Category: Relationships

Boom, Baby!

It’s harder to get married than I thought.  It should have been easier given that I’ve been on that particular Merry-Go-Round before.  Maybe it wasn’t as complicated back then.  Or maybe expectations were lower at 19 than they are at 53.  Or maybe it’s because I only had 10 days to pull it off this time.  Or, most likely, life has kicked my ass a few times and now I’m a neurotic, stressed out, menopausal woman with a Perfection Complex.

As I was maniacally making notes and lists and finding out what was available and what wasn’t available, The Viking walked past and made an explosion sound that puffed his cheeks out.  I whipped my head around and said, “What is that supposed to mean?!  Is that the sound of all my hopes and dreams exploding in my face?!  Because I don’t need the sound effects!”

For a moment his face was slack with confusion but then he started to laugh.  “Relax, babe.  It will be just fine.  I can help you as soon as I’m done in the garage.”

It didn’t work, but I appreciated the attempt to soothe my fraying nerves.  Mim and I brainstormed over a wedding cake and came up with this:

Unfortunately, Crave Cupcakes had the temerity to accept other orders before mine. Boom, Baby!

Everything else was coming together though.  I had dishes, tablecloth, napkins, napkin rings, serving platters, flowers ordered, food order put in at the Danish store and a Commissioner of Marriage – Judy.  She explained what I needed to know and what the most important thing I needed since I had been married before – the Judgement of my Divorce.

I found it almost immediately, surprising myself with my organization and filing skills.  It said ‘Judgement of Divorce’ on it and there were several official stamps and dates.  Two days before Erik & Annette (The Viking’s brother and beautiful Partner) arrived, The Viking and I went to the Registry to get our Marriage License.

We waited patiently in line then handed over our Identification and my Judgement of Divorce.

“Sorry.  I need a Certificate of Divorce, not the Judgement.” The little girl behind the counter said firmly.

I said, “What?!  The Commissioner said ‘Judgement of Divorce’.”

“You need a Certificate of Divorce.”  She said slowly and more audibly.

“Are you saying I’m not Divorced?”

“Oh, you’re divorced for sure.”

“So why can’t I have a marriage license?”

“Because you need a C..E..R..T..I..F..I..C..A..T..E of Divorce.”

“What is a C..E..R..T..I..F..I..C..A..T..E of Divorce going to tell you that the actual Judgement doesn’t?”

“Nothing.  But the law requires it.”  Well, there’s no arguing with that, is there?  I hate Smarty-Pants young people who pull facts and rules out when it’s most inconvenient.

“So where do I go to get this damned Certificate?!”

“Downtown at the Court of Queens Bench.”  Boom, Baby!

“DOWNTOWN?!”  I hate Downtown!  It requires waiting for buses and then walking whole blocks and then waiting in lines, and then waiting for buses and walking whole blocks again.

Smarty-Pants nodded cheerfully and handed me my fucking useless Judgement of Divorce.  The Viking had remained quiet throughout the whole ordeal but chose this moment to share his wisdom.

“So, you’ll just have to go downtown and get the Certificate.”

I had the brilliant idea of calling Stanley because he was already re-married so he must have had a Certificate and he was a whole lot closer than fucking Downtown.  Except some asshole Home Invader broke into his and his wife’s house and stole THE FUCKING CERTIFICATE OF DIVORCE!!  Who does that?!  Sure, they took a lot of other stuff that was much more valuable, both monetary and sentimental, but a Certificate of Divorce?!  I have a lot of sympathy for the horribleness of someone invading their house and privacy and safety and I don’t mean to be glib about their losses and emotional devastation but……I NEEDED THAT DOCUMENT!!  You asshole!  Boom, Baby!

So I went Downtown.  And I got my damned Certificate.  And we took it to Smarty-Pants at the Registry and got our Marriage License.

Pop Quiz:  Did you know that if the smallest, tiniest, puniest thing, like a wrinkle or a stain, happens to that License, it’s null and void?  Yes, it’s true.  Had I known that, I would have insisted we take separate vehicles so The Viking could be in sole custody of the License where I would have no access to it.  The drive home was like transporting Nitroglycerin.  It lay across my lap and my hands were placed firmly on the dash.

But then I had an itch on the end of my nose.  I tried to ignore it but it just kept getting worse and worse and finally I carefully took one hand from the dash, extended a finger and started moving it toward the itch.

The Viking:  What are you doing?!

Me:  I have an itch!

The Viking:  Put your hand back on the dash!  Right now!

Me:  But it itches!

The Viking:  It won’t kill you so, put. the. hand. back. on. the. dash!

I had to wait in the car when we got back home so he could retrieve the License from my lap and whisk it away to our safe.

And that was the end of planning time.  It took quite a while for me to just accept that I did my best and it would have to do.  We had the most important things in place and I would have one day after our Honeymoon to get ready for the actual Wedding Day.

Oh!  I probably didn’t tell you…..we are taking our Honeymoon before the Wedding because we were taking Erik and Annette to Victoria for 10 days.  All the last minute shit required for the Wedding would have to be accomplished in one day when we got back home.

On July 15th we were waiting at the Edmonton International Airport to meet our guests.  I was at the mercy of the Gawds.  Boom, Baby!

Stay tuned for the next installment of the Completely Viking Wedding.

 

Support a starving author and share.

Just Tie the Knot, Already!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Viking:  It’s been 10 years already!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Viking:  HELLOOO?! 

Me:  What?

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

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

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

Me:  What if I don’t meet expectations?

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

Me:  Really?    

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

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

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

Me:  Okay, fine!  On one condition.

The Viking:  Should I even ask?

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

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

Me:   70% chance.

The Viking:  If you do, I will.

Me:  And you’ll love me forever?

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

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

Crazy GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you care……share.  

I Can’t Just Wing It!

April 2017

The Viking’s brother and his lovely partner Annette are coming for a visit from Denmark in July.  For three weeks.  And I’m not concerned at all.  Because I’m an adult and have two and a half months to prepare.  As a matter of fact, when I told The Viking that I was a little stressed, he said “You have two and a half months to prepare, for fucksakes!”

I shouldn’t be worried at all.  There should be absolutely zero stress involved.  I’ve been the Hostess with the Mostess before; it’s not like I’m a rookie.  I’ve had the Boss and his wife over for dinner.  It was nothing! Friends? Easy-peasy!  The kids?  No problem!  You know where the linens are, help yourself.  If the chicken was a little over-cooked, who cares, right?

This time it’s different.  This time it’s The Viking’s Brother, Erik!  And Annette!  They had the most amazing bed linens and meals that were perfect and hot buns and cheese and cold cuts in the morning and a beautiful home and everything was perfect!  Most importantly, no one was losing their fucking minds trying to be perfect.

I can’t just wing this!  I can’t procrastinate until 3 days before they arrive and then panic.

Today

So guess what I did?

That’s right.  I procrastinated my way to 16 days before their arrival.  And now I’m LIKE THIS!

I need to be fresh and relaxed so they will feel fresh and relaxed.  I can’t meet them at the airport in a full-blown hot flash, reeking of Windex and Bleach.

I should hire people.  Professional people.  Waiters and Chefs and Housekeepers and couriers and a Butler.  I wonder if Ramsay is busy?  No, scratch that!  I can’t have him telling people to fuck off and calling them donkey’s asses while I’m trying to be perfect.  Jamie Oliver then.  Yikes! What if he serves Squid Ink Pasta!  I’ve written an entire blog about my feelings involving Squid Ink Pasta!  If only Julia Child were alive and available.

A mature, experienced woman would start by creating lists to be completed in chronological order as the date of arrival approaches.  But I didn’t do that.  Sure, I scoured the internet until I found amazing linens but that is the extent of my preparations.  I still have so much to do!

  • Paint the family room
  • Hang family room pictures
  • Shampoo carpets
  • Re-Side the house
  • Re-Sod the front yard
  • Build professional flower beds and plant flowers
  • Re-plant flowers because the first ones died
  • Get a Pedi-cure and my nails done
  • Cut The Viking’s hair
  • Get MY hair done
  • Buy a designer water pitcher with matching glasses for the guest room
  • Transform the Office Cubby Thingy in the spare room into a Martha Fucking Stewart creation
  • Re-hang curtain rods in spare room because I fucked up the ones in there already
  • Get a complete make over
  • Make more Poo-Pourri – we only have one bathroom after all
  • Hang The Viking’s Battle Axe and Shield on a wall so he’s not tempted to use it on me
  • Lose 30 pounds
  • Hire a Look Alike so I can hide in a closet and have panic attacks
  • Get the car detailed
  • Buy a hand gun and shoot myself in the head
  • DON’T BUY A HAND GUN!

Crazy GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

There is a bat-shit crazy squirrel in my head playing every disastrous scenario possible.  What if they have allergies to my laundry detergent? What if I can’t think of anything to say?  What if I say the wrong thing? What if they notice my stress and hate being here?  What if they decide to go home early because I’m a mess?

Maybe I should get some Weed.  If I get stoned will I be like this…..

Apple GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

or like this?

Getting On GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

Probably this, because it’s me we’re talking about.  And this is also the reason we don’t have a big fountain in the house – I don’t need to be wasted to fall into it.

Maybe I’ll just try essential oils first.  Apparently lavender, rose, vetiver (whatever the fuck that is), ylang ylang, bergamot, chamomile and frankincense (I thought that was only for Jesus) are good for alleviating anxiety.

I can always go for the devil’s weed later if necessary.

 

 

Mim’s Mine

I’ve been teetering on the edge of depression for the past couple of weeks.  I haven’t been feeling well and bills are piling up and my teeth are bothering me and I’m really tired and have every reason in the world to just go to bed and not get out for a week.  Of course I can’t get away with that which adds resentment to depression but that’s life.  Right?

But just when I was certain I was going down, Mim sends me this on Facebook. (The rest of this post is gibberish unless you watch the quick video).

Mim:   I think I’ve asked you almost all of these this year alone.

Me:    That just means you have an amazing Mom. And it also means that I have ALL the answers. You can pray to me if you want.

Mim:  Ooh If I rub a statue of you will it give me good luck? Or will a talisman of you keep evil away? What kind of chant do I have to utter while I pray? Oh! If I work my way up through the ranks can I wear a fancy costume like the pope!?!?

Me:  You just asked me 4 more questions. Yes – if you make a statue of me and rub the butt it will give you good luck AND keep evil away. I currently don’t have an official chant but now that you’ve brought it up I’ll get R&D to come up with something. If you can work your way into the higher echelons I promise to give you a very fancy costume. Do you like sequins? And what’s your feelings on mini disco balls?

From the video we moved over to a private message.  And so I don’t lose you, you should know that my cute little Mim is an Insulation Apprentice and is currently working on a Gas Plant site where every safety precaution is enforced.  Also, she’s the only female on a good sized crew.

So, the Viking comes in the house for a coffee and finds me weeping on my keyboard.  “What the fuck?!  What’s wrong?”

I suck air into my lungs.  “Mim!!  Oh my gawd!!”

I try to contain myself and read her message out loud.

“You wanna hear something funny? We have to wear personal gas monitors and I farted and it set off my monitor. Now everyone knows I farted!”

The Personal Gas Monitor vibrates, flashes and rings all at the same time!!

“Startled me at first and then I started laughing.”

The Viking laughed so hard he scared the cats!  So we were both weeping.

I sent Mim this….

Fart GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

“Hahahaha it wasn’t even a big fart! It was just a fluff. Just a “pff” but there’s a hole in the crotch of my coveralls and it snuck out!”

I asked what all the guys did.

“I guess they’re pretty used to setting off their own monitors so all I got was ‘ooh, somebody farted’ in a whimsical sing song voice.”

“I thought I was being all inconspicuous too cuz I knew it was going to be just a little bastard fart (a little stinker with no pop).  Didn’t think my stupid monitor would give me away!”

“I think the only reason I haven’t set it off before is because my other pair of coveralls don’t have a hole in the crotch.  Brad told me it makes him proud to have such a woman.  I think he was being sarcastic though.”

So I have a question that I need to ask when I have a minute.  Two questions now that I think about it.

  1. What are her coveralls made of that they can contain a fart?  Do farts accumulate in the legs and when you take them off at night a big green cloud of stink floats out?  Wait.  That kind of explains men’s locker rooms. Is all men’s apparel made of the same stuff?
  2. How do they know that an alarm on a monitor is a fart and not H2S?  I suppose maybe a billowy feeling in their under-carriage is a good indicator but what happens if you fart at the same time as H2S arrives?

Shit!  Now I’m worried.  I need to know stats – what are the odds?  See?! This is why we need science!

I was feeling better because of the laughs but now…….well……I’m right back to square one!  I read an article today that said intelligent people are less likely to be happy than stupid people because of blah, blah, logical conclusions, blah, blah, blah analytical thought processes blah, blah serious contemplations of fact and if that article is anything to go by I’m a damned genius!

Even so, I do feel better.  The Viking has been cursing the Gawds lately – at the top of his extremely effective lungs – about dirt and time and junk and people and air …….

Shrek GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

……but I’m still okay.  I guess you lose again Life Obstacles!  Also, scrolling through Giphy looking for farts is enough to make anyone feel better.

But mostly, it was Mim.  And she’s mine.

Like a Mini-Me

I was the family joke when I was growing up.  They called me Dum-Dum. I was also “the ugliest baby” my father had ever seen.  I eventually came to terms that this is the hand that I was dealt and carried on.  There are others out there that have much shittier hands than me so I just made the best of it.

Oh sure, I was different.  I thought differently, I saw things differently, I did things differently.  Everyone in the household wore the “What the Fuck?!” face most of the 18 years I lived there.  And when I moved in with my husband, he wore it for the next 20+ years we were together.  And yes. The Viking wears it too.

Wtf GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

But during my genealogy project, I came across pictures of myself as a kid. I wasn’t ugly!  What the hell?!  Stupid and ugly….those were the words.  But look at me!

I’m fucking adorable!

And then I started looking more closely at the rest of the photos and realized that Mrs. Completely was hiding there the whole time!  Like a Mini-Me!  If only I had known!

Those facial expressions aren’t those of a stupid person.  There are definitely things going on in that head.

 

 

I saw, I analyzed and I got grossed out.  There is no disputing the wheels were turning and I had come to a logical conclusion.

 

 

 

I tried to explain myself all the time!  Obviously not well enough though. Those aren’t the eyes of a stupid kid – they are the windows into a wacky soul.  An adorable wacky soul!

 

 

 

 

It’s not like I didn’t try to be normal. What other conclusion could anyone make about this pic except I was trying very, very hard to be sweet like a normal person?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That’s not a good look on anyone but I’m putting in the effort.

 

 

Most people would have left the room, but I stuck it out.  That’s loyalty!

 

 

 

 

And then Dad set me up to look really stupid with my Grade 2 friends when he explained what an Orgy was.  Not cool, Dad!

 

 

 

 

I may have fallen for the Orgasm thing but despite what Dad says now, I didn’t fall for a Carpool being a swimming pool with sloped ends that you drive your car through.

I stopped asking him questions after that and just figured it out on my own.

 

 

Sure, I had my moments.  I wasn’t always good – I probably wasn’t good 70% of the time – but aside from my older sister, who is good all the time?  Certainly not the person who gave me that damned black left eye!  Oddly enough, that’s not the only black eye I sported in childhood pictures.

So, I’m reviewing everything I always believed about myself. Who knew that at this late date it would be necessary?  And what does that say when I have to go all the way back to the beginning in order to grow now?

 

Support a starving writer.  Sharing is caring.

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.

Confessions of an Ex-Wife

The Viking and I spent most of Saturday silently arguing.  Well, not arguing the way most people would argue, but more like silent, body language arguing.  It’s our specialty.

Okay, fine!  It’s my specialty.  That’s how I argue.  I walk away from the actual argument (you might be tempted to think you’ve won but you would be mistaken) and then answer every subsequent question with one syllable responses that are so fucking polite it’s impossible not to notice I’m pissed off.

I sometimes think I should work on that but to be honest it’s just too big of a job.  I’d have to dig and pick at childhood stuff and then become more assertive and less Passive-Aggressive which means I would have to actively participate in arguments that would involve cursing and shouting and maybe even door slamming and nothing would be settled because everyone was so busy shouting they couldn’t hear what the other one was saying.  I’ve never done this so I’m just guessing at how it would all work.  

It was while I was silently, Passive-Aggressively arguing with The Viking on Saturday, that I started thinking about the things I did to my Ex-Husband, Stanley, while I was Passively-Aggressively arguing with him.  I have to admit I did quite a lot of things but he was just so easy to fuck with and I was evil enough to use it against him.

Food was the biggest issue with Stanley.  Don’t touch his food, don’t smell his food, don’t even look at his food.  If one of your digits/limbs got too close you could expect, at minimum, a good stabbing with his fork.  When children came along, we would all huddle down at one end of the table while he hunched over his plate at the other end, shovelling food into his mouth, never breaking eye contact with us.  He said it was because he spent too much time in Boarding Schools where he had to fight for every bite of food.  I thought it was because he was raised by wolves.  Whatever the cause, as the Cook/Scullery Maid, I had plenty of access to his food and when the Passive/Aggressive got a hold of me……well….I would fuck with his food.

He worked 12 hour shifts so I would pack 4 sandwiches, a Tupperware container of microwaveable dinner leftovers, an apple or two and half a dozen cookies.  Sometimes, I would take a big bite out of the lower right-hand corner of each sandwich, stack them up, perfectly aligned and wrap them.  I’d put the bite corner facing down in the lunch box so he wouldn’t suspect a thing until he wanted a sandwich at work.

He called from work.  “WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

I put a note in the lunch box.  “I licked one of the cookies.”

“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

I folded the piece of ham in half and chewed out the center, leaving just a ham ring before I put it in the sandwich.  All four sandwiches.

“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

I made him 3 Bologna and Strawberry Jam sandwiches because I ran out of mustard after the first one.  Before you go ‘Ewwww…” try it.  It’s actually good.

“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

I put a note in the bottom of his lunch box.  “One of these things is past its expiration date.  Guess which one.”

“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

He once woke me up at 4 o’clock in the morning because he was going on a rafting trip with some friends and had promised to bring sandwiches.  He forgot to mention it the night before.  So I left the wrapping on the cheese slices in every one of the 12 sandwiches.*

When he got home…..“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

He called from work one time to ask me to mow the lawn so he could go to the bar with some of his work buddies.  The best advice my Mother ever gave me was to never do any chore for your husband because it will be yours for the rest of your life.  So I mowed the lawn in wild curves and circles with large patches of grass un-mowed.  From above it should have looked like a penis and balls.

When he stopped at home to change clothes….“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”  I told him I thought it looked great.  He mowed it again before he went to the bar.

I folded all his socks inside out.  I stuck my finger in his mashed potatoes.  I short sheeted the bed when he was working night shifts.   “WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

He sat on the toilet so long that his legs fell asleep.  He waddled down the hallway, heading for the family room.  I watched him for a moment and then put my index finger on his shoulder and pushed him, ever so gently, so he had to take a step.  He yelled “QUIT IT!”  I did it again.  He yelled again.  I did it again.  You have to make the best of the time you have before the blood rushes back into his legs.

“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

I’m not proud of any of it.  Wait.  Who am I kidding?  I’m totally proud!  And it’s difficult to stop doing a behavior that gives me so much joy.  And before you have too much sympathy for Stanley you should know that he once came home in the middle of the night and banged on the front door.  When I got the door opened he was wearing a full face Gorilla mask and jumped at me.  There was a little bit of pee.

He also sat on top of our refrigerator for 45 minutes just so he could scare me.  I wonder if karma ever caught up to him?

I don’t have the time or energy for those kinds of things anymore.  At worse I make food that I know The Viking doesn’t like.  He also works at home so there would be no “cooling off period” before he could confront my deeds.  And there is the fact that I already do enough stuff to make him holler without engineering more.

As for trying to address my Passive-Aggressive tendencies:  that’s probably not something I’m going to get around to fixing.  Besides, what would I do with all my VooDoo dolls?

 

*I’ve noticed that leaving the plastic on the cheese slice has become a ‘thing’ now.  But I did it first – 30 years ago.  However, I never thought to write “Sorry.  Not Sorry.” on it with a Sharpie.

What Do You Mean It’s Not Your Birthday?

Hey!  How are you?  It’s been a couple of weeks since we last had coffee.  I couldn’t get my shit together last week which is nothing new to those who know me.  I start one thing, get interrupted with something more important, get side tracked and then forget where I was with the first thing.  My mind isn’t an orderly, organized mind.  It’s a mass of jumping beans dancing to a Mariachi Band.

On Friday, I planned a Happy Birthday phone call to my Father.  He’s a busy man, always gadding about, bullshitting with friends:  coffee at A&W, crib at the Senior’s Center, lunch with friends, bowling, curling and other sundry events.  My call was timed for 1:30pm which should be after lunch but before naptime.  I missed that deadline (surprise!) because….well….shit happens around here; it was almost 2:00 when I called, but at least I hadn’t forgotten altogether.

Dad:  Hello?

Me:  Hey Dad!  Happy Birthday!

Dad:  What?

Me (louder):  HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!

Dad:  Well, thanks, Lor.  Even if it is 4 days early.

Me:  What?

Dad (louder):  IT’S NOT MY BIRTHDAY!

It’s sad when a parent starts going downhill.  They’ve always been the strong, wise person you can depend on no matter what happens.  I guess age has finally caught up with the old guy.

Me:  Of course it’s your Birthday, Dad.

Dad:  It is not!

Me:  Dad!  It’s the 5th of May!  Your birthday!

Wait.  5th of May?  That’s not right.  Who’s birthday is on a 5th?

Gawd Dammit!!!  My older sister is born on March 5th!  Dad is on May 9th!  Fuuuuuuuuuck!!

I started to laugh.  What else can I do, right?

Dad:  The bastards moved my Birthday, hey?  Maybe I should call you on March 29th next year.

Me:  Hahahaha!  You can if you like.

He shouldn’t have been surprised.  I find calendars challenging and it’s not a new thing.  Birthdays, holidays, special days, week days, weekends……it clutters up my chaos.  And there’s no rhythm to most of them.  Easter can fall anywhere from the end of March to the middle of April.  How am I supposed to work with that?

And Birthdays!  Gawd!  Everyone has to have one!  Can’t we just schedule the 15th of every month to celebrate Birthdays?  Bakeries wouldn’t have to be baking damned cakes every day…..they could just make a whole shitload on the 14th.  The staff at Swiss Chalet could just hire a few local singers to stand in a corner annoying everyone all at the same time.  No need to embarrass the staff and force them to hold Sparklers which may or may not light their hair on fire.  They could have a 6:00pm song and an 8:00pm song.  Done!

Mother’s Day & Father’s Day – why can’t these days be celebrated on the same day?  All the women can go to a Brunch Buffet and all the Fathers can gather at a Sports Bar for beer and chicken wings.  Or vice versa – this isn’t a stereotype exercise.  Mothers in the morning, Fathers in the afternoon.  Done!

We also have Remembrance Day, Labour Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Canada Day (4th of July for my American friends), Valentine’s Day, Groundhog Day, Family Day, Naked Gardening Day and Thanksgiving and that’s just the main days I have to keep track of.  Who planned this mess?  Can’t we just designate the 1st weekend in every month a Special Whatever Day and give everyone the Friday and the Monday off work?

And let’s make a law about commercialization.  I walk into the grocery store on the 16th of February to find an explosion of Easter shit.  I think “HOLY SHIT!!  Is it Easter already?  Cripes!  I don’t have a plan!  I don’t have a turkey or ham!”  My blood pressure skyrockets and I feel faint.

Last year they were hanging Hallowe’en costumes beside Santa suits.  That’s just wrong on so many levels it’s hard to pick just one beef.  They’re killing me with conflicting messages.

As for Dad’s Birthday…..well….he might be irritated but he’ll get over it.  If it makes him feel better to do unto me what I have done unto him, it’s all good.  I totally deserve it for being such a useless User of Calendars.  And if he forgets to call on my birthday I probably won’t even notice because I’ll be in a panic about Easter.

So how has your last couple of weeks been?  Anything new and exciting?  Spill!

 

As always, a special thanks to Part-Time Monster for Weekend Coffee Share and Nerd in the Brain for hosting.  You rock.

Competitive Sleeping

Hey!  Nice to see you again.  I missed last weekend’s Coffee Share because I was busy watching The Viking electrocute himself.  Happily, despite fiddling with wires that should have been full of electricity, he is still alive and grumbling.

But enough of that.  How are you doing?  Is life treating you good?  Help yourself to coffee and tiny Pecan Tarts that were made for Dwarfs, or maybe Elves or possibly Leprechauns.  I’m just guessing but I think they were meant to be ‘Bite Sized’ but they aren’t.  They are, at a bare minimum, two bites but are actually an awkward three bites where the last bite crumbles in your hand and you end up having to suck the crumbs out of your palm like a Hoover.  It’s not elegant but it is amusing to watch guests try to be polite.

My week was fairly dull, and by dull I mean boring.  Nothing much happened.  Until this morning.  And then it happened before I even got out of bed.

No.  Not that.

We stayed up too late last night so this morning when the Cat Alarm went off at 8:30 I was completely unprepared to get up.  So I shouted “IZZIE!!  SHUT UP!” which seemed to work for about two and a half minutes.  There were several more shouted threats and curses and a giggle from The Viking who apparently found all this amusing.

There was the inevitable tipping point though.  That moment when I didn’t immediately fall back to sleep immediately after threatening death and dismemberment.  And that’s the moment when Competitive Sleeping happened.

Me:  I should get up and make the coffee.

Me:  He’s awake.  He’ll get up any moment.

Me:  He was up later than I was.

Me:  That’s not my fault.  He made his choice.

Me:  Actually, I think he was trying to fix something with the Kodi Box.

Me:  He loves doing that.  It’s like play time for him.

Me:  I’m pretty sure he wasn’t enjoying himself.

Me:  How would you know?  You were asleep.  He might have been Naked Break Dancing for all you know.

Me:  Come on, now.  He would never do that.  He was trying to fix it so tomorrow I wouldn’t have to wait while he tried finding an available stream for a half hour.  That’s how he shows his love.

Me:  Pfft!  He was probably watching porn.

Me:  He doesn’t need to watch porn!  Geez!  Where do you come up with this shit?!

Me:  I’m just saying.

Me:  Don’t.  Just don’t.  I’ll get up and let him sleep in.

Me:  WAIT!  He’s moving!  Maybe he is getting up and will make the coffee.  Wouldn’t that be awesome? 

Me:  Yes, that would be awesome but he’s not moving anymore.  He went back to sleep.

Me:  So wiggle around a little bit!  Snore!  Then he’ll think you’re sleeping.

Me:  But I’m not sleeping anymore.

Me:  He doesn’t know that for sure!  A little snore would convince him he’s more awake than you are.

Me:  Do you even remember last weekend when he got up early and went out to buy fresh buns and cheese and doughnuts?  Getting up and making coffee is the least I could do.

Me:  Well, if you’re going to bring up every obsolete act of kindness every time you want to be selfish, I can’t see any point of me even being here.

Me:  That might be construed as a good thing, you know.

Me:  So you want to get up?    

Me:  No!  Of course not!  But someone has to make coffee and I’m the first one awake.

Me:  He’s awake – probably more awake than you are!  Do you hear any snoring?  Then he isn’t sleeping and if you’d just make a few sleeping noises, he’ll go make the coffee!

Me:  I’m getting up!  I need coffee if I have to keep arguing with you!

Me:  Well, you’ll have to do the dishes too because you didn’t do them last night.  Still want to get out of bed first?

Me:  Bah!  I forgot about that.  There’s every chance that he’ll just make the coffee and I’ll have to do the dishes myself anyway.

Me:  But!  You’ll have coffee ready for you.

Me:  I’ll just do the dishes while I’m waiting for the coffee to brew.

Me:  You are such a pussy!  I want to stay in bed!  Gawd! 

Me:  Stop being so melodramatic.  You’re just getting out of bed, not inventing the wheel you know.

Me:  You’re not going to wear that are you?  It makes you look fat.

Me:  You’re just cranky because I won’t stay in bed.  You loved this shirt last week.

Me:   Well, I had more sleep last week.

I consoled myself by committing to a nap this afternoon.  I love Saturday afternoon naps when I can curl up in my happy place and spend time with just me.  Sure, it’s a weird place sometimes but that’s okay, nobody needs to know.

Thanks, as always, to Nerd in the Brain for hosting Weekend Coffee Share and Part-Time Monster for inventing it.

Me And My Demon

Oh.  Hey.  Welcome to Coffee.

Yes, I am a little depressed.

Because I’m the worst Villain in recorded history, that’s why.

Well, it was my birthday on the second of April and The Viking and I celebrated it like we usually do – getting drunk and telling each other our inner most feelings.  We then further celebrate for two more days by lying around the house with hang overs.  It isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but it works for us.  No, that’s not why I’m depressed.

I’m depressed because I noticed something.  Maybe it was because I was kind of drunk or maybe it was one of those random things that suddenly occur to me.  Whatever the reason, I realized it when I was dishing up the Birthday Cheesecake.

I have a Demon.  And it’s evil.  But such a sissy evil that it may as well not be evil at all!

You see, the tip of the first piece stuck to the tip of the second piece and that second piece was my piece!

I made that determination before I ever began dishing it up.  I would serve The Viking the first piece and I would take the second piece, because I’m generous like that.  There was no way I could have foreseen this eventuality.  But now his piece had a jagged, square tip instead of the nice point and my tip had a bite-sized raggedy knob jutting off to the right.

I should carefully and surgically remove the extra tip from my piece and stick it back on his piece.  That’s the proper thing to do.  My angelic side voted for this immediately.

But wait!  Let’s not be hasty here.  The Viking isn’t even paying attention.  He would be none the wiser if I pinched the end of his piece into a tip.  I could still remove the extra bit from my piece but then eat it quick so he wouldn’t notice the discrepancy.  He’s drunk.  I’m drunk.  I think I could pull it off.  He wouldn’t see that my piece was bigger than his piece, especially if I tilt my plate a little bit to obscure his view.  The Demon voted for this option before I was even done thinking it.

The Angel disagreed.  No.  Put the tip back on his piece.

But it’s Cheesecake!  Strawberry Swirl Cheesecake!

Under the rules of the Jungle possession is 9/10th of the law, you snooze you lose, what happens on the counter stays on the counter, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, waste not want not.

On the other hand…..do unto others as you would have them do unto you, once a thief always a thief and what would Christopher Walken do?  Hmm….maybe he’s not a good subject because I have a feeling that Chris would eat the entire Birthday Cheesecake and leave without saying a word.

But I gave The Viking the bigger pieces of fish the other night because I know he loves fish more than I love fish even though I was just as hungry as he was!  And I let him take more potatoes last week!  I always give him the bigger share and I’m happy to do it!   That should buy me a little bit of Karma.   I even let him drive my car.  Unsupervised!  All the time!

However, maybe Karma gave me the tip of The Viking’s Cheesecake because I always try to do the right thing.  Maybe it’s a reward and if I give it back it could be misconstrued.  I think there is a rule out there, somewhere, that to ignore a gift from Karma is insulting and she may never give me a gift again.

I might have given in to the Demon at that point except the Angel brought my attention to a recent event that wasn’t my most shining moment.

Shit!!

A few weeks ago I split my Easter Bunny Poo with The Viking and there was an odd number of Poo Pieces so someone had to take that last one.  He was so busy watching TV he didn’t notice that I took the last one.  I felt guilty about it, but it’s not like it was licorice!  I would have given him the last licorice because I know how much he loves it.

What if I used all my stored-up Karma by eating that extra Poo and this is a Karma-y test?  That would be just like Karma!  Use Easter Bunny Poo against me.  That’s the problem with these ephemeral concepts – you never know what is going to come back and bite you in the ass.

“Do you need a hand, Babe?”  Said The Viking.  Apparently my ruminations were taking more time than I thought.

“No.  I was just thinking.”

He knows better than to wade into that trap.  In the end, I took the extra tip off my piece and put it back on his piece and served it before I could change my mind.  So my Demon is such a wuss it couldn’t even win me an extra bite of Cheesecake!  And that’s fucking depressing.

But who knows?  Maybe this one little thing will let me win the Lottery?

Thanks as always to Part-Time Monster and Nerd in the Brain for hosting Weekend Coffee Share.  You guys rock.