fuck going already) and while The Viking was making little darts into the other lane looking for a likely time to pass, a cow pressed its ass against the side of the trailer and let loose a frightening large amount of piss.  It seemed to never end!  It was like driving into a waterfall!  The truck driver was going fast enough to turn the piss stream into a nauseatingly thick mist which required liberal and fast windshield wiper action and desperate stabs at the fresh air intake button.

After we stopped screaming and could use our words again we were more than just a little indignant.  What kind of world do we live in when cows can just piss on you any time they want?  We’re at the top of the food chain, are we not?  That sort of thing should be illegal!  What if our windows had been down?!  Or if we were on a motorcycle?!  Or in a convertible?!!

And then I started wondering why I’ve never been cow pissed on before?  I live in cow country for Pete’s sake.  Given the number of cows/pigs/sheep that are trucked all over the continent you’d think that Cow/Pig/Sheep Pissings would be common and therefore cause enough indignation in the general population to have laws against it.

So I Googled it (Are there laws against cows pissing on vehicles?) and there isn’t.  It’s illegal to be drunk while caring for a cow in Scotland and in Australia it’s illegal to milk another guy’s cow and you can’t drive your cows through St. John’s after 8:00 (I’m assuming in the morning because driving your cows through St. John’s at night would cause fewer traffic problems, but what do I know?  I’ve been pissed on!) but no law about cows pissing on people in vehicles.

So, are Canadian cows just more polite than Idahoan cows?  Is that why I’ve never been Cow Pissed on before?  Are Idahoan cows just plain assholes?  I wouldn’t put it past them judging by Idahoan bugs!  On the other hand, maybe this particular cow was just really bitter but not indicative of all Idahoan cows as a collective group.  Or maybe the Vacation Gawd didn’t have time to prepare something truly epic, as in past years, and this was the best he could do under the circumstances.  If that’s the case ….. then touché Vacation Gawd, well played.

Having now experienced being pissed on by a cow, I can say that it’s not something I will soon forget.  I think I might even have a touch of PTSD.  And, it will change the way we rate our future vacations as well as anyone else’s future vacations.

“Geez, that was one of our worst vacations, but at least we didn’t get pissed on by a cow, right?” 

“Too bad you had such a lousy time on your holiday, but at least you weren’t pissed on by a cow, right?”

Just a quick note about the actual chemical composition of the cow piss itself:  It does take off Idahoan bug guts, so there is that.

PS:  Yes.  Being pissed on is infinitely better than being poo-ed on.

PPS:  Yes.  Cows have every right to be bitter but pissing on us doesn’t change their fate.  It just makes me want a bigger steak.  Or maybe to tip them over, if I knew how to go about it because, presumably, the cow would see me coming and would brace itself.  Unless I dressed up like a cow but then I would need someone in the back of the costume and The Viking probably wouldn’t think it was a worthwhile endeavor.

 

Dare to Share

Where in the Hell is My Machete?!

The mad scramble for Holidays has begun.  I’m sweating buckets as I run around gathering all the things on my list.  Half way through one task though, I think of another thing that didn’t make the list so I change directions and then forget what the hell I was looking for.

I’m doing a lot of starting and stopping and swearing, if I’m honest.  Sure, I could have done most of the packing ahead of time but that just means I’m lugging suitcases from one flat surface to another because I need that surface in the meantime.  Houses really should be built with a “Packing Room” that has long flat surfaces for the luggage and shelves for organizing.  That would be helpful.

Also, cats; they get into everything and that blouse you just packed will be covered in fur when you need it.  It’s safer in the closet on hangers until the last minute.

And I can’t find my Night Vision Goggles.  Or my machete.  I probably won’t have to slash my way through a steamy jungle on our way to Arizona but you just can’t be too careful.  The Night Vision Goggles are handy to have though.  I probably put both of them in the same spot so I wouldn’t lose them but I can’t remember where that spot could be.  I hate it when that happens.

So, I don’t have much time to write a post but I wanted everyone to know that I’m not dead.  I’m on holidays.  I might not have time to write much for the next 2 weeks and it seemed like the polite thing to do to explain why.

Unless I actually die while on vacation.  That would seriously suck and no one would be worrying because I just told you I’m on vacation.

Maybe I should stop and buy a couple epi-pens in case of Killer Bees and I really need to find that fucking machete and the Night Vision Goggles.

Just Tie the Knot, Already!

Well, I’m nothing if not adept at biting off more than I can chew so it shouldn’t come as a huge surprise to hear that I’ve done it again.  This time I had help though.  In the form of a Viking.

We were contentedly watching a movie last week when he suddenly said….

“How much longer do we need to be together before we get married?”

I laughed nervously; the subject of marriage always makes me a bit flinch-y.

Except, last weekend we celebrated our 10th year together.  10 YEARS!  Some people might consider that a fairly lengthy engagement but, to be honest, I’m quite happy with the status quo.  I don’t need a legal document to prove my love and a Common-Law status is legally almost as good as marriage anyway.   You don’t spend 2 decades trying to make a marriage work, fail and then jump right back into the frying pan without at least a little apprehension.

The Viking:  I’m not joking.  How much longer do you need?

Me:  Umm…..well I didn’t really have a specific date in mind – like 2021 or anything.

The Viking:  It’s been 10 years already!

Me:  I know.  I just thought we had decided not to jump in this year.

The Viking:  I know you’ve been married before and weren’t willing to make that decision too soon but it’s about time, isn’t it?

Me:  I didn’t realize you were in a hurry.

The Viking:  Well, I’ve never been married and I would like to get married before I die.  To you!  Erik and Annette* will be here and this is the only time we can get married when I could have a family member stand up for me.

Well, geez!  If he’s going to put it that way…..

And he’s right – as usual.  I thought we would get married in Denmark in a few years when we had a little more money, but it would be cheaper to do it here rather than flying my kids all the way to Denmark.

And maybe I should start dealing with my aversion to marriage and anything that even sounds like marriage.  The Viking and I have been living and working together for years and years quite happily, so you wouldn’t think that a piece of paper would make any difference.  It’s a piece of paper not a liver transplant!  Right?

But deep in the back of my head is a voice saying, “Sometimes that piece of legal paper makes a world of difference.” Some people take it as permission to be controlling and over-bearing and jealous; I’ve seen movies!  And what if there’s a skeleton in a closet that I haven’t located yet?  What if he’s trying on my clothes when I go to the grocery store (not that there’s anything wrong with that if I know about it before I marry it!)?  What if he has an entire family concealed in a neighbouring town (even I can see that this is not very likely, but still….)?  What if he’s in the Witness Protection Program and mob thugs are going to show up here one day?  What if…..

FOR THE LOVE OF GAWD……shut up already!  If The Viking were truly like that and managed to fool me for 10 years(!) he deserves a medal of achievement. Besides, he doesn’t have the patience for it.  He probably won’t change at all.  And don’t you remember you called him an arse-ling just last week and he didn’t lose his shit at all!  In fact, he actually smiled!  So, maybe marrying him will turn out to be the best thing ever.

Or not.  Gawd!  My right eye is twitching.  Is my eye trying to tell me something?  Perhaps it knows something that my brain hasn’t picked up yet.  It would be just like me to have a ‘twitchy eye’ instead of a ‘gut feeling’.  On the other hand, you have to see something before your brain can do anything about it, so maybe my twitchy eye is ahead of the curve.

And now that I’m thinking about it, why in the hell would he want to marry me in the first place?  I’m a mess!  A 53 YEAR OLD Mess!  It’s exhausting just thinking about all of my faults and weirdiness.

You know, he would really be better off with someone less……..

The Viking:  HELLOOO?! 

Me:  What?

The Viking:  I’ve been watching your face.  Are you getting close to using words yet?

Me:  Oh!  Of course I want to marry you!  What woman wouldn’t?  Are you sure you want to go down this road?  You’ll be stuck with me for the rest of your life because once I’m committed that’s it!   

The Viking:  I know.  I wouldn’t have asked you to marry me if I wasn’t prepared to spend the rest of my life with you.

Me:  What if I don’t meet expectations?

The Viking:  You already don’t meet expectations.  Nothing new there.  I kind of like that about you.

Me:  Really?    

The Viking:  Why do you think I want to marry you?  

Me:  You have a concussion?  Brain Cancer?  You hear dead people?  A VooDoo Doctor is making you do it?  Blackmail?  An evil curse?  Selective Alzheimers?  

The Viking:  Oh, for fucksakes!  Are you going to marry me or what?!

Me:  Okay, fine!  On one condition.

The Viking:  Should I even ask?

Me:  When I’m in a wheel chair, you will make it the fastest, most powerful wheel chair ever!

The Viking:  You might not end up in a wheel chair.

Me:   70% chance.

The Viking:  If you do, I will.

Me:  And you’ll love me forever?

The Viking:  I already do.  More than you can even imagine.

And then all hell broke loose!  I had 10 days to pull this off.  I need an Official to do the ceremony, our rings, dishes, flowers, a wedding outfit, a tablecloth, cloth napkins and rings, wine glasses, drink glasses, serving platters, photographer, my Judgement of Divorce (who knows where the hell I stashed that damned thing?!), a marriage license, some place to have the ceremony and a pedicure/manicure.  Then there are the Wedding Vows to write.

Crazy GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

We aren’t equipped to have a wedding, even an incredibly small one.  We only had 7 dinner plates and one of them had an ugly chip in it.  No matching wine glasses.  If I’m harnessing myself to The Viking for the rest of my life there had better be some matching wine glasses!!

Today, I have exactly 5 days left to find a photographer, get the marriage license and find a nice spot in Bowness Park.  Thanks to my Mim, we’ve accomplished a damned miracle getting the other stuff.

Even better, I am actually looking forward to My Teeny Weeny Viking Wedding.

I’m still stressed but there is a small chance that I might be ready for Saturday morning when we pick up Erik and Annette at the airport.

Sweet Bejesus!!  I forgot about a cake!  May this be the only thing I’ve forgotten.  Sigh.  Deep breaths.  It will be fine.  It’s a wedding, not a Heart Transplant.

*The Viking’s brother and his lovely wife, Annette.

If you care……share.  

Who Flung Poo?!

 

Oh!  Hello!  Is it the weekend already?  Let me put some coffee on.  I honestly don’t know where the time goes.  Do you remember how slowly time passed when you were a kid?  It took 29 years for Christmas to arrive.  Now, it comes every 3 months.  The only place time ceases to move is in the Doctor’s Office, in a Traffic Jam or at the Passport Office.

Anyway, I’ve got bigger fish to fry today.  It’s called Litter and it’s the bane of my existence.  Who invented this crap?  Oh sure, it clumps around cat pee and poo so it’s easy to scoop, but it spreads through the house like a disease.  We’ve put men in space but can’t invent a decent litter?  My vacuum never sees the inside of the closet anymore.

I made matters infinitely worse when I went to buy more litter and there on the shelf was something called Litter Lite and it practically floated into my cart.  I’m accustomed to wrestling a 50 pound bag in which cursing, sweating and grunting are inevitably involved.  And usually a small crowd gathers at each end of the aisle to watch the show.  Litter Lite was a dream to get in the cart by comparison.  I waved at the bystanders and said “No show today, folks!”

However, here are the problems with Litter Lite:  it’s easier to dig in and it clings to the fur on the bottom of their feet in spite of having 3 large Litter Pads that are supposed to stop Litter spread.  I have carpeted the entire laundry room with those pads (which cost a fortune!) and there is still litter all over the house!

Then The Viking made the mistake of putting too much litter in the box so the litter was almost level with the flap door.  And it turns out that both cats are like ground hogs digging new burrows when it comes to burying their poo.  Litter shoots through that flappy door at the velocity of sandblasters.  We had discussions with both Teddy and Izzie, clustered around the litter box for demonstrations of proper digging techniques that limit the amount of collateral litter spillage, but it’s like they couldn’t care less about technique.

And then catastrophe happened.

I went into the laundry room to load the washing machine and there, laying on a Litter Pad was a turd.  It’s was sprinkled lightly with litter but it was definitely a turd.

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!”  I shoved the clothes into the machine.  “WHO FLUNG POO?!!”  The sound of 8 little feet and two big feet galloped down the hallway.  Teddy, Izzie and The Viking clustered around the doorway, all of them with the same wide-eyed, innocent expressions.

“Did you say something, Babe?”

“YES I DID!”  I hollered.  “Just look at that!  Right there!  It’s a TURD!”

The Viking immediately tried to deflect.  “I didn’t do it!”  But both cats were looking at him and nodding like they saw him do it.  “You can’t believe them!  They’re traitors!  Besides, I can’t even fit in the Litter Box.”

“Touché, salesman!”  I huffed and turned my attention to the short people.

Realizing the tide had turned, both cats looked at me.  “Well?!  Who flung the poo?!”

Izzie’s eyes were locked to mine, but Teddy’s eyes kept flicking to the left.  Toward Izzie.

“Did you fling poo, Izzie?”  I demanded.  “I’ve heard you in there doing the Macarena.”

She sat a little higher and indignation flooded her face.  I already knew it wasn’t her but I had to be certain before I looked at the real culprit.

“Teddy?”  He wouldn’t look at me.  “Did you fling the poo?”  He walked away without giving a full confession.

So we made changes.  I went to wrestle a 50 pound bag of heavy litter and amuse shoppers, while The Viking scooped the excrement then re-purposed the remaining litter.

But guess what.  There’s still litter all over the house!!

So, how was your week?  Aside from my Litter Dilemma mine was great.

PS:  Enjoy this clip about Flinging Poo

 

Special thanks to Part Time Monster and Nerd in the Brain for hosting Weekend Coffee Share.

Sex Hair

If you are faint of heart, you may want to stop reading now.  Hmmm….maybe I shouldn’t have said that because there is a real possibility that you might be ‘faint of heart’ but also have a cat’s curiosity, so now you can’t stop reading.  If that’s the case, please accept my advanced apologies in case you won’t be in any state to accept the apologies at the end.

The Viking and I have sex every Sexday because…well….because.  The point isn’t about the sex itself but what comes after the sex, so rest assured we won’t be getting too specific about that.

Except that one time, with the English Tween Author, who I thought was just going to give me a New Year’s Kiss but 4.6 seconds in I was on the floor wedged between the coffee table and the sofa hollering “Geezuz Cripes!!”  22 seconds later he was sitting on the sofa smoking a cigarette and asking if I’d like a glass of wine.  He was like a Sex Ninja or something and I wasn’t entirely certain whether I had actually participated or not.  I suppose I should have been flattered at his apparent enthusiasm but to be honest I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to appreciate it.  All the way home I kept thinking “It’s not the size of the army, it’s the speed of the attack” and then laughing so hard I was snorting.

I digress.  What I really wanted to talk about was my hair.  Specifically, my hair and what happens to it during sex.

Not that hair!  The hair on my head!  Geez!  I’m trying to be delicate here!

I’ve always been extremely talented at Sex Hair but it wasn’t until this past Sexday that I truly understood the vast artistry of my ability.  As I wandered past a mirror on my way to the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of myself.

Me:  Viking!  Come here!  You have to see this!

The Viking:  Ooooooo…..that’s impressive!

Me (twirling around):  I know!  I think it’s my best one yet – it’s sort of reminiscent of a Turkey’s Ass.

The Viking:  Yes.  Now that you mention it, it does look a lot like a Turkey’s Ass.

Me:  I should get an award for this.

The Viking:  I’m not sure this is your best one though.  I kind of liked the Llama Long Hair.

Me:  That one was truly terrible, wasn’t it?

The Viking:  Yes.  And don’t forget the Holy Hell Monkey one either.

Me (laughing):  I still can’t believe that my baby-fine hair could stick up like that!

Sometimes I can guess what motion caused the hair – like the head tossing from side to side while hollering ‘Yes!’ over and over again.  Other times I haven’t got a clue what I was doing that could possibly create the end product on my head.

Did a hurricane sweep through the bedroom without us noticing?

Maybe a bat got in and I was too distracted to be freaked out?

I tried keeping a picture diary of my Sex Hair Creations but my talent is, obviously, not taking pictures.  Instead I trolled the internet to find comparable animal facsimiles.  Surprisingly, some animals are pretty good at Sex Hair.

If I had a choice, I probably wouldn’t have choosen Sex Hair as my major talent.  I would have picked something like painting or rally car driving or tap dancing but I wasn’t given the choice.  I’m not sure who I should complain to either.  My parents?  How would that conversation go?

“Why is my only talent Sex Hair?”

“You should have stayed in band.  I hear Clarinet players can make decent money nowadays.”

So, there it is in a nutshell.  I have a talent but only The Viking gets to admire my work and I haven’t figured out how to make any money doing it.  Unless I can convince Kate Middleton to ditch the hats and go for better hairdos.

I’ll send her a letter.

 

 

 

This Food Smells Like Shit!

Welcome to Coffee. Leave your shoes on – there’s litter everywhere. I swear to Gawd the little beasts have a fertilizer spreader loaded with litter and they spend the whole night distributing it. Here, let me move a cat so you can sit down.

THE CATS

Sigh. Having a Clowder of Cats is not as fun as you might think. There is such a thing as too much of a good thing. I know Mim is excited that between us we have a good sized Clowder, but living with four cats has its challenges.

For instance, food……

Dexter: Eww! This food smells like shit!

Teddy: What? I LOVE this food! It’s better than anything I found on the streets.

Dexter: It’s shit. I can’t eat that.

Teddy: But this is organic with no chemicals and fillers.

Dexter: So it’s organic shit with no chemicals and fillers.

Lucy: If Dexter doesn’t eat it, then I won’t eat it.

Teddy: Fine by me! I’ll eat it.

Lucy: Okay. I’ll eat it. It’s not that bad, Dex. And I am hungry.

Dexter: Not one piece of that will pass my lips.

And then there’s the challenge of Poopers……

Dexter: Hi. I need to poo

Izzie: Hi. That’s irrelevant to me.

Dexter: There’s a pooper behind you that, I believe, I’m supposed to use when I visit.

Izzie: That pooper? That’s my pooper.

Dexter: May I use your pooper?

Izzie: No.

Dexter: So where am I supposed to poo?

Izzie: That, too, is irrelevant to me.

Dexter: I’ll just wait until you leave and then I’ll poo in your pooper.

Izzie: I have nothing else to do for the rest of the day.

Later…….

Dexter: Thank Gawd! Another pooper!

Izzie: That’s my pooper.

Dexter: No. That other pooper is your pooper. This pooper is for Lucy and me because you won’t let us poo in your pooper.

Izzie: Nope. It’s mine too.

Dexter: You can’t have both poopers!

Izzie: Why not? There’s no rule saying that I can only have one pooper.

Teddy: Is anyone going to eat this last bit of food?

Lucy: I really, really need to poo. Please, can I use this pooper?

Izzie: No.

Lucy: But I really have to poo!

Izzie: Irrelevant to me.

10 minutes later…….

Izzie: Oh, you are in trouble now! A poo on the carpet! You’re a dead cat walking. Haha!

Then it was the Cat Castle……

Lucy: Wow! That’s a fancy-shmancy palace.

Izzie: It’s mine.

Lucy: Lucky you! I think the very top platform is perfect for me.

Izzie: No it isn’t.

Lucy: Sure it is. I’ll just try it out.

Izzie: Didn’t you hear me? I said…..slap…..it’s….slap…..mine…..slap.

Lucy: You’re not very nice.

Izzie: That’s irrelevant to me.

Lucy: Oh, come on! It’s more than big enough for all of us.

Izzie: Yes, it is.

Lucy: So? Can I have a nap on it?

Izzie: No.

Teddy: Yeah. She won’t let me on it either. I feel your pain. It’s so close, yet so far away. I left a little food if that helps.

The worst challenge by far……

Izzie: Did you just let my Mom pet you?

Dexter: Yes. And it was lovely. She’s a great petter.

Izzie: She’s mine.

Dexter: That’s irrelevant to me.

Izzie: Really? Is….slap….this….slap….irrelevant….slap….to….slap….you?

Dexter: Hey!

Izzie: Never let my Mom pet you! Ever! Slap, slap, kick!

Teddy: Mom gave me a brush last night and it was amazing.

Izzie: WHAT?! She brushed you?

Teddy: Yup! By the way…are you going to eat those leftovers?

Izzie: Don’t ever let me catch you getting a brush again!

Teddy: She’s my Mom too.

Izzie: No she isn’t. You’re just something she dragged home.

Lucy: She scratched my chin last night.

Izzie: WHAT THE HELL?! You too?! Gawd!!

The challenges are not confined to the cats. We suddenly have hairy dust bunnies the size of Grizzly Bears. There’s hair everywhere! I went to buy groceries the other day…..

Nice Lady: I love your coat! Is it cashmere?

Me: No. It’s cat hair.

Nice Lady: Oh! Ew!

But, the thing is, it all turned out fantastic-ally. After the blizzards of slapping tapered off, and the chases morphed from terrifying to fun, and they worked out the poopers, they ended up liking each other.

Even better? Teddy and Izzie have become friends. Mim and I were totally excited when Teddy started licking Izzie’s face. Of course she was repulsed at first but then she must have decided it was not un-pleasant. She even gave him an experimental lick while Mim & I did a quiet happy dance.

Thanks for coming for coffee. I needed some human contact. Here’s a lint roller. No, take it with you – cat hair will turn up for days and you’ll probably need it.

 

Thanks, as always, to Part-Time Monster.

Doughnuts and Death Stares

Coffee is on! Come and get it! We all have to share one Doughnut because I ate the others. I didn’t intend to eat all the others, it just happened. You can’t leave fresh doughnuts lying around and not expect me to eat them. The odds are only slightly better than leaving Toffifee unattended around here.

And I have an excuse for eating all the doughnuts – it’s because I’m an idiot.

You know when you think you are fixing one problem but it turns out you’ve only made another problem and the other problem turns out to be a monumentally stupid fuck-up? Yeah? Well, I did that.

The Viking probably wasn’t listening to me when I convinced him to go along with the scheme. He does that quite often – not listening to me – and it’s something he should work on immediately because shit happens when he isn’t paying attention. He stares at his computer screen while I discuss the current problem and he nods and says “uh huh” and then I wrap up my case and he says “uh huh” so I carry out the plan.

Unfortunately, he hasn’t got a bloody clue what ride he’s just agree to and by the time he actually realizes what the ride is he’s halfway across the Grand Canyon on a zip line yelling “WTF?!!”

On this particular occasion, it’s the cats. I see you aren’t shocked that I am having cat problems. You must know me better than I know me and if you had been paying attention you might have saved me from myself. That’s why you only get 1/16th of a doughnut with your coffee – you’ve let me down.

 So, here’s what happened. Izzie hasn’t been the most welcoming of cats to her new playmate. For the most part she has adopted an “I hate you but I’m fascinated” stance and slapping happens frequently. We were coming to the realization that she may never be a socialized, normal cat.

But then she deeked us out last night. Teddy was sleeping on one side of my leg as we watched a movie and she came over, lie down on the other side of my leg and put a paw on Teddy’s leg. They slept like that for over an hour! I was over-the-moon happy! Until he woke up and she beat the crap out of him, again. The aggression was particularly bad after that, almost like “I may have slept on you but I still hate you.” Sigh.

I was worried leaving him on his own overnight. You see, we close our bedroom door at night so they have a chance to interact without us being the cause of jealousy. So, we decided to put Teddy in a room where he was safe for the night. But that didn’t seem fair. Why should he be locked up when it’s Izzie being the beast? And here’s where I went wrong.

You already know what I suggested, don’t you? I can hear the collective moans of disgust.

The Viking “uh huh-ed” his way into this arrangement and we moved Teddy’s litter box into our room, brought a water bowl and a food bowl in and supplied him with a couple of toys.

This morning, all hell broke loose. For two hours. By the time I got out of bed, The Viking was wide-eyed and slightly twitchy. “We never should have kept him in the room with us! Izzie is going nuts!”

Well, hell! Realization dawned quite quickly. Crap! I was so busy trying to save Teddy’s bacon that I didn’t think about how Izzie would feel about this betrayal. But, here’s the weird thing. Teddy somehow found a backbone no one was using during the night. And after the first couple of slapping blizzards, Izzie settled down and they are actually playing. Playing!

Have I managed to stumble us all to the base of some turning point? As far as I can tell, I haven’t managed to do a single thing right but Izzie just greeted Teddy with a nose touch and not a single slap. It was so casual, like they were old friends meeting at a pub. I’m not accustomed to such clear successes. My finished products are usual in the line of “We Can Live With It Even Though It Isn’t Perfect” or “Better Luck Next Time”.

Yet, I think I see a light at the end of the long, dark tunnel. Or….it could be Izzie’s Death Stare reflecting in the dark. Who knows?

Thanks to Part-Time Monster…..

Kent Isn’t Superman. Apparently.

Hello! Come on in. I’ve got fresh coffee but no Toffifees or any other delectable treats because I’m on the wagon. My sugar intake was getting out of hand and steps had to be taken. However, if you have smuggled something, I’m completely ready to fall off the wagon for a few minutes while no one’s looking. Because I’m weak.

We have to sit in my bedroom because I have a problem. And it’s getting bigger by the day. And it’s all of my own devising. We should be safe here though.

Never let it be said that I always make good decisions. If someone were keeping track, I’m probably only batting 40%. It’s not that I don’t think everything through because I do, and if you asked anyone who knows me, they would add ‘ad nauseam’ to the statement. I think my problems begin when I start thinking that everyone thinks like me despite the mounting evidence to the contrary.

What I would do in any given situation, it turns out, isn’t what most normal people would do.

Don’t ask me why. I think I’m perfectly logical and can critically think my way out of most wet paper bags when necessary.

My newest problem involves an old problem that I thought I found a solution for, but it turns out that I’ve only made the problem bigger. And louder. And more painful.

You see, the adorable, sweet Izzie isn’t actually adorable and sweet. Think Queen of Mean and you’re not far off. One moment she’s lovey and the next she’s got a claw at your Jugular Vein.

via GIPHY

We believe it’s because she’s frustrated that we don’t play with her as much as she wants us to play with her – which is every damned waking moment. We play an average of 3 to 4 hours a day with her but that’s not enough because she won’t play by herself. At all. We have all the lastest in Cat Entertainment plus all the Golden Oldies toys and nothing engages her. She needs a playmate. To be certain that was the issue, we tried it out with Mim’s cats and she played wonderfully.

So, on Thursday, The Viking and I went to the Humane Society and adopted another cat. Yes. That’s what we did. And the regrets are piling up. I searched through every SPCA within an hour’s drive of Calgary and finally found an adorable, 10–12 month old cat that had experience with other cats and was calm and chill. We went out to meet him – Kent – and WOW! This little guy came right over to us and climbed on The Viking for loves immediately. We talked to the staff and they all adored him. He was the perfect!

So we brought him home.

And Izzie lost her damned mind!

She couldn’t hiss and spit fast enough, loud enough or long enough to fully articulate her feelings. Honestly, the X-Rated curses and name-calling was enough to curl my hair and my hair is firmly and determinedly straight – just ask my hairdresser. Her future playmate fainted and he’s lived on the streets for several months.

We put poor Kent in the spare room with a litter box, 9156 toys that Izzie won’t play with, food and water and reinforced the door with 6 inches of solid steel.

Imprisoning Kent calmed Izzie slightly but when I went to sit and love her a bit she slapped me 4 times in quick succession. I think it was Morse Code for either

You! Cheated! On! Me!

Or

What! Is! That! Thing?!

Or

Make! It! Go! Away!!

Or

You! Will! Die! Slowly!!

And every single time I touch Kent, I get slapped by Izzie. Hard! I’m not talking ‘love taps’, I’m talking ‘bitch slaps’!

via GIPHY

I am only thankful that she isn’t using her claws which indicates that there is a small portion of her soul that hasn’t fully gone to the dark side.

So, there you have it. Kent isn’t sticking up for himself so The Viking and I are rotating cats through seclusions using the spare bedroom and our only bathroom. We communicate via walkie-talkies:

Me: I have The Evil One contained in a sack in the kitchen. It’s a rodeo so you should hurry.

The Viking: Roger! I have The Sweet One and moving to the family room.

Me: Roger…..Wilco….I think. Transferring The Evil One to the Bathroom in 5….4….3….2….1!

The Viking: Has the package been delivered?

Me: The Package is secure.

……..

Me: I probably should have gone pee before we put The Evil One in here. If I’m not out in 4 minutes send help. They should wear armour.

The Viking: For Fucksake!

There isn’t much change today except Izzie only slapped me twice. And Kent isn’t Superman. Apparently. Because he just cowers when she growls. Perhaps he’s too nice. That should never be a problem but when you are dealing with The Queen of Mean you have to stand your ground.

I hope I don’t have to get a third cat to save the second cat from the first cat.

PS:  We aren’t sure about Kent’s name.  He came in with two other cats – a female and a male – and the staff at the SPCA named them Lois, Clark and Kent.  Witty, but I’m not sure I like the name Kent.  Kent.  Kent.  Kent.  When The Viking, with his accent, is calling him….it sounds so close to….well, you understand.  On the other hand Clark Kent was a bit of a wuss until he became Superman.  And it will take Superman to tame Izzie, I’m afraid.  But Izzie’s name is Isolde so we thought Tristan was a great name.  Maybe I’ll go and make The Viking yell ‘Kent’ over and over to make sure it doesn’t turn ugly…….

Thanks for stopping by. Hopefully we can sit in the kitchen for coffee next time you come.

 

Thanks, as always, to Part Time Monster for hosting Weekend Coffee Share.

A Family History, A Tax Return And A Book

I’m over-extended. I bit off more than I could chew. I’ve procrastinated myself into a maelstrom of missed deadlines. The pressure is on. I don’t have any time. Every distraction puts me further behind.

It’s my own fault, of course – which makes it worse. I can’t even point a finger at someone and holler “IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!” I can’t even lose my temper because The Viking might list all the time I have wasted in the past 6 months when I could have been working on the projects that I’m now stressing over. I hate it when I think I know what he’s going to say.

Priority One right now is Year End for our business. It’s kind of time sensitive – I can’t put it off for another week because I have invoices for 2017 that have to wait until I’m done 2016. It’s not like it’s difficult, it’s just been neglected into a sweaty, angry mess that I have to untangle and decode before I can end it.

In my defense, I found something I wanted to do more than the things I am supposed to be doing. I can’t be alone in that. Who wouldn’t want to write a blog post instead of entering depreciation of company-owned machines? I took a whole diploma program for business accounting so I could do our books only to discover that I hate accounting. This sort of thing happens to me more than you might imagine. Be that as it may, it’s a chore that has to be done and I’m the only one capable of doing it.

I’ve promised to stay on top of it in the future so I don’t have to spend weeks at the end of the year. Sigh.

Priority Two is the huge project that I took on without knowing exactly how much work it would actually be. I wanted to give my children a story and pictures about where and who they come from. Every kid should know that.

So, I’ve been scanning old pictures; I’ve spent hundreds and hundreds of hours doing it. The book portion of the project is about half finished but I’m not really happy with it so will start from scratch again. It’s all worth it for my kids and grandkids though. Right? And as soon as I’ve finished Year End, this becomes my Number One Priority.

Priority Three is a labour of love. The Viking and I subjected ourselves on Europe for 7 weeks in 2014, from Denmark to Italy to Croatia and back to Denmark. I kept a journal of our adventures and I will expand it and, hopefully, have it published. Trust me that no one has ever taken a European Vacation like The Viking and I did. Seriously.

And now that I’ve written all my priorities down, I can see a hint of New Year’s Resolutions which I had decided not to do because I never take them seriously enough. These might resemble Resolutions but they definitely are not Resolutions. These are……um……hmmm…..well I don’t know what to call these other than Priorities so that’s what they are.

I have a plan. It’s a good plan, a meaty plan that, once accomplished, should make me feel like a Goddess. A Goddess with a Family History and a Tax Return and a Book! If only the Gawds will play along…..

And then I can celebrate!

I’ve Created a Monster

If we were having coffee, I would have a confession to make.

I’m addicted to Toffifee. They are so delicious I just can’t stop eating them! Of all the yummy things I ate over the holidays, it’s the Toffifee that has me in its grasp and I can’t break free. Safeway is enabling me because they are selling them for half price and without even realizing it there are 2 boxes in my shopping cart. I put them in the freezer hoping that I would have more self-control if they could break my teeth but no such luck. I just suck on them until they thaw out and then chew. I am so weak!

We were watching TV the other night and The Viking picked up the tray of delectable confections to try to wedge a stubborn one out of its divot and for a moment I thought he was hoarding them like Golem with his ‘Precious’ and I almost lost it.

Me: “What are you doing?! Why are you holding them like that? They aren’t all yours, you know! You only get 3 rows! 3! And put them between us so you don’t have an unfair advantage. I can’t believe you’re hoarding!”

Him: Holy Fuck!! Take it easy! I was only getting one and it was stuck.”

Me (narrowing my eyes and holding out my hand for the tray): I thought you were taking them away from me.”

Him: I would never do that. I know how much you love them.

Me: ……..

The Viking may need to take steps. Clearly, I can’t be trusted. I told him that after this last box is gone I’m not buying any more. He tucked the Toffifee he was eating into his cheek and said “Good! We have to stop eating all this shit. If you bring any more of it home from the grocery store I’ll smash it to smithereens!”

WHOA!! That sounds like a challenge! 

Gawd!! Doesn’t he know me well enough by now to know that he just provoked me?! I’ll start hiding boxes of them around the house so I can sneak eat them when he isn’t looking. I’ll feel horrible about it but I’ll still do it.  That’s what happens when I’m challenged because the first thought to enter my mind is:  Challenge Accepted!  And once I accept a challenge…..well, there is no going back.

Couldn’t he have said something nice like “I know you’re addicted so we’ll go shopping together, in the evening, so I can give you moral support.”? Nope! He had to poke the bear!

It’s because of his Christmas gift and all the Testosterone that came with it. Now he feels justified to be all Viking-y and to throw his weight around.

So, now he has a Shield and a Battle Axe and I don’t. What was I thinking?! You don’t just arm a Viking and then hope he doesn’t use them. Of course he’s going to use them! He’s going to wave them around and chop things and bash things with his shield and he’ll grow a gross beard and put it in braids with beads and bones and he’ll let his eyebrows get all insect-y. He probably won’t answer my questions anymore either; he’ll just grunt and wave his axe at me with one hand and a chunk of meat with the other. On the plus side though, I won’t have to worry about cutting his hair any time soon.

So…..no more Toffifee. I’m feeling the chocolate/caramel/hazelnut withdrawals already. My hands are clammy and shakey and my mouth is dry and I have a twitch in my left shoulder. I suppose he’ll go through my shopping bags like a Doobie Dog at the Airport except he’ll be a Viking in the Kitchen. He’ll probably smell my breath for the slightest hint of Toffifee in case I ate a whole box on the way home from the store.

I’ve created a monster.

Maybe I can steer his axe waving in certain directions, like the Friends of Geesus or another Home Security Alarm salesman when they come up the sidewalk. When you have an armed Viking you don’t usually need a Security System. I may as well get used to it because I’m pretty sure that the manufacturing company won’t let me return them after that email I sent.

If he calls me “Thrall” just once though…….

PS: I miss you already Toffifee. My birthday is in 4 months and we will be together again.

PPS:  Here is the email I sent to the company that sold the Battle Axe and Shield when I was worried if it would arrive before Christmas.  In case you’re interested.

Hello,

I’m checking on the status of my order.  I purchased a Battle Axe and a Shield for my Viking husband on November 22, 2016 as his Christmas gift.  I haven’t received a notice that it’s been shipped yet though and now I’m getting a little concerned that it won’t arrive before Christmas Eve. 

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

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

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

 Thank you for your time and attention,

 Sincerely,

Lori, aka Mrs. Completely