Category: Travelling

A Naked Treasure Hunt and Aqua-Viking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Probably never.”

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

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

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

Nine hundred years later….

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

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

“No. I’m done here.”

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

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

“They were your stabby, snarky comments.”

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

“Nope. All you.”

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

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

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

Sand and Spit

We’re home from vacation. Sigh. Unwillingly and unhappily. Sad emoji. I was born to be filthy rich, but my ancestors didn’t put in the effort required to fund my preferred lifestyle. I shouldn’t complain because we did get more than a week of wonderfulness, but I’m going to anyway. Not here, of course, because my whining is boring, so go ahead and read on. Also, I’ll have another post about the vacation because there is just too much to tackle in one post.

We took the Goldwing, but we haven’t become very adept at packing. This is only the third time we’ve attempted a motorcycle vacation and it shows. Mostly because The Viking is a cranky control freak.

Back in the bad old days, when we packed the fifth wheel for every holiday, we had completely separate tasks that rarely over-lapped. He had nothing to do with stocking the towels, clothes and condiments. I had nothing to do with filling propane bottles and checking tire pressures. The only time we had to confer was in regard to how many times we would be eating steak and bacon (every meal) and how much beer and Baileys I needed to buy (a lot). This motorcycle packing is an entirely different beast though. It turns out that I am in charge of gathering things and The Viking is in charge of complaining about the items I’ve gathered and packing those items into the bags.

I started my ‘gathering stuff’ a couple days in advance, all the items grouped into categories, sealed in Ziplocks and labelled appropriately. I put all my clothes into a large Ziplock bag and squeezed the air out of it so it took up less space, and wrote lists of what needed to be done before we left. I brought out the custom bags that fit perfectly in the trunk and side bags of the bike and thought I had everything under control.

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Just to be clear, I did not presume to put anything in a bag. I clearly remember last year’s debacle and simply laid out the bags and piles on the kitchen table so The Viking could mumble incantations and work the intricate magic involved in his packing system. I took up position on the opposite side of the table and waited for instructions.

“Beach Towels.”

“Yes Sir!” I handed them over respectfully with a snappy salute. I folded them wrong, apparently, and there was a heavy sigh and several seconds of head shaking while he re-folded them properly and put them in the bottom of a bag. With great exaggeration for instructional purposes.

“Laptop.”

I had put the power cords in the outside pocket of the laptop bag and that was a colossal blunder.

“You can’t put the cords with the laptop because any weight on top of it…” he mimics pushing down on the laptop, “will break it.” He continues mimicking the pushing and breaking for an entire 30 seconds. Okay, he has a point. I’ll give him that.

My vacuum-packed clothes were an issue for some unknown reason. It probably wasn’t magic enough. He mumbled something about it being too wide to fit and bashed the side bag skinny-full-ly several times to make his point. “See?! It won’t fit. You have to be very careful that you don’t make the bag too wide, or the side bag cover won’t close. See?!”

I nodded enthusiastically like I had learned something new, hoping he wouldn’t carry on for another 6 minutes on the intricacies of motorcycle packing. As he dumped my clothes…..

“You only need 5 pairs of underpants.” Counting them out and handing me the remainder.

“But we’re going to be gone for 10 days.”

“You’re lucky I’m allowing you 5! You can wash them in the sink. I’ve been taking motorcycle trips for 107 years and have never packed more than 3 pairs of underpants even for a 6-month trip. And I washed them out with only one cup (250ml) of water that I recycle to make myself some coffee with nothing more than a Bic lighter and tin foil. I’m sure you can make do.”

“Should I buy travel-size laundry soap?”

“What?!! Are you crazy?!! We’ll use sand and spit.”

He dismantled my entire Ziplock system, including the Ziplock containing all the chargers for all of our electronics. He gave a Ted Talk on how a Ziplock of something takes up too much room, but individual items can be put into nooks and crannies. He explained with examples, best practices and techniques. He did make one concession for Ziplocks and that was when it came to things that might leak, like shampoo. He also gave a short lecture on where things go depending on their squishiness – hard things go here, and soft things go there. At least that’s what I think he was explaining; I had stopped listening at sand and spit because my lady parts were shrieking.

I finally walked away and left him to his dark magic. He may VooDoo everything into the bags easier but just wait until he’s looking for his toothbrush and has to unpack every damned bag to find it. That goes for tablets and phone chargers, too. He should have made a detailed luggage map with the location of every item at a bare minimum, but what do I know?

I’m not saying that I could do a better job packing the bike, but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be so cranky and explain-y.

It Could Happen to Anyone!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time.

Stopped.

Blink. Blink.

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My wallet did not contain the credit card.

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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I ran for my coat and…no credit card!

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

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

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

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

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

Pickles and Lotion

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For fucksakes! You get ONE LOTION!!”

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

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

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

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

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

Wait…

…

…

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

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Joleeeeeene!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

It Could Have Been Worse

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

DAY 1

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

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

Teddy:  So where am I supposed to go?

Izzie:  Don’t know, don’t care.

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

DAY 2

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

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

DAY 3

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

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

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

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

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

 

DAY 4

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

Izzie:  You are hogging the sofa.  Move over.

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

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

Teddy:  Nope!  I am well within my borders.

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

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

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

DAY 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

DAY 6

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

DAY 7

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

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

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

Me rattling the treat jug:  Teddy!

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

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

DAY 8

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

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

About five minutes later….

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

Not even 5 minutes later…..

The Viking:  Izzie!!  Stop slapping Teddy!

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

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

Teddy:  Who’s the ‘fraidy cat now?

DAY 9

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

DAY 10

Me:  Teddy!  Quit clawing the carpet!

I forgot his cardboard scratch board at home.

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

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

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

DAY 11

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

The Viking:  Get her Teddy!

Me:  Slap her harder, Teddy!

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

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

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

DAY 12

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

She ends up under the bed.

Teddy:  ‘Fraidy Cat, again?

DAY 13

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

DAY 14

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

A Pain in My Ass and Shiver Me Timbers!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

via GIPHY

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

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

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

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

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

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

via GIPHY

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

 

 

Talk To My Back, Lady!

We tempted the Gawds with a road trip across provincial lines during the time of Plague.  And while the Gawds couldn’t be bothered with our trivial rebellion, Teddy had a differing opinion.

It’s The Viking’s fault, really.  He’s always wheeling and dealing, trading this thing for that thing.  I can’t keep up.  He is perpetually in the midst of several complicated barter agreements with shadowy people I may or may not know.  And it was one of these transactions, which involved a generator, some sundry motorcycle parts for the seller of said generator and $500.  Now that Weather has decided to indulge in Spring, The Viking wants to get Generator installed in Fifth Wheel Trailer in the slight hope that we might be able to take it camping this summer.

So, we got our shit together – hand sanitizer, disinfectant in a spray bottle, toilet paper*, and non-alcoholic (sadly) drinks.  It was 4 hours to get there, probably an hour waiting/chatting (with 6-foot social distancing of course), and another 4 hours back.  We’d be home for dinner.

And we were.  Right on time.  Izzie shouted** greetings at us but Teddy was nowhere to be seen.  I didn’t think about it much because he’s not the ‘rush-to-the-door’ kind of guy; he prefers to strike a dignified pose by the refrigerator and give me a chin nod and ‘love eyes’.  I just assumed he didn’t hear us come home and would show up on time for dinner.

That didn’t happen though.  The Viking quizzed Izzie….

“Where the fuck is Teddy?”

“Who cares?” was her response, and then, “I notice you haven’t fed me yet.  Tick, Tock!”

While The Viking was dishing out food, I called for Teddy.  “Suppertime, Teddy!”  That’s usually enough because food is extremely important after the year he spent living on the mean streets of Homelessness.

Eventually he wandered close to the back door, studiously refusing to look at me.  “Are you coming in?”  He just sat there looking at the neighbour’s house.  “Okay, fine!  I’m not standing here all night holding the door open.”

I still didn’t realize that Teddy was angry.  It was 3 hours later, when he sat down in the middle of the livingroom without looking at me that everything started to click into place.  His customary entrance in the evening is a chubby trot followed by a full body slam into my lap.

“Are you mad at me, Teddy?”  To be honest, I was a little shocked.  We named him Teddy Bear because that’s exactly what he is.  He’s sweet and gentle and lovey.  He’s the best cat on the planet.  Except for an itty-bitty, teeny-weeny streak of stubborn.

His answer was to deliberately turn his back on me.

I probably didn’t help matters when I started to laugh, but in my defense I’ve never seen him angry before.  “Oh, come on, Teddy Bear!  You can’t be mad at me.”  And yet, he was.

My previous cat would get angry with me but all it took was a cuddle and she couldn’t help herself but forgive me.   Apparently, Teddy is made of sterner stuff.

“We were only gone for 8 hours and 25 minutes!  You can’t be mad about that!”

……

“Seriously?  You aren’t going to talk to me because I was gone for a few hours?”

……

I picked him up and tried to give him a love.  He actually braced his front feet against my boobs and strained his head and shoulders away from me!!  “Oh, come on!  I’m sorry!”

……

I appealed to The Viking.  “He’s mad!  At me!”  The Viking was totally unhelpful and, most likely, secretly amused because the cats never blame me for anything – he’s always the ‘Fall Guy’.  As soon as I put Teddy down, he turned his back on me again but didn’t leave the room.  I suppose this was his version of a ‘lecture’ since I couldn’t help but see him with his back turned, full of indignation.

“It’s not even my fault!  It’s The Viking’s fault!  He was the one that bartered himself into a road trip and forced me to go along.”

……

“I wanted to stay home.  With you.”

……

“I would have cuddled you all day long, but The Viking said it was more important for me to keep him company.”

……

“Honestly!  I cried all the way to Longview!”

……

“He tied me up so I couldn’t get away!”

……

“I was a hostage!”

……

“You’re going to hold a grudge against a Victim?!”

……

Sheesh!  You would think I had pinched his Airmiles Card!

He didn’t look directly at me for the entire evening.  Not a single ‘love eye’ or brush against my leg.  The Viking, on the other hand, was the surprised recipient of many ‘love eyes’ and even a body slam to his lap accompanied by deafening purrs.

I’m not sure who wanted me to notice more – the angry cat or the pleasantly surprised Viking.

 

*I decided to rely on rest area pit toilets and severe liquid rationing to limit my contact with any Plague Carriers.

**Shouting is her permanent speaking tone, with or without swearing and name-calling.

Knock, Knock!

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

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

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

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

Knock, Knock

The Viking turns his head.

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

Shrug.

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

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

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

Shrug.

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

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

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

Shrug.

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

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

I HAVE TO PEE!

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

I decided to wait for a gas station.

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

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

Shrug.

I tried to keep my squirming to a minimum.

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

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

Muffled curses and lewd hand gestures.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Such was the case on Saturday.

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

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

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

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

Hello Deer!

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

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

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

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