Category: Relationships

The Day of the Monkey Wrench

When I make mashed potatoes I don’t make just a little bit.  I make a massive pot of them because who doesn’t love left over mashed potatoes – Croquettes, potato pancakes, shepherd’s pie?

About a month ago, I made a lovely beef roast with mashed potatoes and other good things.  The following evening we had the leftover beef with re-heated mashed potatoes and leftover gravy, etc.  I was on track to use all the potatoes in a total of 4 days, except someone threw a Monkey Wrench into my plans (I don’t even remember exactly what that monkey wrench was anymore though) and suddenly those mashed potatoes became a problem.  And part of the problem was the fact that we have two refrigerators – one for daily stuff and the other for drinks mostly but also leftovers in larger containers.

On the Day of the Monkey Wrench, I probably thought they would keep for an extra day.  But the day after that I totally forgot about them.

Two days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I went to the spare fridge for a drink and “Shit!  I completely forgot about the potatoes!  I should use them up tomorrow for sure.”

Three days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I came home from the grocery store and opened the spare fridge to put in some drinks and “Shit!  I completely forgot about the potatoes!  I’m not sure if they are good anymore because of the cream and butter.  Well, I don’t have time right now to toss them out but I will get to it in an hour or so.

Four Days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I never opened the spare fridge.

Five days after:  I opened the fridge, “Fuck!  Someone needs to throw them out before they get nasty.

Six days after:  The Viking opens the spare fridge,

“What’s in this big pot?”

Me:  “Mashed potatoes, dammit!  I’ll be there in a minute to throw it out and wash the pot.”

Seven days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I go for a drink.  Ugh!!  Those potatoes are probably working on becoming a science experiment and I’m just not up to dealing with that today.  I’ll handle it tomorrow.

Eight days:  The Viking notices the same pot in the same position.

“Have you completely forgotten these potatoes?”

Me:  “Shit!  Yes!  I’ll be right there.”

Nine days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I find the pot and moan because it’s got to be gross by now.  Maybe if I wait little longer The Viking will take care of it.

Ten days:  I purposely refuse to see the pot when I grab a drink.

Eleven days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  Ditto.

Twelve days:  Ditto.

Thirteen days:  Ditto.

Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen and Eighteen days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  Ditto.

Nineteen days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:

The Viking:  “Fucksakes!  Is that still the mashed potatoes?!”

Me (slightly hopeful that he’ll throw them out and wash the pot):  “Yes!  I keep forgetting about them!”

Twenty days:  I hear something whispering my name from the spare fridge.  It doesn’t sound like something nice, more like a hiss of malevolent evil.  I ignore it.

Twenty-One days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:

The Viking stops by the spare fridge and says,

“Do you hear something?”

Me:  “Ummm…..no.  You must be hearing things.”

Twenty-Four days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench: The Viking comes in the house and says….”*A friend from Denmark is going to be in Calgary this weekend.  I’ve invited him and his co-workers for dinner.”

Me (surprised and already getting anxious):  “What?!  You invited them here?!”

Him:  “Yes.  I haven’t seen Soren for years!”

Me:  “Fuck.”

Twenty-Six days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I have no idea what to make for dinner for the Danes.

The Viking:  “Clam Chowder.  They would really like it.”

Me:  “Really?  How can my land-locked clam chowder compare to Danish Right-out-of-the-Ocean Clam Chowder?”

Him:  “Trust me.  They’ll like it.”

Twenty-Seven days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I need that mashed potato pot for the Clam Chowder.  Sigh.  It’s going to be so gross.  Nothing smells worse than rotten potatoes…..except maybe a dead body but I’m only guessing because I’ve never smelled a dead body.  Wait.  There was that dead mouse and it did smell pretty bad but I think the potatoes are going to smell worse because there are more potatoes than one dead mouse.

Apparently, The Viking didn’t feel the need to take care of the mess so I had to.  I pulled the neck of my shirt up over my nose, squinted my eyes and hauled the pot from the fridge.  It was worse than I thought – they had turned all brown and green and made my eyes water.

I suck at keeping the refrigerators organized and free of science experiments.

As for the Clam Chowder.  I spent several hours frying bacon, cleaning, peeling and chopping veggies, making broth and taste testing it.  I was like Gordon Ramsey but with far worse language, knowing one tiny mistake could ruin the entire thing.  When I thought it was pretty good, I called for The Viking to do a taste test.  He sipped it, sipped it again and pronounced it good with just a touch more salt and pepper.  But……

Him:  Where is the corn?

Me:  Corn?  You don’t put corn in Clam Chowder.  But now that you mention it, it would probably taste good.  Unfortunately, I don’t have any corn at the moment.

Him:  Where is the red and white stuff?

Me:  Red and white stuff?  I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Him:  Crab!  Where’s the crab?

Me:  You don’t put Crab in Clam Chowder.  You put Clams in Clam Chowder.

Him:  You made some soup once for me and Adam and it had corn and crab and shrimp.  I thought that’s what you were making.

Me:  That’s not Clam Chowder, that’s Seafood Chowder!  I didn’t think you even cared much for that.  You said, when I specifically asked, “It’s okay.”  Which is the same thing as saying “It’s passable but just barely.”

Him:  I liked it!

Me:  That’s not what you said!  You said, “It’s O.K.A.Y.”  Which isn’t the same thing as “I like it”!

Him:  For fucks-sakes!

Me:  Did I just spend all day making Clam Chowder for Danish experts and you wanted Seafood Chowder?  Geezus!  Do I need to start all over?!”

Him:  NO!  You don’t have to do a fucking thing!  This is fine.

Me:  Gawd save me!  It’s FINE?!  That’s it?!  FINE?!

via GIPHY

And that’s why I needed to start drinking 4 hours before the Danes were due to arrive.  Being drunk is the only way to put a pot of ‘fine’ in front of experts.

*What the fuck!?  Why is this quotation mark going the wrong way?!  I’ve tried to fix it 8 times already!

He Who Laughs Last….

The Viking did something stupid.  You’re shocked, aren’t you?  Me, too!  He never does stupid things and I should feel better knowing that he is just as capable as I am even though he prefers not to exercise his ability as often as I do.  But I don’t feel better.  Not at the moment.  Because his Stupid caused me bodily injury that may end with amputation.

In our efforts to down-size and simplify, we sold our fifth-wheel trailer and my Seadoo.  We would have sold his Seadoo as well, but it has been upgraded and pimped out until no amateur should attempt to ride it.  The Viking blew it up twice in the space of two years and he’s an expert.  So, rather than sell the ‘Doo to a rookie, he decided to take it all apart, put in all the stock parts again and then sell it.  Except we suddenly got busy and there was no time to finish the job.  Meaning…..the garage is a maze of Seadoo parts and we have snowmobiles to work on!

So, we did what any reasonable people would do – we brought the guts of the Seadoo into the house so he has more room to work in the garage.  It is our bread and butter, after all.

Now, there is a pile of stuff right in the middle of the area where I spend 90% of my time.  And guess what?  I stubbed my fucking foot on the biggest and heaviest piece while I was hurrying to let Izzie outside.  She was shouting abuse and calling me names…..as usual.

“SHIT!  Sonofabitch!  Mo…erfu….er!  Stupid, fucking shit!  Ahhhhhhh!!” 

I’ve stubbed my toes many, many times before and the pain usually goes away after a few minutes.  Not this time.  This time the pain didn’t go away.  When The Viking came in the house, I informed him that his Stupid broke my toe.  He didn’t have any concern at all, so I pulled off my sock, plopped my leg on the kitchen counter and showed him my toe who was already busy turning purple.  He still didn’t seem concerned!

Am I living in ‘Bizarro World’?  My toe is turning purple!  If I didn’t live here I would have grounds to sue.  We’ve been binge-watching ‘Suits’ and I would totally have a case.

I stewed for several hours.  Watching ‘Suits’, of course.  I was hoping my toe was busy getting huge and ugly and alarming so he would feel terrible for not caring.  When The Viking got up to visit the bathroom I whipped off my sock to see how it was coming along.  That fucking traitor didn’t look any worse than it did 3 hours ago!  Curse my superior healing genes!!

I poked it a couple of times and explained that it needed to up its game.  I needed some sympathy, dammit!

Just before bed, I waved my toe in front of The Viking’s face.

Me: “I think it’s broken.  The knuckle closest to the toe nail.”

Him (not even looking): “That happens to me 10 times a day and I never even mention it.”

Me: “You always get sympathy!  I’m the most sympathetic asshole around!”

Him (not even looking): …….

I never should have told him what my father used to say…..”You know where to find sympathy?  Between Shit and Syphilis in the dictionary.”  Obviously, The Viking decided to pay attention to that one thing in all the other things I’ve said over the years.

Well, one good turn deserves another.  Just wait until he has an injury that may end in amputation!  I’m not going to even look at it.  I won’t even fetch a Band-Aid.  When he gets sick I’m not going to make him some Neo-Citran!  He could be on his deathbed and I’ll just go shopping or something.  I’ll make Mexican food* and eat it right in front of him when he has the Flu.  I’ll turn the heat down and refuse to get him a blanket!  That will teach him.  As he’s sitting there with chattering teeth I’ll just say “Remember my toe?  Touche!”

Except he’ll probably win the way he always does.  He’ll probably go and actually die and I won’t get any revenge at all!  That’s just how he rolls.  But he who laughs last…..

I’ll bury him with the things he hates the most – a snow shovel and cigarette butts and pumpkin pie and pancakes and every one of Michael Buble’s CDs!  I’ll make mashed potatoes instead of boiled potatoes to serve with the pork roast at his Memorial Service**!  And I won’t put his Battle Axe with him so he won’t be allowed in Valhalla!  How do you like my toe now?

 

*According to Mim, Mexican food is the worst when you’re nauseous.  She knows this because she made it for her husband when he had the flu because he had no sympathy for her when she was sick.  The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, did it?

**You probably won’t get this unless you’re Danish but serving mashed potatoes with pork roast is akin to murdering puppies.  Trust me.  I made this mistake once.  Once.  The Viking will roll in his grave!

You’re Neglecting Me

 

I’ve been missing Mim lately.  She lives 7 minutes away but she’s so damned busy fixing up her new house and working full-time that there isn’t much time for visiting.  So, I was thrilled, naturally, when my phone rang yesterday and it was her.

She caught me up on her house projects and how much she likes her new job.  I let her ramble for a bit before I said….

“You’re neglecting me.”

She laughed.  “I don’t mean to neglect you, it’s just that I’m really busy.”

“It still feels like neglect.  I only have The Viking for daily companionship and you know how much he enjoys listening to me talk about the challenges of shopping or why I need a tiny pony and two geese or why I should call him Maurice from now on.  I can’t even get him to tell me that supper was more than just ‘fine’ or ‘alright’.”  I keep hoping that one day he will take a bite of food and say ‘Holy Fuck that’s good!!’

Being receptive to my needs, Mim immediately asked me if I’d like to come to Home Depot after dinner.  “We could browse around and maybe pick out some colors for your house………

Annnnnd, that’s where she lost me.  While she was still talking I was cringing in something close to horror!

“Wait.  Tonight?!  You want me to leave my house tonight?!”

“You can ditch The Viking for a couple of hours, can’t you?”

“Yeess.  But (tipping my head way back and howling to the Gawds) I hate having to go out after dinner!”

“I thought you wanted to spend time with me.”

“I do!  I just didn’t think it would involve leaving my house.  After dinner.”

“You could come for some tea and see what I’ve done with the house.”

“Does that involve me leaving my house after dinner?”

“Mom!”

Through intense negotiations we decided she would come to me one evening this week (I had to sweeten the deal by offering wine) and next week I’ll go to Home Depot with her after dinner.  I’ll just have to postpone our nightly Netflix binge for another night.  It’ll be fine.

Now that I’m thinking about it, I’ve never been much of a socializer; I paste a Happy on my face and make jokes hoping no one notices that I have a run in my pantyhose or a stain on my boob because I dropped a stuffed mushroom en route from my plate to my mouth.

Public get-togethers are fraught with perils:

    • Please don’t let my pantyhose fall down around my ankles as I’m going for another drink.
    • Please don’t let me slip and fall on my ass as I head for the washroom.
    • Please don’t let a pair of panties stuck in a pant leg fall out as I’m crossing the dance floor. Don’t ask.
    • Please don’t ask me to dance because I WILL step on your toes. Probably all of them, multiple times.
  • Please don’t let me get flatulent from the Broccoli Salad. And if I do get flatulent, please don’t let them stink unless I’m standing beside The Viking and people would just assume it’s him.  Especially if I point a finger at him while wrinkling my nose.
  • Please don’t let my hair fall from a Hot Flash – Menopause sucks.
  • Please let me remember where I parked the car.
  • Please keep the catty bitches away from me because I can never come up with a witty insult on short notice and I won’t sleep for days just thinking about it.
  • And, finally….please don’t have a swimming pool anywhere in the vicinity because The Fucking Viking always has to get into the pool which means I’m obligated to get into the pool. In a bathing suit.

An actual video of The Viking near a body of water no matter the size:

Versus me in water:

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I’m an Introvert that becomes a Super Introvert after dinner or at a social function, particularly if that social function involves dinner*.  You would think Mim would know this by now.  And she probably does but she thinks it’s good for me to face my fears or some fucking thing (she’s probably right but don’t tell her I said so).  And, I’m the first one to admit that once I’ve been dynamited out of the house I generally have a nice time, as long as there is lots of booze and only three people.

So, while you’re not telling Mim, I’ll try to work on my Introvert-dom.

*I’ve made it a hard rule to never eat spaghetti or ribs when dining out – the potential for disaster is just too great.

 

 

 

Bird Flipping, a Birthday Party and a Hospital

My parents turned 80 this year and, as befitting such an accomplishment, my older sister organized a combined Birthday Party for them.  At least I think it was just her, but it may have included up to two other sisters as well (there are 4 of us after all).  I never thought to ask and now I feel slightly horrible because I had no responsibility other than showing up at the best restaurant in town at 2:00pm.

It’s slightly more than 400km (250 miles) from my house to the best restaurant in Barrhead so I had to use math, my fingers and reverse counting to make sure my arrival was early enough but not too early (Dad’s a stickler about timing).  So it went kind of like this:

  • I have to be there at 2:00pm so I had better be there at 1:30pm.
  • It takes about 4 hours to get there so….12:30, 11:30, 10:30, 9:30……
  • Give yourself an extra half hour for traffic jams, speeding tickets and assholes who drive the exact speed limit in the fast lane.…..9:00am.
  • I’ll put some make-up on and since I haven’t done that in like 8 months I had better give myself a good 45 minutes in case I have to start all over at least once (and I did have to start over once)……8:15am.
  • I need 20 minutes for a shower (thank Gawd I don’t need to shave my legs because that would have added another 15 minutes to my prep time)…..7:55am.
  • I’ll make the coffee and it can brew while I’m in the shower…..7:45am.

I ripped through every article of clothing I own on Tuesday in an effort to find the perfect combination of nice but not too nice – it’s a Birthday Party, not a Royal Wedding.  After two hours, one crying fit, one rage against the designers of womens clothing, eloquently fat-shaming myself and a serious consideration of just showing up naked….I found an outfit I considered understated yet classy.  To be honest, it included Yoga Pants because 9 hours in a vehicle wearing dress pants makes me cranky.  The shirt was nice though and I found an old pair of Opal earrings that were perfect.

I went to bed Tuesday night knowing I had everything under control.

And I really did have things under control.  Right up to the moment I hit the highway.  You see, I was driving The Viking’s truck, not my Rav 4.  I couldn’t take my vehicle because The Viking found a crack in one of the tires and some scuffs on the rim.

Him:  Did you hit a curb?!

Me (avoiding eye contact):  No.  Why?

Him:  The rim is scratched, and the tire has a big crack in it!

Me:  What?!

Him:  Did you let someone else drive your car?

Me:  No.  I mean Yes.

Him (giving me the stink eye):  Was it Junior?

Me:  No.  Yes.

Him (very loudly but not yet loud enough for him to call it ‘yelling’):  You let Junior drive your car?!

Me:  Yes.  I mean NO!  NO!  I didn’t let Junior drive my car.

Him:  …..

Me:  Oh for fuck’s sake!!  Yes I hit a damned curb!  Twice actually.  The first time it was bad city planning, and the second time it was Mim’s fault because she distracted me by talking while I was driving.

So.  I was driving the big 1-ton dually and it has significantly more horse-power which turns me into a shouting, fist-shaking, finger-flipping, hair-tossing Harpy.  I’m the sweetest driver on the planet when I’m driving my RAV, but Tina the Truck brings out the worst in me.  And someone taking 20 minutes in the fast lane to pass someone in the slow lane drives me bananas.  In the following 2 and a half hours I was forced to flip the bird to 4 drivers.

via GIPHY

And then one other driver flipped the bird at me.  As a matter of fact, they almost missed their exit so they could flip me the bird and that made my day.  You have to admire such commitment.

I was telling my one sister (she drives the big transport trucks) about my finger flipping and she said she’s had to use both of her flipping fingers so much they’ve become Arthritic.  She showed them to me.  “See?  Look at that poor little fucker.” (pointing with her other flipping finger).  True story.  A cautionary tale, if you will.

Due to construction and two freight trains my half hour buffer was toast, as was my early arrival allowance and I was forced into passing several vehicles that I normally wouldn’t bother with.  I could just see my father waiting at the door to the restaurant, tapping his watch.  “Cutting it a little fine, aren’t you Lor?”  So, imagine my surprise when I arrived at precisely 1:54pm to find no one was there.  Please, dear Gawd, don’t let me have the wrong day!  I asked a waitress and she assured me there was a reservation for 10 at 2:00pm.  But that’s only 5 minutes away and no one has arrived.

As it happened, everyone in the family is much better at nailing the time perfectly because at 1:59pm Mom was carefully exiting my older sister’s vehicle while everyone else was waiting for 1:59:59 before stepping into the building.  Well…..I think that’s what they were waiting for.

Guess who wasn’t standing at the main doors tapping his watch?  That’s right…..Dad.  We all milled around wondering what could possibly have kept him from making inappropriate comments to waitresses, arguing with his daughters and being the center of attention?  Those are the main sources of his life’s joy so it caused mass confusion in the herd.

It turned out he had to be taken to the hospital.    He wasn’t doing well and we were all quite concerned.  Thankfully, he was fine – an infection and some COPD – and after annoying his roommate and, more than likely, annoying the nurses for two days, they sent him home.

As for my drive home, it was far less eventful because there wasn’t any pressure to be perfect.  No one was at home tapping his watch and shaking his head.  The Viking was happily playing computer slots and enjoying the solitude when I finally got home.  And…..he had a kiss on deck.

The Cats Are Pissed and The Viking gets a Brain Freeze

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

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

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

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

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

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

via GIPHY

 

 

 

 

And this is The Viking with a brain freeze.

 

 

 

And here…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And here….

 

 

 

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

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

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

 

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

Dear Me,

It’s okay.  Go ahead – have a moment.  Hell, take three, because you deserve it.  I can’t think of anyone more deserving than you.  Of course I’m biased, but I’m sure everyone would agree with me.

So, you had a little meltdown last week, got drunk and bawled for 6 hours – it happens to everyone at some point.  No need to beat yourself up.  In fact, you should pat yourself on the back for keeping the whole affair relatively quiet – you didn’t do it in Wal-Mart did you?  You didn’t wear a T-Shirt with your full name and address on it, right?  See?  That’s something to think about.

And no one took videos, did they?  Yes, I know you had headphones on and your back to the room, so it would be almost impossible to be certain, but there was only The Viking and Junior around and The Viking wouldn’t take advantage, now would he?  Junior…..well, he does have a cell phone glued to his hand, but I can’t see him adding insults by posting your drama on Face Book.  Remember?  He loves you.

Yes, he does!  It just felt like you were alone in the world.  You have a ton of people who love you and care for you and are now looking at you like you’re a fucking lunatic.  How did I know what you were thinking?  Because you aren’t the only one who has dropped the burden momentarily and then had to face the people who have seen you at your absolute worst.  It’s an embarrassment but it won’t kill you.  In fact, those witnesses are now frantically scouring their brain trying to find a way to help you.  So, just let them fucking help you!  They feel like shit because they didn’t think they needed to pay attention as closely as they should have.

Small problems accumulate until they become overwhelming mountains that block out the sun.  You aren’t imagining anything that isn’t real.  It totally is real!  Stress changes the way your brain performs; neurons and electrons, hormones and proteins behave differently, your body functions at a slower rate – these things are out of your control.  All you can do is recognize the signs.

Did you just tell me to fuck off?!  I’m trying to help you and you tell me to fuck off?!  It’s not all bullshit.  Seriously?!  You think life would be less stressful in prison?  A convent?!  Do they even exist anymore?  And if they do exist don’t the nuns have to work all day and pray every 3 hours?  You have difficulties getting up for 9:00 in the morning.  Yes, you do.  Don’t shit a shitter.

Fine.  Prison it is.  You would get 3 meals a day and I suppose you might be able to spend the rest of your time with adult coloring books.  You won’t have to pay bills or make meals or run errands either.  There might even be a library and I would assume you could take online university courses.  Or not.  How the fuck would I know what you would be allowed to do?  Do I look like a hardened criminal to you?!  I think it’s safe to assume that you can’t pick your meals from a menu and they probably don’t have fizzy water on tap.  I don’t know if you can bring a TV from home or if cable is available in your cell.  And, it’s highly unlikely they would have a Nail Technician or a Beauty Consultant on staff.  No.  I’m not calling Martha Stewart.  Besides, she’s American and would have very little knowledge about the Canadian Penal System.

Speaking of which – how do you know that you won’t get assigned to kitchen duty anyway, with a big broad who makes shivs out of turnips?  What if they make you go out in the yard in the rain?  What if they make you eat tuna salad on enriched white bread?  What if there are no private showers?

You might even have a cellmate.  Well, I suppose you might be able to arrange Solitary Confinement – if it’s an actual thing here – but then you probably won’t be allowed to take your coloring book and pencils in case you decide to poke an eye out.  You might be lucky to get a beat-up copy of The Odyssey by Homer to keep you amused.

Yes…. you would get caught up on sleep but once you’ve accomplished that…..well, what then?  I suppose you could work out.  Maybe there would be a yard somewhere, full of weight machines that you can just start bench-pressing 350 pounds and sweat like…. like…. a dude bench-pressing 350 pounds.

Are you really certain that Prison life is for you?  True, you would have very few responsibilities and money wouldn’t be an issue because Conservatives love their prisons, but there is a lot of downsides, the least of which is the big broad that makes shivs out of turnips.  There is the problem of getting invited to prison as well; you can’t just show up and check yourself in.  That would be the Looney Bin.  I understand that the entry requirements are much less stringent, so there is that…..

They don’t make you have public showers and you might not have a cellmate in case someone decides to poke someone else’s eye out with a pencil.  Your art will have to be done with pastels and crayons while Nurse Ratchet fills a syringe with psychedelic drugs and critiques your work though.

So, after all of this, you are right back where you started from – a lunatic not yet in an asylum.  Just go to bed for a couple of days and ‘adult’ next week.

Also, thank The Gawds that you have The Viking and you aren’t sitting alone in your dark closet.  Okay….you might still be sitting alone in your closet, but at least The Viking will check on you occasionally.

I’m A Fucking Idiot!

I’m an idiot and my idiocy has taken me down the same damned black hole I’ve been in many times before.  You would think that I might have learned from the experience, but it seems not.  Even my horoscope tried to tell me not to meddle.  Did I listen?  Nope!  Because I’m a fucking idiot!

It happens like this:

  • Someone is crying like their heart has been broken into a million pieces.
  • I try to comfort with soft blankets, cookies, hugs and movies.
  • The crying subsides.
  • Being an observer from the sidelines, I try to encourage and empower.
  • They seem to appreciate the message.
  • They appreciate everything I’ve done.
  • They slide back into their situation, again.
  • I express concern.
  • They tell me that now I’m making them feel guilty which stresses them out more so they vow to avoid me for the foreseeable future.
  • I cry buckets for days until The Viking picks me up, dusts me off and helps me grieve.

And there it is.  The complete hot mess.  Someone goes happily on their way, stress-free, and someone hides in their closet for a week.  Repeat.

Except….FUCK THAT!!!  It’s time to start protecting my soul instead of throwing it out there for any dog to drag its ass on.

 

via GIPHY

I haven’t been able to write a damned post for over a month because I’ve been too invested in a bloody debacle that has catapulted me into a full-blown Depression.  And it’s affecting more than just a post – I’ve been bumping into walls and running stop signs as I’m frantically trying to find a solution that no one wants in the first place!

I’m sure there is a Life Coach out there that would tell me I’m not responsible for anyone else’s life, even if I created it years and years ago.  I can’t make their decisions, I can’t change their situations and I can’t solve their problems.  The only thing I can control is me and how I react to these situations.  At the end of every crisis, I’m always standing there like a fucking idiot as I’m being pushed out of someone’s life.  My inner voice is screaming “I thought we talked about this!  You weren’t going to help!  Gawd!  You’ve gone and shot yourself in the damned foot AGAIN!”  The outcome couldn’t be worse if I intentionally engineered it to be an epic failure.

The thing is…..this post isn’t about them at all……it’s about me and how I stupidly deal with these situations.  I’m here because I’m a fucking idiot that is always trying to help when that’s the last thing they actually want.  I’m my own worst enemy and I would be better served by keeping to myself and hope I never get that call in the middle of the night.

TRUTH BOMB:  Their life is exactly as they want it to be.  If they didn’t want their life to be the way it is, they would change it -with or without my help.  So, stop being a fucking idiot and leave them to figure out their shit.

Now, I’m moving forward, trying to put the whole steaming, foul mess out of mind.  I’m making a point of learning the lesson this time though.  No more attempts at assistance.  I promise.

I have no subject for an amusing post (sorry about that) because I haven’t found anything amusing for over a month.  But, I’ll get outside today, maybe take a walk.  I’ll attempt to distract myself and focus on The Viking and me.  Surely, I’ll feel better in a few days.  I’m already feeling better than last week.

Next post will be much less serious.  I promise.

 

 

I’m Plotting My Revenge!

I’m feeling a little under-appreciated lately.  It’s all “Izzie don’t do this, Izzie don’t do that.”  Mom and The Viking are getting perilously close to infringing upon my personal liberties.  They don’t harass Teddy like this.  I completed a thorough experiment that proves I get yelled at 38% more than Teddy.

Yesterday, The Viking had to blow the snow off the sidewalks with his Leaf Blower.  It was cold and a little windy and very unwelcomey outside.  Teddy and I were sitting in the office window, watching the snowflakes dance.  And then, The Viking started up the Leaf Blower.  Teddy was there one moment and gone the next, leaving only a smelly fart behind.

Of course, Mom hurried to calm him down.  She gave him a love and then brought him back into the office so Teddy could see it wasn’t some sort of Demon from the depths of Hell out there but The Viking in snow gear.  She failed; getting two accidental scratches on her boobs for her efforts.

Mom told me to help him calm down, so I put him in a headlock and body-slammed him like the sissy he is.

“Izzie!  For fuck’s sake!  Can’t you just be nice?!”

No.  He’s a big Scaredy Cat and an embarrassment to the family.  We’re Vikings for Pete’s sake!

Teddy found a folded blanket on the sofa as his favorite nap destination.  I think that spot should be in my collection of spots and not Teddy’s.  I tried slapping him off it and then giving him my most lethal gaze, but he wouldn’t budge.  Why does he have to be so damned stubborn?  It’s like he’s spending too much time with The Viking!  However, after several failures, I approached him innocently with my sweetest face and lay down behind him and licked his head.  I soothed him into a nice nap.  Then I started wiggling and squirming and pushing until he fell off the sofa and I spread out.

“Izzie!  For fuck’s sake!  Can’t you just let him have one spot for himself?!”

No.  Survival of the fittest and I’m am so much more fit than he is.

The Viking bought a battery operated, spin-y toy and let Teddy play with it first.  He batted at the feather toy that flitted around the base while The Viking made me wait for my turn.  Teddy was so cute, following the feather back and forth and back and forth and then I decided “Fuck that!” and jumped over The Viking’s arm, pushed Teddy out of the way, grabbed the feather and pinned it to the carpet.

“Izzie!  For fuck’s sake!  Can’t you just let him play with something before you kill it?”

No.  I think I’ve established that I am smarter than Teddy even on a bad day and if I allow Teddy to set the bar on the intelligence of a toy then I’ll never get anything better.  How about a Play Station?!  And, by the way, I haven’t slapped a customer in months!  That’s worth a “Good girl, Izzie” at a bare minimum.

So, I planned a mini family meeting in the bathroom while Mom was peeing.  It’s really the only time I can get her undivided attention.  I laid out my evidence on the 38% scolding differential between me and Teddy and how it can affect me further on in life.  I could be damaged mentally……

Teddy!!  Slap! slap! slap!  I’m doing the talking!  Why are you even here?  Don’t you have a piece of floor to sleep on?!

 …………………okay, where was I?  Oh, yes.  I could be mentally damaged and become cranky and miserable and no one wants that, now do they?

All my effort in the presentation were for naught though.  Mom gave me that flat stare that never bodes well.  That night, she picked me off Teddy’s blanket by the scruff of my neck and put me in my 51st favorite sleeping place.  Then she put Teddy on the blanket!!  And he promptly went to sleep!

I’m plotting my revenge now.  And it will be epic.

 

Caring is sharing.

Look What The Cat Dragged Home

I’ve been trying to be less of an Introvert lately.  You know, like visiting people and …… well, visiting people.  It’s not really working out for me because the first person to come for a visit wouldn’t leave when I was done visiting.

I should have known better when he came to the front door bearing a big-assed can of coffee.  I was so focused on being appreciative that I never thought about the ironic consequences.  I don’t even know him – Izzie broke into his house and refused to leave until he gave her treats – but I, personally, don’t know him any further than my apology regarding The Queen of Mean’s home invasion.  I’ve only spoken to him once and couldn’t even remember his name.  It’s Peter – I had to ask.

Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have invited him in the house, but it was cold outside and I’m a responsible user of utilities.  And the coffee; how do you deny a guest coffee when he brings it as a gift? We were at that awkward point where you either invite him in or slam the door in his face and I couldn’t do that because coffee(!) and my fucking cat invaded his home!  Had I known we would be trading Home Invasions, I might not have accepted the gift or extended the welcome quite so fast.

Once inside, I gave Peter a cup of coffee and set a new pot to brew.  The Viking was busy hanging a television on the wall in the bedroom, but he popped out to chat for a bit.  After 45 minutes or so he went back to his job, leaving me alone with Peter.  To entertain him.  All by myself.  She’s not just my cat, you know, Viking!  And speaking of the cat, she just curled up on the side board behind Peter’s back and had a nap.  That’s the thanks I get around here.

I filled Peter’s coffee cup 5 times.  By then, I was just listening without responding (aka encouraging).  The Viking went out to blow the snow off the sidewalks around the entire block and came back home and Peter was still here.  I stood up and started to putter around the kitchen, putting things in the dishwasher, tidying up, that sort of thing and Peter still sat at the table.

via GIPHY

I stopped the refills after the 6th cup.  I was starting to get the feeling that he might be moving in and the coffee was a House Warming gift for us.  He said his house had finally sold and made a point of letting me know he was between residences.  “We have a tiny house, Peter, and you are a big guy!  AND we only have one bathroom!” 

This is the reason I’m an Introvert in the first place, Peter!!!  It doesn’t feel good, it feels like we’re hostages without a ransom demand.  Fucking Izzie!

He wouldn’t even use the bathroom, so I could escape to the garage and barricade us in with a snowmobile.

He must have some sort of space age-y bladder that can hold more than 6 cups of coffee for an insane amount of time.  I considered sneaking my cellphone into the bathroom and calling 911 – Help!  We’re being held hostage by our cat’s home invasion victim!  That would never work anyway because there is no law about how long a guest can stay unless it becomes a Squatter Violation but that takes months!

In the meantime, he’s going on and on about his failed marriage 11 years ago and how much money it cost him and why the political system was the foundation upon which his divorce was built on.

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I realize that he just wanted someone to talk too but I ran out of patience 2 hours ago.  Besides, I’m not even a friend!  I’m just a woman whose cat burglarized his house!

I put the cream back in the fridge after three and a half hours, put his cup in the dishwasher, turned the lights on and said, “Wow!  It’s getting late.”

via GIPHY

I took a moment to wonder if I’m just being selfish, but then I looked at the clock and decided, “Fuck that!!  My entire afternoon is gone! And just because Izzie held him hostage doesn’t mean he can hold us hostage or think he can move in with us – two wrongs don’t make a right, Peter!

The marathon finally ended after 4 hours and 49 minutes – just shy of the 5 hours Izzie held him hostage.  I locked the front door behind him and sagged onto the closest chair.

via GIPHY

Izzie wandered past without looking at me.  “No more dragging humans home!  If you must be a burglar, make sure you aren’t followed.  Seriously.  Do I have to make you watch Gone In 60 Seconds?”

I’m just going to chalk this up to bad luck and a learning exercise.  First things first – I need a front door with a one-way mirror in it and a trap door for those who make it past the front door before showing their true colors.  And then I’ll just go to the visitor instead of them coming to me.*

 

*This does not apply to my 4 top friends.  You can still come for coffee any time for as long as you want.  I’ll make a blanket tent in the family room and have a bowl of Jell-o powder so we can lick our fingers and stick it in the powder (don’t knock it until you’ve tried it).  Sure, it will stain your finger but how important is that compared to the fun?!  Right Judy?

Lady Sitter vs The Viking

 

It has become apparent that I need a Lady Sitter.  With my best and wonderful friends so far away, it’s difficult to fit in long coffee sessions complete with laughter, tears and hugs.  Something magical happens when women get together.  They share their pain, making the heartache easier to bare.  They share their anger and by doing so, rob it of its power.  They share their joy, tossing it in the air so it settles like fairy dust on everyone’s shoulders.  They share their humor, so laughter can chase away the darkness.  And they share their wisdom because their experiences are different than your experiences and maybe that small spark of knowledge will transform your life.  At the end of the day, every woman requires comfort that can only be found with other women.

And before anyone accuses me of sexism, let me just say that men probably need the same sort of thing but I’m a woman and have no deep knowledge of how men work beyond their stomach.  It’s not my area of expertise.  I can only guess that during long fishing trips or huddles on the sports field or in the deep recesses of Princess Auto or Home Depot, men confide in other men.  Maybe that’s what Rugby is all about – one giant Man Hug and then beating each other to a pulp.

Perhaps The Viking has a microphone attached to the air compressor and while I’m in the house putting this post together he is pouring out his anxiety regarding my cooking.  Maybe his frequent trips to the Parts Storage unit is a cover for a short but intense sharing of emotional trauma with some other guy that works from home and spends his entire life in his wife’s company.  Or perhaps it’s an Osmosis kind of thing whereby they just stand in the general vicinity of each other and suddenly their mojo is brand new again.  A King of the Hill sort of thing.

I bring all this up because I’ve found a thing that The Viking sucks at.  That’s right…..Mr. I’m Right All The Fucking Time has an Achilles Heel.  He’s not actually perfect.  I realized this problem last weekend.  We were having dinner out with friends and I had spent an hour and a half showering, applying make-up*, creating a hair masterpiece and pillaging my wardrobe for something to wear.  When I was finally done, I was feeling a bit like Cinderella on her way to the Ball.  I have lost a significant amount of weight and was hoping for a jaw drop or applause or a gentlemanly bow.  What I got was……..nothing.  Well, not quite nothing.  He said, “You look fine”.

A girlfriend or a Lady Sitter would have squealed in delight, called me ‘Girlfriend’ and twirled me around to see every angle.  They might offer a tweak here or there to maximize the affect.  They most certainly wouldn’t have given me half a glance and a grunt.

But, I’m a self-contained woman; one who doesn’t need compliments because I usually give myself my own compliments, Victory Dances and High Fives.  Unfortunately, it seems like I’ve burned through all my own self-congratulations and now find myself needing a compliment without anyone to give me one.

I understand that it’s not in The Viking’s character to hand out compliments, willy nilly, with complete abandon but, would it kill him to give me a “Great job, Babe!” or a “Wow!  That was a fantastic dinner!” or even a “Way to not fall down in the hallway!”?  Instead, I get “You’re going to burn it if you don’t turn down the heat” and “Don’t trip on that piece of litter in the hallway” and “Put that Box Cutter down right fucking now!”  Sure, it’s all great advice, but they aren’t compliments.

It is his only fault though; well, that and his propensity to throw tools when he gets frustrated.  Everything else about him exceeds my expectations.  And this is where I thought a Lady Sitter would come in handy.  I don’t need help with picking out drapes, but it would be awesome to have someone to go to the theater with, or a work-out pal, or a person to discuss Ancient Aliens with**.  And it wouldn’t hurt if he liked to cooked and vacuumed, either.

The rational part of my brain said, “Any good Lady Sitter would be hideously expensive, and we don’t have that kind of money laying around”.  With that being the case, maybe I could teach The Viking how to compliment me?  That shouldn’t be too hard; I’m quite easy to please.  Unfortunately, I’m a terrible teacher – just ask Mim about the ‘Math and Hair Brush Incident’.

So, I did what any rational person who is terrible at teaching would do.  I visited The World Wide Web and found this:

http://www.complimentgenerator.co.uk/

And then I thought, I have a vibrator and now a Compliment Generator so if I find a reliable jar opener I may be an island unto myself.  Hmmm…..that’s probably not true because The Viking:

  • changes the oil on my car
  • takes out the garbage
  • fixes everything that I break
  • cooks for me on Saturdays and if I accidentally pulls his pants down he’ll just keep on cooking with his pants around his ankles
  • he brings goodies home from the store
  • cleans the litter box (that on its own is worth keeping him around)
  • he sent me a dick pick once when he was away from home
  • eats all of the food I make even if it’s so bad I can’t eat it and
  • puts Band-Aids on my war wounds.

And now I feel ungrateful.  There is no reason I can’t pause before leaving the house and look up a compliment for myself.  I’m sure he would rather wait that couple of minutes if it means he doesn’t have to compromise his strict rules.  It’s probably because compliments embarrass him and he assumes they will embarrass me as well, which is totally not the case.

What ever the reason, I still need a compliment once in a while so I’ll bookmark The Compliment Generator on Google and be happy with that.  Really.  I will be just fine with an impersonal, computer-generated compliment that has nothing to do with subject I needed a compliment for.  Honest.  It will be fine.

 

*I rarely wear make-up any more except for occasions because…..well, there’s no reason for it.  The Viking just says “Why the fuck are you putting that shit on your face?”

**He doesn’t believe in Ancient Aliens!  In fact, he starts howling like a deranged Malamute to express his utter disdain for the subject when he catches me watching one on my computer.