Category: Work

A Viking Cat-Ass-trophe

I’ve rubbed off on The Viking.  It happened slowly at first so I didn’t really give it much thought, but with the latest incident, I can’t ignore the evidence any longer.  He’s a Viking Klutz.

In the past few years, he’s had a couple of war wounds.  He banged his leg on a sharp something in the shop, left it to fester for a week, and then presented me with a Sweet-Baby-Jesus(!) oozing wound that required intensive pampering to heal.  He sliced his finger, again in the shop, that sent us to Emergency to have it stitched up before he bled to death.  And other less spectacular injuries that I don’t have time to list.

However, no previous incident can compare with his latest mishap.  It comes with a Red Alert Warning, too.

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Turn back now if you are squeamish about Bums.  Asses.  Derrieres.  Cracks-of-Dawns, or any other euphemism that applies to the muscles upon which you sit.

The day was the same as any other day around here.  The Viking went out to the shop, as per usual, and I was doing my own somethings in the house, as per usual.  From time to time, there were shouts and cursing seeping into the house from the shop, but I don’t even notice them anymore.  The Viking excels at verbalizing his frustrations, very often and at very high decibels, and I’ve developed almost total deafness for sounds coming from the shop.

There came a moment though, that got a tiny piece of my attention for a tiny amount of time.  It was just a second, a blip, a staccato peep, that I dismissed almost immediately even though the sound was not usually part of The Viking’s repertoire.  In my defense, I just thought he was extraordinarily annoyed with a something that required an extraordinary curse.  It was only later that I realized the significance of that blip.

Two hours later, I had reason to visit the shop and found a quiet Viking leaning to the left in his office chair.  “I really wrecked myself this time, babe.”

“Oh?  What happened?”

He lurched out of his chair to recreate the events that ‘wrecked’ him, just stopping short of actually suffering the injury again.  Apparently, he tripped over a trailer hitch and fell backwards.  The lock part of the hitch was sticking straight up and that’s what he landed on.  On his ass.  His right ass cheek, to be exact.  A centimeter (half inch give or take) to the left and he would have completely lost his virginity.*  He whipped his pants down so I could get a look, and it wasn’t pretty.  The offended spot had a shallow cut and the area around it was already turning black and purple and was becoming hard as a rock.

“Holy shit!!  Does it hurt?”  Well, of course it hurt!  He wouldn’t have bothered mentioning it if it didn’t.

Within an hour, half of his bum was purple.  Two hours later his entire right bum cheek was purple and spreading to the left cheek.

I couldn’t look away.  It was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen!  I really wanted him to just stand in the kitchen, naked from the waist down so I could observe the exponential expansion of Bruise Willis and poke it often for ripeness.

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It was so wildly unbelievable that I had to share it.  I sent a picture to his brother in Denmark which got an immediate response of “What the fuck happened?!”  I sent a picture to my daughter which got a quick response of….

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Which made me go…..

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I’m not totally without a heart though.  It was obvious – from my close scrutiny and poking of Bruise Willis – that The Viking was going to need some way to sit down.  So, we jury-rigged a pillow and an ice pack.  The following day it was no better and probably even worse.  The whole thing was so massive I started to get a bit concerned.  Can you get a blood clot in your bum that could travel to your brain/lungs/heart?

“Maybe we should go to a medical clinic.” The Viking thought it was unnecessary but on the third day without any improvement, I forced the issue.

The Doctor was a young guy in his late twenties or early thirties and after a brief explanation from us, he told The Viking to drop his pants.  I think the guy thought we were over-reacting to a minor bruise, but he was thoroughly impressed.

“OH!  WOW!  How did you do that?”

Long story short: The Viking will live to fall another day, we shouldn’t be concerned about blood clots, and here’s a prescription for the pain.  However, Bruise Willis earned The Viking some pampering and a couple sick days off work.

And this brings us to the title of who is the biggest Klutz in the house.  I received two points – one for an infected tooth and another for my spectacular skid across the industrial carpet at the back door.  I also received a bonus point for doing it in front of a customer.  The Viking received three points – one for the oozing leg wound, one for the nearly amputated finger, and one point for Bruise Willis.  He also received two bonus points for style.

With 5 points for presentation and creativity, The Viking is now the Champion Klutz.  Long live the Klutz!

*I didn’t say that right then though because that I thought it might be too soon.

Call The Paramedics 3

I pulled ‘A Viking’ the other day.  I was cutting up potatoes to make oven fries for supper when I had a rare knife glitch and sliced a finger – the left pointer finger, to be precise.  I made a soft, dainty, ladylike coo – very much like a Dove – and grabbed the finger with my right hand, a little afraid to look at the damage because I felt resistance in the knife.  The Viking, sitting nearby at his computer, barely heard me.

“FUUUUUCK!!”

It was only because The Viking had such good hearing that he noticed and without actually looking at me said, “What happened?”

“I cut off my finger.”

He says, “Well, put a Band-Aide on it.”

What?!  THAT’S NOT HOW YOU ASSESS A HEALTH CRISIS!!

I carefully opened my right hand and found zero blood, which could be good news in that I hadn’t cut deep enough for blood….or…..very bad news if I didn’t have any blood to bleed……or…..super news because my body was capable of instantaneous healing.  Like a Superhero.  Note to self:  Create a great Superhero Name.

I decided to put a Band-Aide on it anyway so I could carry on with the potatoes but halfway to the bathroom and the Band-Aides I started gushing blood.  Note to self:  never mind about the Superhero name.  I recruited The Viking to apply the Band-Aide but he seemed completely unimpressed with the amount of blood I was leaking and how much it hurt.

I said “Ouch!” and he snorted like it was barely a scratch which kind of annoyed me.  “You act like it’s nothing!”

Him:  “Well, it is nothing.”

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Me:  “It definitely IS something!”

Him:  “You don’t need stitches, now do you?”

Me:  “That’s only because I am more talented than you are!”

Him:  “What?!” A high-pitched squawk.

Me:  It’s true!  I managed a deep, clean cut without hitting an artery.  Anybody can slice an artery, but it takes a very high level of skill to miss the artery, and I wasn’t even trying that hard.  That’s skill, with a capital ‘S’!

Him:  ……….

Me:  That’s right!  Your slicing skills are amateurish and hap-hazard, but what can I expect from a guy born and bred to throw axes?

Him:  ……….

Me:  Also, you need to finish the potatoes because I have a work-place injury.  Don’t make me report you to Occupational Health & Safety.

Apparently, I dazzled him with my intellectual prowess because he finished the potatoes.  I considered pushing for a day off due to a risk of infection but decided to quit while the quitting was good.

The problem with the stupid cut is that it went in on an angle, so the flap part catches on things and hurts like a bastard.  So, I need a Band-Aide to stop tearing it open again but then it isn’t healing as well as it would without the Band-Aide.  Also, it’s bruised too, and every time I knock it even a little bit it hurts like a bastard.

So, my left pointer finger is not my favourite digit at the moment.  I thought about making the right pointer finger the favourite in the meantime, but that’s too much competition and could lead to prolonged pointer finger angst.  Instead, my right middle finger is the current favourite, and I am using it frequently.  Especially when I’m complaining to The Viking about my workplace injury and his underwhelming sympathy.

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Ugh! Mondays!

Mondays are a shitshow around here.  And the nicer the weather on the weekend, the bigger the shitshow on Monday.  It’s entirely The Viking’s fault too because if he wasn’t so good at his job, we wouldn’t be in this pickle.  If your problem involves a motor, The Viking is the guy to call and they do.  Call, I mean.

We start Mondays desperately slurping coffee and listening to the disjointed, muffled, almost inarticulate mumblings on Voice Mail.  We both squint our eyes and lean toward the telephone hoping that proximity will help us understand what….

‘skoihknlm;oij 96 mlhwedsnpglas forkwejhrolj 403hus54okn thanks’

….means.  What are these people doing when they leave a message?  Bowling?  Jogging?  Sex? Eating a hot pizza?  It’s always the men, too.  Women call and clearly enunciate their words, explain the issue concisely, leave an audible phone number and thank us for our time.  I have never not been able to understand a message left by a woman.  Also, women call weeks in advance of when they need a machine fixed.  Men call two days before they need the machine serviced or repaired and get cranky when I can’t fit them in the schedule before their big family vacation at the lake that they’ve been planning for months.

The Viking is already slightly annoyed that he isn’t independently wealthy because he hasn’t won the Lottery yet and having to face customers at 9:00am on Monday doesn’t improve his mood.

And then the phone starts ringing.

Since the weather was beautiful, everyone was out with their ATVs, PWCs, Dirtbikes or Streetbikes and they broke them.

“Hi!  I broke the winch on my Polaris Sportsman this weekend, trying to pull a buddy’s massively big Jeep out of a ravine.  Can you have it fixed today?  I told the guys we would go out again tomorrow.”

Ummm….no.  Sorry.  My first available appointment is 3 weeks from today.

“What?!  But I told the guys……blah, blah, blah.”

Listen man.  The Viking is only one man and you aren’t our only customer.  People booked appointments three weeks ago and I’m not pushing them so you can keep a promise to your buddies.

“Good morning!  Can I talk to The Viking?  He fixed a flat tire for me 6 months ago and now I’m having trouble fixing my oil pump and I wanted to pick his brain for solutions.”

Sure!  He lives to help people fix their machines over the phone.  He’s happy to stop, in the middle of the paying job that he’s currently working on, to help you, for free, because you’re special.

Usually, around noon, I get phone calls from the Mumblers who left incomprehensible messages at all hours of the day on Sunday.

“Hi.  I left you a message and you never called back.”

Probably because I couldn’t understand a single word from your message.

“Oh!  Really?”

Yes.  Really.  What were you doing when you left the message?

“I was eating a hot pizza.  Anyway, I need my motorcycle fixed because I was burning a wheelie and the bike got away from me.”

Wow!  That’s gotta hurt.  Sorry, but my first available appointment is 3 weeks from Tuesday.

“What?!  3 weeks?!  It will take The Viking 5 minutes to fix the bike!  It’s not like it’s complicated.”

First of all, I doubt that.  Second, you aren’t helping your case by getting condescending.  My next available appointment is now 4 weeks from Tuesday.  Ass.  AND…..your middle name in our database is how ‘Fuckhead’.  Doe, John Fuckhead.

“Let me talk to The Viking.”

Sure!  As soon as he’s finished working for the guy who booked his appointment 3 weeks ago.

“Well, I guess I’m taking my business elsewhere.”

OH NO!!  Whatever will we do?!  How will we afford food?  We could starve to death!  Okay, man.  You win.  I’ll book an appointment 5 weeks from Tuesday.  Ass.  Doe, Fuckie Fuckhead.

“You know he’s my best friend.  We’ve known each other since the 80s.  He’ll fit me in.”

The 80s you say?  The Viking didn’t arrive in Canada until the 90s, so I call bullshit.

“Well then book the appointment, but if I find someone else who can do the work before then, I’ll do that.”

Excellent!  What did you say your name was?  Fuckwad, Fuckie Fuckhead?

By 6:00pm, The Viking and I are both annoyed and looking for booze.  And yesterday was such a shitshow that I couldn’t actually get the blog posted until Tuesday.

We’ve created a new ritual to celebrate the end of a bad workday – a beer.  We survived.  No heart attack happened, no customer was harmed during appointment booking, no one called the police to complain about excessive cursing and household items being thrown around.

Skål, Baby!! 

NOTE:  You must be very careful in the spelling of ‘skål’.  I spelled it ‘skole’ and that means something very different from ‘Cheers!’  From Urban Dictionary “Skole is a danish word meaning dick sucking teachers who like to spank their students with sticks.”  

 

Tim, Tim, Jim, Tim

I don’t want to alarm you, but I may be having a week-long stroke.  Or a slow aneurism.  Or a lengthy onslaught of dementia.  Or maybe all of them at once.

Last week I confused two customers because they were both named Tim and I called one Tim to come and pay for his machine when it was the other Tim’s bike.  What followed was a very messy display of questions, demands, and confusion where I might have grabbed my head and yelled, “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE!!”

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The Viking shouted, “HOW THE FUCK SHOULD I KNOW?!”

And the confused customer said, “Don’t worry about me.  I’ll just be waiting at the end of the block.”

After profuse apologies and a full refund, I offered to drive him back home, but during the bizarro events, when he was at the end of the block self-distancing from the chaos, he had already called his Mother, probably telling her to hurry because he might be trapped in an insane asylum.  I apologized to her, too.  Gawd.

Then I copied a customer’s phone number wrong and couldn’t tell him his machine was ready to be picked up.  Also, I changed his name to Tim even though he tried to convince me that he’s actually a Jim, not a Tim.  So, wrong name AND wrong number.  Thankfully, he called this morning and I said, “Thank Gawd, Tim!  I somehow have the wrong phone number for you and your bike has been ready since last Thursday.”

He said, “Shit happens, it’s no big deal and please stop calling me Tim.”

I also had the bad luck for a customer to be named John* Ross and another customer to be named Ross John*.  How the hell is that even possible?  Obviously, the Gawds are bored.  The Viking likes John Ross but he doesn’t like Ross John and so I may have been a little short with John Ross when I should have been much nicer and I was too nice to Ross John which just encouraged him to pester The Viking more.

In my defense, I don’t usually see the customer until they show up to pay their bill, while The Viking sees them both dropping off AND picking up, so of course he has more time to anchor their face to their machine.  I am juggling customer appointments 2 weeks in advance while trying to remember appointments from the last week because those machines are still in the shop and it’s easy as hell to mix names and machines because who can really tell the difference between a GSXR and a YZF600R?   A Viking, apparently.

So, when I walk into the shop and The Viking points at a bike and says, “Call that guy and tell him his machine is ready to go” it’s a guessing game.

“Umm…..Richard Doe?”

“NO!  RICHARD’S BIKE IS A V-STAR!  THIS BIKE IS A VIRAGO!!” As if they don’t look exactly black and shiny the same.

My mind starts going, “V-Star.  V-Star.  V-Star.  If Richard owns the V-Star but doesn’t own the Virago then who the fuck does own the Virago?!”  The Viking stands there watching me blink.

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“Come one, Babe!  Where is your head?  This is Tim’s bike!”

 

*I’m changing the names to John to protect the identities of the two guys because….well….just because.

I Just Broke Facebook AND Amazon

WARNING:  If you are slightly inhibited or hate the word ‘Dildo’ you probably shouldn’t read beyond this point.  Seriously.

Yes, I did break Facebook and Amazon and it was easier than you might believe.  Maybe not your Facebook and Amazon, but I definitely broke mine.  For 3 days.

It started about 2 weeks ago.

I accidentally dropped my tablet.  Again.  And yes, The Viking did say, “What the fuck is with you and that fucking tablet?  Do I need to tie it around your neck?”  Whatever.  I have no more control of my hands than he does.

Anyway, he had managed to fix it the last time I dropped it so I was fairly optimistic that he could save it again.  Except I dropped it harder this time, apparently, because it broke harder.  It requires a new thingamajig that can only come from Hong Kong and it’s so tiny that The Viking needs to buy a special magnifier doohickey so he can see what the hell he’s doing.  I’ve prepared surgical tongs and sweat-absorbing sponges for mopping his brow, I cobbled together an operating theatre with extra-bright lights and I’ve picked the perfect, calming, Elevator Music to hum softly while he operates.

I like to be helpful – it’s the least I can do under the circumstances.

Now, where was I?  Oh!  For a week after the search for the thingamajig, Facebook plastered Amazon ads for every conceivable type of computer-y thingamabobbit, in every conceivable colour, on my newsfeed.

As luck would have it though, the microwave decided to quit working last week and The Viking worked feverishly to find the replacement doodad on Ebay.

For the entire next week, Facebook plastered Amazon ads for every conceivable type of microwave-y gizmo, in every conceivable colour, on my feed.

Every 4th post was an Amazon ad!  And not very interesting ads either.  How many thingamabobbits and gizmos does one household need?  I finally decided that if I have to look at Amazon ads they should at least be interesting.

So I Googled ‘Massive Dildos’*.

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My hope was that my Facebook feed would erupt into every conceivable kind of Massive Dildo, in every conceivable colour.  And since this computer doubles as a Business Computer, I was hoping for interesting conversations when a customer walked through the door and saw my 27-inch monitor covered in Massive Dildos**.

That didn’t happen though.  Facebook’s Amazon ads went dark.  Not a single ad.  For three days.  I assumed every algorithm on Facebook was in the process of melting down as Amazon threw 1,349,456 Dildo ads at it.  And it probably isn’t easy for an algorithm to figure out that a Statue of Liberty ‘shaped’ Dildo is different than a souvenier-sized, child-appropriate Statue of Liberty or any other tourist-y symbol that might be construed as slightly Dildo-ish in appearance, for that matter.***

So, I enjoyed ad-free browsing for a full 3 days.

But then, on the morning of the 4th day, Facebook returned with a Blitzkrieg of ads…….for every conceivable type of microwave-y/computer-y gizmo, in every conceivable colour, on my feed.  In a brilliant time-travel-y maneuver, Facebook decided to ignore all the Dildos and Dildo-related products, and pretend it never happened, that it was all just a very bad dream and Thank Gawd it’s all over now.

I have to say that I’m terribly disappointed with Facebook.  Who is Mark Zuckerberg to decide whether I can or can’t view Dildo ads on my feed?  Amazon didn’t censor their email marketing based on my recent Dildo research – in fact, I know much more about Dildos than I ever thought I should.

Here’s the thing though…..I’m now trying to resist the urge to see exactly where Facebook draws the line.  Blow-up sex dolls?  Tittie rings?  It’s like Zuckerberg doesn’t know me at all!

Or maybe he does.  Maybe he knows that The Viking knows me well enough and will only tolerate me playing in the dark depths of Amazon’s sex toy inventory for no more than a week, at best, because I have other things to do for fuck’s sake!  Zuckerberg just has to endure my research experiments until The Viking pulls the plug.

Ummm……Buttplug?  ****

* Yes, I’m aware that I could have Googled something less controversial and just as interesting but I’ve now discovered that my brain’s default setting is, apparently, the same as a 13-year-old boy.  I blame this on The Viking.

**It pays to sleep with your Boss because he just laughed when I told him about my newest ambition.

***I don’t think Mt. Rushmore would make a good Dildo unless it was stuck on the bottom like a pair of balls, but the Paramount Pictures lady is certainly an option for business-minded individuals.

****I’m probably going to have to break something in the house so Amazon will stop being so helpful because I’ve now lost all interest in Dildos and Dildo related products.

 

 

Sometimes It’s Just So Easy

RING, RING!

Me:  Four Seasons Motorsports

Guy on the Phone:  Hello.  May I speak with Niels?

Me:  He’s not in right now.  Can I take a message?

Guy on the Phone:  Yes.  My name is…..mumbling too fast to understand….

Me:  Who did you say this was?

Guy on the Phone:  JooJoo. And I’m calling from…..mumbling too fast to understand….

Me:  Wait.  Your name is JooJoo?

JooJoo:  Yes, JooJoo and I’m calling from….mumbling….card services…..more mumbling…

Me:  What company are you from?

JooJoo:  ….mumbling…..card services….appointment……4:00 this afternoon…

Me:  Card services?!

JooJoo:  Yes.  I have an appointment with Niels at 4:00 this afternoon…..mumbling.

Me:  You booked an appointment with Niels for what?

JooJoo:  We are having a warehouse sale on credit card transaction fees….mumbling.

Me:  Wait a minute, JooJoo.  You spoke to Niels and he booked an appointment to discuss transaction fees?

JooJoo:  Well, I didn’t personally speak to him.  Clara, from our office, spoke to him yesterday and set up a meeting with me for 4:00 today.

Me:  Are you aware that Niels is a Viking?

JooJoo:  Um…..no.

Me:  The Viking doesn’t discuss transaction fees with anyone.  Ever.  Not even you, JooJoo.

JooJoo:  I’m sure he’s interested in saving money on transaction fees.

Me:  I’m sure he would be interested if he knew what the fuck you’re talking about.

JooJoo:  But Clara….

Me:  I’m afraid Clara might be full of shit, JooJoo.  The Viking wouldn’t know a credit card transaction fee if it hit him with a battle axe.

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JooJoo:  Okay.  Is there someone else who deals with the fees.

Me:  Oh yes.  That would be me.

JooJoo:  Are you the owner of the business?

Me:  You could call me an owner –  I’m bossy enough.

JooJoo:  I would be willing to meet with you today…..

Me:  Oh, no.  I can’t possibly…

JooJoo:  But I can save you money….

Me:  Yes, but I have already done my due diligence on transaction fees and, to be completely honest, I can’t be bothered to wade through another contract with another company in order to save a nickel a month.

JooJoo:  Are you sure I can’t….

Me:  Quite sure, JooJoo.  Have a nice day.

The Viking arrived home about a half hour later and I asked him if he had booked an appointment to meet with a guy to discuss credit card transaction fees?

“Some fucking woman called yesterday and I couldn’t understand what the fuck she was even saying!”

I nodded enthusiastically.  “That’s what I thought.  I told him you would be delighted to meet with him at 4:00pm.”

“WHAT?!”

Sometimes, it’s just so easy……

 

 

A Viking Hissy Fit

Two posts ago I wrote about The Viking’s Stupid and it’s still affecting our lives.  His life more than mine but, since I’m in the general vicinity, I’m aware.  And then this happened.

It started around 11:00 in the morning with the usual shouts and curses.  I let him alone for awhile but when it didn’t burn itself out, I told him to come in for a coffee.  Not that I wanted a cranky Viking in the house but in the interests of preventing heart-attacks I thought he needed to walk away for a bit.

After a 20-minute break, he went back to the garage and I went back to paperwork.  It wasn’t long before the shouting and cursing began again.  I could clearly hear every single word he was yelling and that was with all the doors and windows closed.  I went out to offer any assistance I might be capable of and was told, amidst all the cursing, that there ‘wasn’t a fucking thing I could help with’, punctuated by 3 thrown tools – not in my direction, just so you know.  Okay.  I avoided eye contact and slowly backed out of the garage.

I wasn’t back in the house 5 minutes before the swearing and cursing spilled out of the garage.  Shortly after that something flew past the window.  “What in the ever-loving fuck?!  Was that an office chair?!”

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It was.

It was followed quickly by 2 ATV tires and a Rubber Maid tote.  The office chair didn’t seem pathetic enough, so he gave it a kick, picked it up and bashed it several times on the ground until it was in two pieces.  He’d lost the ability to form words by this point and had resorted to guttural howls and primal, yet man-ly, screams.

I watched from the window as he grabbed a large snow shovel and beat it against the cement until it exploded into tiny pieces.  I added ‘Snow Shovel’ to my shopping list, right under ‘Office Chair’.

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He wasn’t done yet, though.  An innocent bag of cans and bottles ready for the depot found itself soaring through the air to land in front of my car, followed quickly by a Weed Whacker*.  He tried to kick it first but missed and nearly up-ended himself.  Several other items, one of them quite large, was launched against the house.  A deck chair was tossed and landed against the new fifth wheel trailer and that’s when I stepped in.

I threw open the back door, “THAT’S ENOUGH!!  Get in here!”

He pulled his hair a couple of times while eloquently and loudly explaining his lack of space in the garage and vilifying the filthy ATV that covered the garage floor with mud.

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“For fucks-sake!  Sit down.  Here’s some water.  Your throat must be raw.”

And it was.

“You keep this up and someone is going to call the cops!”  I hissed.

Bing Bong!

“See?!  That’s probably them now!”

And it was.

As soon as I opened the big door and saw them, my eyes rolled and my head tipped back.  Of course!  I couldn’t quite believe it and gave a little laugh.  It was two female Officers who looked very concerned.

“Ma’am?  Are you okay?”  One said while she gently stepped into the house, forcing me to take a step back.

Sigh.  “Yes.  I am perfectly fine.  He’s just having a hissy fit.”

“Are you in danger?”

“No.  He’s only a danger to himself, snow shovels, weed whackers and office chairs.”

They went past me and into the kitchen where The Viking was busily ramming his feet into his shoes, trying to escape Consequences.  I wanted to yell “Not so fast, motherfucker!!  You deal with this!” but that might have been misconstrued as elevating the situation.  Thankfully, I hadn’t completely lost my mind yet.

The second Officer said, “So what’s going on?” while the first Officer followed The Viking out to the garage.  Divide and conquer I suppose.  If she tazes him I hope I can watch.

“We run a business out of the garage and he’s out of room and the machine he’s working on is full of mud and he’s just really frustrated.”

“Does this happen often?”

“Once in a while but never at this level.  He’s frustrated and has, apparently, the crazy ability to completely lose his shit.  Who knew?”

I notice a movement behind the Officer.  A massive fucking guy in a police uniform snuck in.  “Holy FUCK!!” I actually said, “Another one?!  Geezus!”  And I started laughing.  A little hysterically, if I’m honest.  He arrived like a Ninja – I hadn’t heard him come through the front door.  I wondered if the Police Service trains Ninja moves?  Not out loud, course, because that would be weird.

“I’m going to have to bake cookies for the neighbours, aren’t I?”

The lady Cop smiled and nodded while the humungous guy glowered intimidation at me, not understanding that I’m not the one around here that needed his special gift.  I’ve never seen such a big cop in my entire life.  Honestly, he was the biggest guy of any type I’ve ever seen.

After several moments, during which I couldn’t take my eyes off the big guy, the other Officer came back in the house.  “He’s just having a really bad day.” She said in a colossal understatement.  “It’s fine now.”

I have no idea what was said in the garage, but it must have satisfied her because the three Officers left through the front door, single file, the giant last.  It was then I saw the police cars parked down the block, not in front of the house.  Christ!  This is like an episode of COPS!

The Viking didn’t come in the house for two hours which was probably for the best because I was feeling a little murderous – a feeling that lasted for almost a week.

Junior stopped by a while later, stepping over the exploded snow shovel, around the broken office chair and side-stepping two ATV tires.  He came in the house and said, “Sooooo, how was your day?”

 

*Added Weed Whacker to the shopping list under Office Chair and Snow Shovel.

I’ve Been Scolded

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

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

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

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

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

I said, “That’s what I said!”

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

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

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

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

“Do you shut it down every night?”

“No.”

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

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

“When was the last time you cleaned it?”

“9 months ago.”

“Do you play online games?”

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

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

“You need this computer for work, right?”

“Yes.”

“But you still play online games with it?”

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

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

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

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

Of course that’s his advice.

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

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

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

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

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A Slightly Kinder Version of Hell

I opened my email today and then quickly closed it again.  There were 238 new messages.  238!!  I’m in no shape to deal with that!  I’m barely able to brush my teeth.

It all started last week.  Wait, more accurately, it started 3 years ago but last week was an event of sorts.  It’s genealogy – convoluted, confusing genealogy.  My Great Grandmother started this whole thing when she watched Roots: The Miniseries, way back in the 1970’s.  She started digging and researching and put together an impressive lump of material without the aid of the internet.

My parents took up the cause and collected an even more impressive chunk of information, including photos.  They wandered all over the USA, wrote letters and badgered relatives until they now have branches on the family tree that go back to the 1600’s.  The pile is spectacularly imposing.

All of this information and keepsakes and heirlooms and photos……all of it…..will go to my older sister.  But where does that leave my kids?  What if they want to know the stories about their great, great, great, great, great Grandfather/Grandmother?  It would break my heart to lose all the information that’s been lovingly compiled over 50 years.

I decided that wasn’t going to happen.  About three years ago I started writing a short book about my parents and their parents.  I’ve spent the last 6 months scanning over 800 photos.  Some photos deserved better than my old Brother scanner that tops out at 1200dpi, so I bought another scanner that does 6400dpi.  I taught myself Photoshop and spent hundreds of hours touching up photos.

This brings me why I’m in no shape to deal with 238 245 (more have come in since I started this post) damned emails.

I drove 4 hours to my parents and spent Friday afternoon, all day Saturday and part of Sunday working on notes for their book and going though keepsakes in the family trunk and then drove the 4 hours back home.  I want this project finished so I can move on with my own projects, namely a book on how The Viking and I stormed Europe, offended Catholics, pissed off the Autobahn, shocked small villages and educated Florencians on how to curse.

But for now my brain is full.

It’s so full there isn’t room for anything else.  And I’m tired to the bone.  It’s probably because my brain is so busy trying to compartmentalize all that information that it has nothing left to actually operate my body.  That happens to computers all the time!  It’s so busy updating the Anti-Virus that it can’t play a single game of Solitaire.  That’s totally legit.

Except, apparently, it’s not legit when it’s anything other than a computers.  Because I came home and my car vomited all the binders, photos, keepsakes, tintypes and diaries all over the kitchen.  On Monday I looked at the mess and…..NOPE!  It just wasn’t in me to deal with it.  Yesterday was the same way.  Until The Viking decided that all this shit was messing up the clean kitchen he had personally arranged for me.

 

 

 

So, with aching back and foggy mind, I have picked up the harness of Mundania.  I’ve got no great ideas for a blog post – or supper for that matter.  I’ll come up with something I guess.  It’s supposed to thundershower this afternoon, fucking up any thoughts on barbequing.  I might be able to but as soon as I rely on it the heavens will open up and drown me, the barbeque and whatever the hell the main dish is.  Maybe something in the slow cooker?  It doesn’t give off much heat so shouldn’t turn the house into a slightly kinder version of Hell.

In the meantime, I will tackle the monster that is my Inbox.

Why Aren’t You Electrocuted?!

Over the weekend, The Viking and I – mostly The Viking – had to replace our Garage Door Opener because it inconveniently and selfishly died.

We took down the dead and useless Door Opener and then began assembling the new unit.  It was all very straight forward, no big surprises, until The Viking went rogue.  He threw the instruction manual into the corner and began fiddling with electrical wires.

Me:  Why aren’t you electrocuted?!

The Viking:  What?  There’s no power to these lines.

Me:  The wires are coming right out of the ceiling, the breaker hasn’t been flipped, so why aren’t you electrocuted?!

The Viking:  These wires get their power from the garage door opener brains, not from the building’s power supply.

Me:  Stop talking in Sorcery!  The brains are plugged in!  I can see the power cord plugged into the power plug!

The Viking:  Relax!  Take it easy.  I know what I’m doing.

Me:  …….

Me:  …….

Me:  …….

Me:  I will never understand electricity.  It’s terrifying.

He carried on with his Warlockery and I watched him.

Me:  I can’t believe I’ve lived for this long without understanding electricity.  I stuck a knife in an electrical socket once because my mother told me to never do that.  Ever.

The Viking:  And so you did.

Me:  Of course I did.  You can’t just tell me not to do something without telling me why.

The Viking:  Well, you obviously didn’t die.

Me:  Exactly.  It hurt, but I didn’t die, and my curiosity was gone.  My parents could have spared me that.

Me:  I also stuck my head in a plastic Drycleaning bag because there was a warning on it that said to never do that.  Again, they never said why.

The Viking:  Seriously?

Me:  Yes.  And I didn’t suffocate.  Now that I think about it though, I think the warning did mention ‘Suffocation’ but I was like 6 years old and didn’t have a clue what that meant.

The Viking:  …..

Me:  My best friend found a box of wooden matches once.  They looked harmless but apparently they were ‘extremely dangerous’ and children should never play with them.

The Viking:  Let me guess….

Me:  See?!  You know already what needed to be done!  We tried to light the wooden fence on fire but it wouldn’t burn.  We tried to set the grass on fire too, but that wouldn’t work either.  The only thing that actually did work was burning our fingers.  And then I got a spanking, like having burned fingers weren’t punishment enough, because Darcy apparently didn’t know how to lie.  I couldn’t be friends with him after that.

The Viking:  Hahaha!

Me:  And pull cords on blinds.

The Viking:  You didn’t!

Me:  Actually, yes.  I did.

The Viking stopped what he was fiddling with and looked at me with an odd expression on his face.  “You sound like your daughter.”

Me:  That’s impossible because I made certain that I explained things to her.  Don’t put a knife in an electrical outlet because electricity, through sorcery, will enter the knife, travel through your arm and straight upward because of gravity or something and blow your head completely off your body.  And guess what?  She never stuck a knife in an electrical outlet.

The Viking:  That’s not how electricity works.

Me:  Does it really matter?  The point is that she never electrocuted herself because she listened to me.  Unlike you who will die at some point this afternoon because you keep touching electrical wires.

The Viking:  I’m not going to die today.

Me:  I feel like a kid when my Dad took me to work with him and I had to sit around doing absolutely nothing for hours because there might be bears around.

The Viking:  …..

Me:  There were only so many times I could be interested in what was in the glove compartment.  And without the truck running fiddling with the radio buttons was less than satisfying.

The Viking:  …..

Me:  I did find a magazine full of naked women behind the seat.  Dad took it away from me and then made another worker take me home.  He said he had an emergency to deal with but I didn’t buy it.

The Viking:  …..

Me:  He did explain the perils of playing with the gear shifter when the truck was running but he never left it running.  He must not have trusted my judgement.

The Viking:  …..

Me:  There were old pallets at Dad’s job and he wanted to take them apart and use them for something else.  He gave me a hammer and told me to get all the nails out but I accidentally stepped on a nail as I was pulling a nail from another piece of wood.  I didn’t even get a tetanus shot.  Oh!  And one time I had a really, really sore throat so he painted my tonsils with MercuroChrome.  It’s toxic to the environment but not tonsils I guess.  I’m lucky to even be alive!

The Viking:  …..

Me:  Hey!  Did I ever tell you that I know how to pick a lock on an interior door?  So if you were to lock the bathroom door and then accidentally faint I would be able to pick the lock and save you.

The Viking:  I never lock the bathroom door.

Me:  I’ve just noticed that when I get bored my mind has a tendency to wander a bit.

The Viking:  You think?

Me:  I’m seriously bored.  I didn’t think it would take this amount of time to replace a door opener.  I would have brought booze and a book if I had known.  Maybe a pillow for a nap.  And a fuzzy blanket.  Or binoculars.  That might have amused me for a little while.

You’re not even listening to me anymore.