Things we do – Page 5 – Mrs. Completely

Warm Hands, Cold Ass

It’s time for coffee again? Already?! What happened to the week? Did I sleep through a couple of days or something? Well, come in anyway. I’m always up for company if it gets me out of doing something I would rather not do. I’ll blame it on you when you leave.

Nah! The Viking won’t hold it against you. I blamed Carol when I didn’t get the truck registered. I blamed Wilma when I forgot to pick up licorice from the Danish store. I blamed Lukas for throwing away that tiny piece of wire that ended up being worth $193,692.74. I blamed Mim when I wrecked the can opener. He would have an awfully long list to work his way through before he got to you, so I think you’re safe.

So was your week a full 7 days long? I remember Monday – I was all Gawd! I don’t want to get up! Why isn’t there a cup of coffee in my hand yet?! I have no memory of Tuesday and Wednesday though.

via GIPHY

The police haven’t come calling so I must not have done anything illegal. And whatever I did, it apparently wasn’t that memorable. Or fun, because I think I would remember something fun. And I must not have accomplished anything either because everything is exactly as I remember it on Monday.

I remember Thursday because I had to go out in the cold to run errands and when I got home my hands were so cold they ached. The Viking let me put my hands down his pants and cup his buttocks to warm them up. Oh sure, he hollered, but when I asked if he wanted me to take them out he just stood there and grunted. So I turned them over so I could hear him holler again.

Yes. I’m quite aware that the level of spoilage I enjoy is completely off the charts.

The Viking’s Christmas present arrived on Thursday as well. I am so excited I can hardly contain myself! He is going to LOVE! IT! I was worried whether it would arrive in time. I ordered it in November and I thought that would be plenty of time but by December 6th I hadn’t received a shipping notification and it had a long way to go to get here. So I sent an email:

Hello,

I’m checking on the status of my order. I purchased a Giant Pink Bunny (code for his real present so he doesn’t figure it out) 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 don’t have any Viking food – like a pig leg – to offer as a distraction. I’m defenceless here. The best I can do for armour 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 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,

The shipping notification arrived 2 hours later. They must have had quite a lot of sympathy for my situation. OR they hadn’t completely understood the implications of making a Viking sad.

Now that I think about it, maybe the events on Thursday overshadowed everything that happened in the early part of the week. It’s not every day that The Viking allows me to warm my hands on his ass and it’s definitely not every day when a simple email to a company gets such instantaneous results.

I probably don’t need to make an appointment with the Memory Specialists, then.

Which means that life is still good.

Merry Christmas! Glædelig jul!

Thanks, as always, to Part Time Monster and Coffee Share.

How My Boobs Won Crib

Yeah! Coffee time! Come on in for some Tim Hortons brew and a doughnut. What’s not to like about that? I hope you had a good week. I can actually say that mine was pretty darned good, too.

Last weekend The Viking made me dinner. I love it when he cooks; it’s always delicious and I feel spoiled. After dinner we decided to do something really wacky and play Crib instead of sitting in front of the TV.

The thing about playing any game with The Viking is that he always wins. Always. We are talking about a guy who can roll 8 Yahtzees in one game. Granted, it’s selective winning because he’s shit at the Lottery, but when there is nothing more than my pride at stake, he wins. I don’t play Strip Poker with him unless the heat is turned up because I’m the only one sitting there naked. I dress in several layers for any game beginning with the word ‘Strip’ so the game will last longer than 5 rounds, too.

So, when The Viking suggested Crib and not Naked Crib, I was willing and completely prepared to lose. I promised myself to be a good loser and not throw anything at him. Instead, I would focus on chatting and enjoying my Parfait Amour while being trashed on the Crib board.

But this time it was different. Sure, I was leading after the first couple of hands but that means nothing. The Viking is one of those guys that lures you in so he can trounce you when you think you’ve got the game in the bag. I had to admit though that I was doing very well and the space between our pegs was increasing with every hand.

He moaned when I was half way around the board and a good twenty points ahead. I said, “Stop complaining, you’ll come from behind and win as usual”. That’s just how the universe works. Just when you think you’ve got him, Odin steps in and ruins everything.

I was starting to pay attention now though. Could Odin be busy? Was I on the verge of achieving the impossible? Not only was I far ahead but he was becoming concerned that he might not make it over the Skunk line. A bubble of excitement formed in my stomach, battling the certainty of failure for space.

Don’t get all giddy yet; this is exactly what he wants. He’s playing with you. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch and all that. Manage your thoughts so your disappointment isn’t too keen when he does charge from behind and win the final peg hole. Remember he did that last time you played. He beat you 5 games in a row!

Try to distract him!

So I said: “I bought these new bras and they are super comfortable but they don’t have a lot of support. See?” And I bounced in my chair a little bit and my boobs started jiggling at him. It worked! He was mesmerized! So I kept bouncing while I pegged my points (not an easy feat). I lost his focus for a moment when he pegged his miserable 4 points but I bounced harder and higher and that seemed to get him thinking less about his cards.

via GIPHY

He was still quite a distance from the Skunk line; he would need to get a 20 point hand if he had any hope of avoiding the dreaded Skunking. When I picked up my hand I felt the thrill of triumph! He can’t catch me! I’ve won! I’ve beaten The Viking! Sweet Geezus I’ve pulled it off!! I will never complain about my boobs again! All that remained to be seen was whether he could make it over the Skunk line.

AND HE DIDN’T!! I’VE SKUNKED THE VIKING!!

I tried to be gracious while I was doing the Strutting Turkey Winners Dance. “It was just a bit of bad luck. You have killer Crib skills. Don’t let it get you down! Ha! Ha! Ha!” I couldn’t help myself. This was unprecedented.

He played it cool though; pretending it didn’t bother him. He shrugged, “I don’t give a fuck if you won. Will you stop dancing and deal the cards? Please?”

I sat down and shuffled the cards. “You’ll beat me this time. I’m sure of it.”

He grunted, “Whatever. Deal already.”

And I really believed he would beat me. I really did. You don’t just beat The Viking at something and then not expect him to annihilate you the first chance he gets. I thought I’d be lucky to be simply Skunked and not Double Skunked.

Unfortunately for The Viking, Odin really wasn’t paying him any mind at all. Maybe he’s a Boob Man, too. Who knows? The first few hands were sort of even – he was ahead of me at one point. I was encouraging and helpful all the way; I didn’t even laugh. But I won again! Not by a lot, but I still won, and if we had played another round he most certainly would have gotten me. But he had Jet Ski Races to watch and I was spared.

I did have a word with the Gods explaining that I really wasn’t being a poor winner, I was just celebrating a rare win. Like David celebrated victory over Goliath. Or, more appropriately considering which Gods I was bargaining with, how Thor would celebrate a battle victory. And wouldn’t Thor use every asset at his command to win? Well, I have boobs and if they’ll help me win a damned card game once in a while I will definitely use them.

I think we’re good.

PS: I probably will still complain about my boobs. I’m not infallible.

PPS: A big thank you to Part Time Monster for the weekly Coffee Share.

Divorce, Sex and a Pub Fight

How long does it take for a repressed, depressed, anally retentive, ultra-sensitive, terrified, divorced woman to become normal? 10 years. Well, 9 years and 4 months for sure but I’ll be positive and give myself an extra 9 months to get the job done.

I’m not going to tell a long, sad tale of abuse; a lot of people have those. Too many people have those. What I will tell you about is that moment when I was feeling like shit because I had just had my gall bladder removed. I was lying on the sofa, sort of whacked out with drugs, listening to the husband holler because he had to warm up a bowl of soup for me. When he handed it to me I looked in his face and it hit me.

On the day I die, I don’t want this man to be anywhere near me.

Death is such a personal thing. It’s intimate and heart-breaking. It is vulnerability and hopelessness and fear. And a man that can’t bring me a fucking bowl of soup after major surgery doesn’t deserve to be there at the end of my damned life. Especially that guy who has been coddled for more than 2 decades by yours truly.

I went to see the Psychologist who had saved me from myself several years earlier. I asked him if I was making the right decision because once you’ve had depression you learn that sometimes your emotions lie and you can’t always trust them. I told him I didn’t want to end a 23 year marriage because of fucked up reasoning and emotions. It took him 32 minutes to say that my logic and emotions were just fine and he wasn’t sure why I had come to see him to begin with. I needed to be sure though.

Having embraced the idea that I would rather die alone and homeless than be married any longer, I moved on. I found a lawyer. I bought a condo and a car and found a job I loved. Dissolving a marriage doesn’t transform one overnight; it doesn’t quiet fear and it doesn’t make one care-free. There’s baggage. And I carried all the baggage alone. I was worried about the kids and my future and money and because that’s just what I do. I had determination though and I was bloody well going to learn to love life and love myself, even if it killed me.

I met an English, childrens book writer. He was….well…..English. He was also the second man I ever had sex with. And he was the first guy who’s approach was “It’s not the size of the army but the fury of the attack!” I went for a glass of wine and ended up on my back on the floor with an impressive rug rash. I thought of my childhood dog that used to hump my stuffed tiger the whole length of the basement. I drove home slightly stunned and wondered if all Englishmen are so enthusiastic and if so it’s a wonder the entire world doesn’t speak with an English accent. I didn’t see him often; he wasn’t looking for a relationship, just very fast sex. When he found someone else for speed screwing he asked if we could remain friends. I said we never were friends so why would I want to be his friend now? I figured he kept women as friends so when he hit a dry spell he could always call up a friend who had a spare 5 minutes.

I met a couple other guys but none were of note. And then I met The Viking and fell in love with his mantra of “Who gives a fuck?” before I actually loved him. He won me over with things like:

“I was an asshole! You should have just said so instead of having hurt feelings for 6 weeks.”

“Who cares if you farted?!”

“I filled your car up with gas.”

“Why in the fuck would you spend your money on lingerie when I just have to waste time getting it off?!”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s burnt. I’ll eat it anyway!”

“It’s just a sex store! Everyone has sex! There’s nothing to be shy about!” and “Yes, he’s creepy but we’re only buying the dildo from him, not inviting him to join us.”

“I’m going to make supper for you.”

“How could I not love you? You drive a manual transmission car and it’s not a piece of shit Ford!”

He introduced me to his friends in Denmark and I learned about loyalty and who has your back. It came in a pub where a guy called me Canada and kept touching my ass and brushing (accidentally) against my boobs. I thought I might have to punch him but if I got into a fight then The Viking would be in a fight and if The Viking was in a fight then his best friend would be in a fight and if the best friend was in a fight then the best friend’s giant of a son would be in a fight and then the whole pub would be in a fight……so I decided to maneuver closer to the corner away from Mr. Too Friendly.

Over the course of 9 years and 4 months I’ve changed a lot. I’m not afraid anymore. I can let things go. I don’t hold a grudge for more than a day or two. It hasn’t been easy and sometimes I thought I’d never make it but it seems that as good as The Viking was for me, I was just as good for him.

There is a school of thought out there that no wo/man is complete without a partner, that alone s/he is only half of what s/he could be. The right partner brings the balance and harmony that is required to be whole. Despite being married I was alone and, to be fair, so was my husband.

Now, together, The Viking and I have been transformed into one viable, complete human being. But just one. I could never be so impertinent as to suggest that we could possibly be two complete humans. He curses too much for that. And yells. And throws things. While I drop things. And fall over things. And get lost.

So as long as I don’t curse and he never drops things we qualify as one whole person. Which is all we ever wanted to begin with.

Transformation

Wild Sabretooth Burros and Burritos

The first time The Viking brought me to Lake Havasu there was a big, greyish plywood sign immediately after we left I-40 onto Highway 95 south. The sign said CAUTION in big, hand-painted letters in yellow and below that WILD BURROS in red and below that DRIVE WITH CAUTION in red as well.

I peered through the darkness hoping to catch a glimpse of these exotic Wild Burros. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as Wild Burros. What would they look like? Would they be bigger than normal burros or smaller? If someone put a Wild Burro beside a Tame Burro would we be able to tell them apart? I wanted answers.

Sadly, I didn’t see one. Not on that trip and not on the trips of the next two years. And then the Government of Arizona must have decided they should make a small effort to protect these wild beasts because they put up an actual, real sign.

Holy Mother of Gawd!! These Wild Burros are nothing short of Sabretooth Burros!! Look at that open mouth!

“The doors on the truck are locked, right?” I asked The Viking as we drove past the sign. I was suddenly glad I hadn’t seen one yet! I think a person needs to prepare themselves for an event like actually witnessing Sabretooth Burros in the wild. Would we be safe inside the truck or would a person need a Brinks Truck? Or an Army issue Humvee thing with little openings to stick gun barrels through? Would regular guns be enough? Maybe we would need a Rocket Launcher or a Bazooka?

Me: Why are you driving so slow?!
The Viking: The speed limit is 65 mph.
Me: What?! That’s waaaay too slow! One of those things could catch us!
The Viking: I don’t think Wild Burros can run 65 mph.
Me: Maybe not Wild Burros, but we’re not talking about regular Wild Burros, are we? We’re talking about Sabretooth Burros! Maybe those bastards can run 80 mph!
The Viking (sighing): That’s impossible.
Me: No wonder this area has such a small population.
The Viking: ….
Me: What if the speed limit is set so slow so the Sabretooth Burros can catch us? Maybe we are a feeding program sanctioned by the government?!
The Viking: For fuck’s sake.
Me: Think about it! They put up a dam to make a beautiful lake which lures boating enthusiasts but then they force them to drive so slow that Sabretooths can hunt them down and catch them!
The Viking: That would never happen. How do you even think these things up?
Me: I’m just surprised they warned us about it with the sign!

It would be another year before we screwed up our courage to actually go looking for them. Okay, it was only me that had to screw up my courage. For some reason The Viking didn’t seem concerned at all! But on October 16th, 2010 I posted this on Facebook:

Disregarding our own safety, we embarked on a determined search to locate the shy, elusive Wild (Sabretooth) Burro. Yesterday, we finally found a small herd of the beasts in the middle of the desert. Contrary to the image captured on the official, government sign, these beasts appeared to be herbivores and NOT carnivores. In fact, they looked identical to TAME burros, except their mane and hair was not nearly as tidy as Tame (non-Sabretooth) Burros.

So it was a bit of a disappointment. I had talked myself into being excited about carnivorous burros that may or may not be able to run faster than 65 mph. I was sure that Tina the Truck could easily keep us from being Burritos (see what I did there?) for Wild Sabretooth Burros unless they can run faster than 100 mph which is where the damned governor kicks in. At that point we would probably be swarmed and killed and turned into Burritos.

I bring this all up because yesterday we went for a drive to see the new bridge over the Hoover Dam – amazing! – and then toodled through Historical Oatman on the way home. We love the drive through the rocky hills but wouldn’t want to do it without air conditioning – it’s smoking hot! If you haven’t read The Grapes of Wrath you should, it’s a kick in the gut and you won’t soon forget it. It also gives you a new perspective of Route 66.

As for Oatman, it’s an old mining town turned tourist stop and it’s over-run with Wild Burros. Contrary to my first thought, no one was eaten by the Wild Sabretooth Burros here. I asked. The gold ran out, that’s why it’s turned Tourist, so if you visit this wonderful place you don’t need to worry about becoming a Burrito. Buy carrots though.

Anyway, Oatman has a lot of Wild Burros…..and there are babies! Several babies! And Wild Burro Babies are about the cutest things ever.

And the best way to end a lovely drive.

I Barely Survived the Ultimate Seadoo Owner’s Ride

There’s a reason we go to Arizona every October. We time our arrival to coincide with the International Jet Sport Boat Association’s (IJSBA) World Finals because The Viking’s friend Mike Klippenstein is one of the world’s best. During the week-long event, BRP holds an Ultimate Seadoo Owner’s Ride from Lake Havasu City, through London Bridge Canal and down the river to The Pirate’s Cove where lunch is provided and prizes given away. This year there were 71 Seadoos on the ride, including The Viking and I. It’s a very nice event and BRP pulls out all the stops to appreciate their customers.

To be honest though, I am no Water Enthusiast. The Viking, having grown up in Denmark, is a Water Baby and I spend a good deal of my life trying to convince him that we shouldn’t have anything to do with water that doesn’t come out of a tap. It’s a losing battle, I’m afraid. And before we even leave home he’s already talking about the Owner’s Ride and how much fun it’s going to be. Frankly, I’m groaning on the inside while smiling on the outside. He throws water words around willy-nilly, like swimming pool and lake and river. I think he just likes to see me flinch.

Until I met him, I hadn’t even been in a boat. I’m a Mountain/Forest/Prairie Girl! I may have waded through a stream once or twice, most likely by accident, but that’s the end of my desire to flirt with bodies of water. I watch the Discovery Channel and I know what’s hiding in lakes and oceans and it’s not comforting. But, because I’m a supportive and loving partner, I endure the water. Honestly, I’m a ‘Fair Weather PWC Enthusiast’; ‘Fair Weather’ being the key words. And, I have one less spinal disc than most other people so when the water gets rough, I pay the price in agony.

Which brings me to the Seadoo Owner’s Ride this year. It was my second time showing my support and love to The Viking by participating in the Ride; there would be a lot of Seadoos, and a lot of Seadoos make a lot of waves and cross waves and water sprays and cross water sprays. The riders that go in a straight line are fine because you can ride in their wake but there’s always at least one Yahoo that likes to slalom and create nightmares for me – this year there were definitely 3 and maybe more.

In the beginning it was lovely. Except for the fact that Ron (my Seadoo) began wailing because the battery had a low charge. When I say ‘wail’, what I really mean is a piercing, brain dissolving, eye squinching beep that can be heard 13.6 miles away. And it didn’t happen when we were going at speed, only when we were idling so everyone could hear it. I was already out of my comfort zone and Ron was announcing my presence in the most annoying manner possible. Just great! The Viking was laughing and said “It’s perfect for your blog!” That doesn’t help, Viking!!

We idled, and Ron shrieked, our way through the London Bridge Channel. The organizers wanted us to make a Seadoo Chain across the channel for a photo-op but that sounded exactly like the makings of chaos to me. I have a tendency to panic and curse when I have to get my boat too close to someone else’s boat and there were children participating who shouldn’t be subjected to that. So we hovered behind the Seadoo Chain in our own brand of Anti-Social, where we weren’t doing what we were supposed to be doing but at least everyone was safe and no Seadoos were damaged in the making of the photo-ops.

Once we cleared the channel, 71 Seadoos roared to life and blistered across the lake toward the river entrance. The Viking started to go with the rest of them; the feeling of being one with the roaring, snorting, whining mass of Seadoos was music to his soul. Unfortunately, he was saddled with me. I tried to go, I really did, to be one of the crazies, to hit the throttle and soar over the waves, but I was caught in the cross waves and spray of all the other boats. I tried standing up but that only worked for a short time because my back ached even more while my ass was being spared.

So I did what any other sane person would do: I started shouting curses as I held onto the handle bar for dear life. I cursed six ducks and 3 fishing boats and threatened a goose. F-bombs were peppered throughout my sentences for a brief amount of time until I ran out of real words and just started shouting F-bombs in a never-ending loop. The harder I squeezed the throttle, the more hair-raising my curses became. Thankfully no one heard me over the sound of the Seadoos or I may have had to apologize to people and animals alike.

And then I hit a big wake and Ron’s nose drove into the wave and water drenched me from head to toe. My glasses were useless and WATER GOT IN MY MOUTH! I had to pause the cursing while I spat out the fish poo/algae/pee. I wiped it off my glasses and my face. I vowed to never go on this ride again! I bellowed at Gawd for even allowing Seadoos to be invented! I cursed The Viking and the day I met him. I cursed Ron for slapping my ass with his seat and jerking my arms out of their sockets and making my right hand numb from vibration. I cursed the guy with the drone and the driver of the Seadoo boat and I especially cursed the guy with the pimped out boat who cut me off and nearly dislodged me from Ron.

And then The Viking was close enough to yell at me “Go wide where it’s smoother!” He had a smile a mile wide and I hated him.

I said, “F-Bomb, F-Bomb, F-Bomb, weeds, F-Bomb, you’ll pay for this! F-Bomb, F-Bomb, F-Bomb! Never again! F-Bomb!” And then I realized that every time I opened my mouth more fish poo/algae/pee got in so I shut up and just endured, focused on surviving this ordeal.

The smile never left The Viking’s face. He loves this shit! I plotted a slow and painful death for him. My shoulders ached, my hand was numb and my ass was taking a beating. I just don’t understand why people love this so much and I gave everyone around me the Stink Eye. Either they didn’t notice or didn’t care, I’m sure which.

I had to admit that all these Seadoos running together down the river was probably an amazing sight and everyone, aside from me, was loving the hurricane-sized waves. It’s beautiful going through Copper Canyon and stopping for a rest at the Sand Bar. The ‘no wake’ zones protect bird habitats and riders have the time to appreciate the scenery. I can’t think of another place that could be more lovely.

Maybe if I was 25 years old again I would be more adventurous with water sports. On second thought….no. I just can’t unlearn the things in lakes, rivers and oceans.

Finally, we arrived at The Pirate’s Cove. I love this place. The food is great, the view is wonderful and there is booze. Lots and lots of booze. It took us a few minutes to find parking spaces because 71 Seadoos take up alot of beaching space. The organizers reserved an area of beaching and docking for us so it wasn’t long before we joined the rest of the riders. The staff at The Pirate’s Cove were wonderful. Despite the number of hungry people arriving all at the same time, we didn’t wait long for our food and it was as good as usual. There were really nice gifts given away to people that were not us. Unfortunately. A T-Shirt would have been nice.

We were all on our own for the ride back to Havasu, which was good because I wouldn’t have to deal with such messy water. Or at least that’s what I thought. It was still quite early in the day though, only about 2:30, so there was quite a bit of traffic on the river. At one point a deceptively small fishing boat went past, leaving a huge wake behind it. I hit that wake at about 70 kph. I stood up in anticipation but it was bigger than I thought. My feet left the foot wells, my shoulders took the full force of my upward flight and abruptly reversed my direction back down. My mouth opened involuntarily and filled with fish poo/algae/pee. My left boob hit the handle bar, my chin hit the crossbar, clacking my teeth together and my ass hit the seat. My hand was jarred off the throttle and for a moment there was a distinct possibility that I may end up in the water/fishpoo/algae/pee!

“F-BOMB! F-BOMB! F-BOMB!”

When we got back to the marina I reported my close call to The Viking but he didn’t seem to care at all! Instead he showed me the huge cut on his right leg. Apparently it happened when he was loading Ron onto the trailer. Shit.

“Are you saying your cut trumps my bruised boob? It’s not a competition, you know!”

I suppose I’ll have to let it go, though. He wins this one because it really is a big cut. But he’s not allowed to touch the left boob for at least 3 days.

Dear Road Trip Diary

Day One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Holy Fucking Hell!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Afternoon, sir. Is everything alright here?”

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

The closest Trooper looks past The Viking over to me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day Three

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

Epilogue

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

Slogging or My Muse must be on Vacation

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

Or not.

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway……….

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

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

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

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

Slog

Izzie – Coffee, Lucifer and Elizabeth Taylor

Good morning! Come in! We’ll have to make due with Chicken Broth today because someone didn’t buy any more Salmon…..cough….Missus! I did manage to save a couple treats from my Treat Toy though.

See this? It’s a new collar! And it’s made of pearls and little rhinestones. I couldn’t wait to show you. I look like Elizabeth Taylor! It didn’t have much of a bell so The Viking put a better one on. Now I’m a tinkling Elizabeth Taylor!

The Missus wanted to take a picture of beautiful me but I have principles and one of those principles is to deny people what they want the most. If it’s within my powers to crap on their dreams, I crap. It’s a gift.

I sit on the table and look beautiful. She grabs her phone, turns it into a camera, points it at me and…..I walk away….face down. The Viking said he could do better but I proved him wrong as well. The Missus snort-laughed.

Oh, come on. It’s funny! You should try it some time.

In other news, Junior came for dinner last night. I used to like him; I even curled up and slept on his lap a couple of times. But the first thing he said was “Is she any nicer?” Nicer?! What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

I’ll admit that I might not be the Debbie Reynolds of the Cat World but that doesn’t mean I’m not nice. I’m nice all the damned time! I don’t slash them with my claws anymore. That’s nice! I haven’t shredded a single roll of toilet paper for at least a week. That’s nice! And I haven’t made a single piece of art out of sugar in, at least, 2 weeks. That’s nice!

So I bit him. Go me, right?

The whole thing got me thinking though. And then I realized that I wish I wanted to be nice but I just don’t. I like sitting on my castle and slapping every person that comes through the back door. I don’t use my claws but I really give them a solid slap. I like the look on their face; the surprise that only comes from being unexpectedly assaulted. It’s funny.

The Missus was loading the dishwasher the other day and the water was running in the sink. I stuck my foot in the water and then flicked it right in her face when she was bent over to put a plate in the dishwasher. I liked the look on her face. I hadn’t thought it all the way through though, because she said “Challenge Accepted!” and pushed me into the sink full of water. I think she liked the look on my face. It was totally worth it though.

I like fucking up family pictures. I like the “Beware of Bite-y Cat” sign on the back door. I like yodelling at the top of my lungs sometimes because it annoys. I like waking them up in the middle of the night. I like complaining and demanding and lecturing.

So maybe I’m not meant to be a nice kitty. Maybe I’m meant to be more like Lucifer in Cinderella only much thinner and better looking. And really, aren’t there enough sweet, cute, adorable, affectionate, behaving cats in the world already? They wouldn’t even exist if there weren’t cats that were the opposite. Everything needs balance, right? Well, I am doing my part to keep the world balanced. How many cats can make that claim?

Yes, I know you are one of the good ones. I won’t hold it against you.

You’re welcome.

Streaking and A Change in Scheduling

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

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

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

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

Izzie: Woooaaaahhh! Muuwah! Aaaaa!

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

Izzie: Aaaaaaa!!! Eeeeooowww!! Muuaa!

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

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

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

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

The Viking: Go away!!

Izzie: Eeeyaaahh!! Muuuuaa!!

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

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

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

Izzie: Waah?

The Viking: …..

Izzie: Waahh??

The Viking: …..

Izzie: Wah!!

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

Izzie: Waaaaaaahhh.

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

Izzie: …..

The Viking: Uuhhkk! Don’t touch that!

Izzie: …..

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

Izzie: …..

The Viking: NO! Don’t do it!

Izzie: …..

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

Izzie: …..

The Viking: You little Fucker!!

The toilet flushes.

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

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

Toilet Paper, a Swiss Army Knife and a Massacre

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because that’s what he’s good at.

Category: Things we do

Warm Hands, Cold Ass

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Divorce, Sex and a Pub Fight

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