Tag: conversations

I’m Too Lazy to be a Criminal

The Viking and I have computers sitting right beside each other – it’s a marriage-saving strategy so we don’t have to share. Everyone knows that there are limits to love and generosity when it comes to time on Facebook and YouTube.

In my downtime, I like to listen to documentaries on YouTube while I play Solitaire – it helps me to unwind – but because The Viking is sitting right next to me, he is forced to listen to whatever I’m listening to, and sometimes it’s a problem.

If I’m learning about the Hittites and their social hierarchies, The Viking usually just tunes it out. On the other hand, if I’m listening to expert opinions on western expansion, or the decline of the middle class, he becomes extremely interactive. Curses and shouts, to the point that I can’t hear the video over Viking political views. The cats usually rocket out the cat door to escape the heated and sometimes lengthy debate between The Viking and YouTube.

In order to protect YouTube’s feelings and the judgemental dagger stares from the cats, I’ve narrowed down the safe topic selection to……murder/crime.  Thankfully, YouTube has an extensive number of channels offering as much gore and dodgy motives as a person could hope for.

After months of videos, it occurred to me……

Me: I don’t think I can be a murderer. There is far too much work involved.

The Viking: If there was no work involved would you reconsider?

Me: Hmmm…..you know, there have been moments…..but, even if no work was involved, I would still have to be a good liar in case someone started asking questions and we both know that I am a lousy liar.

The Viking: …

Me: What surprises me most is how willing these criminally minded people are to work so hard for so little personal gain. This guy, for instance – he just wanted some weed and whatever cash he could find lying around his girlfriend’s house. He ends up going to a great deal of effort to murder her, then clean up the blood, replace the carpet, dismember the body, dig holes in various remote locations to bury the body parts, and then manufacture a fake alibi. That’s a lot of work. AND, he had to do it all in like 6 hours. I can barely de-bone a chicken in 6 hours.

The Viking: …

Me: Also, have you noticed that everyone involved in solving a crime is given the title of “Forensic”? Forensic Accountants, Forensic Shoe Print Analysists, Forensic Water Analysists, Forensic Internet Specialists, Forensic Reporters. My favorite is the Forensic Hypnotist who hypnotised a witness to get a partial license plate number. So, I suppose as long as you are talking about a crime, anyone can be a Forensic Something.

The Viking: …

Me: How many times a day do you get annoyed because someone has treated their machine with criminal neglect? That makes you a Forensic Mechanic! Right? I’m going to put that on your business cards.

The Viking (snorting): What does that make you?

Me: A Forensic Chef. Forensic Laundress. Forensic Business Accountant. Forensic Shopper. And a Forensic Wife. I’m going to need bigger cards.

The Viking (almost eyeball rolling): Really?

Me: You’ve never heard me folding your laundry when every t-shirt is inside out. You’re just going to have to believe me when I say I’m entertaining criminal thoughts. And don’t get me started on family reunions in grocery store aisles.

The Viking: A Forensic Chef?

Me: Every time I ruin a meal. Every. Time. All that wasted time and food. That’s criminal all on its own.

The Viking had to give me a point for that because it’s absolutely true and we both know it.

Are You Even Listening?

I’ve got nothing to say.  Yes, I know.  Shocking.  Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t be a problem but when one has a blog having nothing to say is a bit of a problem.  The Viking is likely happy enough though because I usually chat his ear off with mostly nonsense except for the odd flash of brilliance that he doesn’t even hear because he’s tuned me out.

Me: “So, I was watching a video this morning on how to use epoxy to make a table that looks like a beach and I think I should make one.  It’s so hypnotic watching all the grinding and polishing.  What a sense of accomplishment when it’s finished.  You have a grinder, right?”

The Viking: “hmm……”

Me: “You aren’t even listening.”

Him: “hunn…..”

Me: “The neighbour lady came by yesterday afternoon and suggested a threesome which does sound very intriguing.  Apparently, I need a very large sheet of heavy-duty plastic and a four-litre jug of cooking oil.  I’ll have to host because they have their handicapped child and also because her parents are always popping in, unannounced, which could become awkward.”

Him: “hhzzzzzzzz…”

Me: “Of course, you’ll have to stay out in the garage during our ménage à trois event.  I will probably just lock the door, so you don’t forget and decide to come in for a coffee or something.  I think the neighbours are a bit shy.”

Him: “mmmmuh”

Me: “Unnnless….you would like to join?  I’m pretty sure the neighbours would be more than happy to upgrade from a ménage à trois to a ménage à quatre.  I’ve seen the Missus watching you over the fence sometimes and she seems interested.”

Him: “uh..hmmm”

Me: “How big of a plastic sheet should I buy?  Is there a mathematical equation to figure that out?”

…..

Me: “I should probably google how this all works, too, because I’m not very clear on how we can keep a grip on each other when we’re all greased up with the oil.  I watched a Greased Pig competition once and it doesn’t look easy.”

…..

Me: “So, I should just volunteer you to make up the foursome?”

Him: Grunt

Me: “You make me so happy!  Should I book for this weekend?”

Him (turning to look at me): “What?!”

Me: “Does this weekend work for you?”

Him: “For what?!  There is MotoGP this weekend!”

Me (heavy sigh): “For the menage et quatre with the neighbours!”

Him: “What the fuck are you talking about?!”

Me (heavier sigh plus an eye roll):  “A menage et trois!  Except it’s now a menage et quatre since you decided you wanted to join.  With Steve and Kathryn.  We are supposed to provide a large sheet of plastic and a four-litre jug of cooking oil!  Home Depot would have that, wouldn’t they?

His left eye starts to twitch.

Me: “And we’re hosting so we should provide some snacks.  That’s the classy thing to do.  We probably want something high in protein for energy, don’t you think?  And fluids with electrolytes.  It’s important to keep hydrated.”

Him: “For fuck’s sake!  We aren’t having a men…..whatever!”

Me: “Hey!  You were the one that volunteered!”

Him: “I did not!”

Me: “You did!  And, you have no one to blame but yourself because you don’t listen to me and now, we’re locked into a menage et quatre with the neighbours.”

 

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Til Death Us Do Part

The Viking found a website of old TV shows and while I was building a puzzle on my computer, he proceeded to list them.  Within 15 minutes, he was re-evaluating most of the life choices he’s made in the past decade.

Him:  M*A*S*H*!  That was a good show.

Me:  I love that show!

Him:  The Waltons.

Me:  Too church-y for me.  I always felt like I was failing every time one of those ‘goody-two-shoes’ made the right decision.  Too much pressure for regular kids who lie once in a while and will take the largest slice of cake instead of giving it to a sibling.

Him:  HA!  Columbo?  He was good.

Me:  I had a serious crush on him.

Him:  WHAT?!

Me:  Yup!  Completely in love with that guy.

Him (laughing in disbelief):  That’s funny, Babe.  The Rockford Files.  Did you have a crush on him, too?

Me:  Nah.  Too pretty.  The pretty guys are always too high maintenance.

Him:  CHiPS

Me:  ……

Him:  Six Million Dollar Man.

Me:  He was always squinting and that just gets annoying after a while, don’t you think?  You would think that if they had the technology to make a bionic eye they could do something about the squinting.

Him (squinting at me):  I’ve never really thought about it.  Kojack!

Me:  I had a crush on him, too.

Him:  Noooo.  You didn’t!

Me:  Yes.  I did!  He was a badass.

Him:  Little House on the Prairie.

Me:  …..

Him:  Gunsmoke.

Me:  Crush.

Him:  Fucking hell!  Hawaii Five-O.

Me:  Too arrogant.

Him:  WKRP in Cincinnati.

Me:  ……

Him:  Marcus Welby, M.D.

Me:  Oh, yeah!

Him:  He’s so old!

Me:  But in a good way.

Him:  The Love Boat

Me:  ……

Him:  Hogan’s Heros.

Me:  Nope.  There was something about that guy that just rubbed me the wrong way.

Him:  Kung Fu.  Noooo…..don’t say it!

Me (nodding my head):  Uh Huh!  And Scott Glenn too, because he looks a lot like David Carradine.

Him:  Fucking hell.  Quincy M.E.

Me:  YES!  I love his face!  Total crush.

Him:  ……

Me:  What?  He was hot!

Him:  Baa Baa Black Sheep.  Robert Conrad.

Me:  Crush.  But I felt bad about it because he was so pretty and I was riddled with guilt.

Him:  Trapper John, M.D.

Me:  Nope.  Something wrong with that guy too.

Him:  B.J. and the Bear

Me:  Double nope!

Him:  Vegas?  Robert Urich?

Me:  Again, yes. But with a lot of guilt.

Him:  Barnaby Jones.  Sigh.  If you had a crush on him…….

Me:  Oh, yeah!

Him:  ……

Me:  You’re regretting that you married me, aren’t you?  Too late now – you’re stuck with me till death do us part.

I’m just surprised that The Viking is surprised.  He should be accustomed to me by now.  What I find attractive about a person has nothing to do with their appearance.  Except with Robert Urich and Robert Conrad of course, but I won’t feel good about it.

Wait.  Both are Roberts.

My father’s name is Robert.  Fuck.  Excuse me while I do an online Psychological assessment.

Talk To My Back, Lady!

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

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

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

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

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

“Where the fuck is Teddy?”

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

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

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

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

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

His answer was to deliberately turn his back on me.

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

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

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

……

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

……

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

……

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

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

……

“I wanted to stay home.  With you.”

……

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

……

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

……

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

……

“I was a hostage!”

……

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

……

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

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

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

 

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

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

Enemy At the Cat Door

The Viking installed a Cat Door – a move to save my sanity as two cats badgered me relentlessly to open and close the door 179 times a day.  Overall, it’s been a mixed blessing.  The first couple weeks were wonderful as they came and went as they pleased.  Teddy was so happy with the arrangement he felt the need to bring me gifts:  a live bird, a live mouse, a dead mouse, a half-eaten dead mouse, another live bird, a dead bird, and a half-eaten dead bird.

After a year of gifting and slaughter, I have finally convinced both Teddy and Izzie that wildlife is not allowed in the house – dead or alive.  I am proud of them for their hunting prowess, but please leave all gifts on the back step where I can fully appreciate them without stepping on cadavers in the middle of the night as I stumble to pee.

I thought that was the end of negatives issues regarding the Cat Door but this morning I was proven wrong.

It’s a beautiful day, the sun shining brightly on our eastern-facing back door/cat door.  I was just happy to see the sun and didn’t realize there was a problem until I heard hissing.  Izzie hissing, to be exact.  I had my back to her and the door, checking Face Book, so turned around to see what was going on.

Izzie was staring hard at the Cat Door.  And there, just at the very bottom of the cat door, I saw two pointy shadows that I soon realized were Cat Ears slowly moving upwards.

Holy Shit!  There’s an Enemy at the Cat Door!! 

Then, because he must have heard Izzie hissing, Teddy came creeping through the kitchen, watching the cat door.

I sat down between the cats, in front of the cat door.

We sat in silence, watching the Cat Ear shadow rise and lower several times.  And then we had a discussion because this was a crisis that needed to be given careful consideration.

There was little doubt that the cat sitting on the other side of the Cat Door was Slinky – the crazy cat from next door.  Even his owners call him batshit crazy.

Once we decided who we were dealing with, we now considered what actions needed to be taken.  And action definitely needed to be taken or Slinky might misconstrue our lack of response as weakness and launch an invasion right into our home!

Cat Ear Shadow slowly rises.

I could beat on the door and scare Slinky away and hope he would never come back, but Slinky is crazy and who knows what goes on in that twisted mind.  Teddy and Izzie voted against that action anyway as it had a taint of cowardice in the face of aggression at our sovereign Cat Door.

Cat Ear shadow slowly lowered.

Or, we could wait until Slinky poked his head through the flap.  The physics of the Cat Door means that once you embark on a passage through the flap, you can’t change your mind, you’re fully committed.  If you try to back up, the flap lodges behind your head and effectively traps you.  Izzie liked the sound of that immediately.  Teddy, on the other hand, thought we might be flirting with Un-Sportsman-like Conduct and that’s not something to be taken lightly.  So the whole option was turfed before we even discussed what to do with the head once it was trapped – whether we spray it with the water bottle or mock it for not understanding the science involved in Cat Doors.

Cat Ear shadow rises.

At this point, Teddy wondered if someone should go wake up The Viking.  This is kind of his area of expertise, is it not?  There’s nothing quite as terrifying as Vikings in the morning – just ask the Monks at Lindesfarne.  Teddy and I are peaceful Hippies, ill-equipped to deal with aggression, while Izzie is only mean from a distance when it comes to other cats and prefers name-calling and cursing rather than physical violence.  Unless……someone else is doing the violence, like a Viking that’s cranky for being woken up because our perimeters have been breached…..and then she’s all in.  With PomPoms.

Cat Ear shadow lowers.

I thought we should entertain less violent options before we bring in the big gun.

Cat Ear shadow rises.

We could just let Izzie shout derogatory insults – her specialty – through the Cat Door while Teddy and I cheer from the sidelines and hope Slinky doesn’t call our collective bluff.  Teddy asked if that was just a little too close to Bullying?  Fair question.  We don’t want that ugly reputation to stick; Izzie already has a reputation as a Home Invasion Expert and a prolific Car Jacker so we don’t really need more notoriety.

Cat Ear shadow lowers.

We considered barking madly like an insane Mastiff but neither cat wanted to stoop that low.  Because they have standards.  Unlike this turncoat….

By now we were beginning to entertain increasingly implausible defensive actions.  No one had a slingshot or a fishing net and, of course, I’m not allowed to have a Flame Thrower.  We were running out of options.  In the end, I was out-voted.  ME!  Without the slightest pang of conscience, both cats volunteered me to take one for the team.  I was to be sacrificed to the crazy hell that is Slinky.  And while I was arguing against the decision with all the fervor of Atticus Finch…….

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

As one, we turned our heads toward The Viking, standing there in his underpants holding a pair of socks.  We started explaining the crisis…..

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”  He whipped the back door open.

Apparently, Slinky either got tired of listening to our evil plans…..or…..got bored and went home.

 

The Rumblings of Viking Discontent

I don’t really like cooking all that much anymore.  Once was a time when I would chef the hell out of my kitchen, but after 35 years of slinging food, I’ve lost my enthusiasm.  That doesn’t mean I’m not still slinging food, it just means that I’m cranky while I do it.  When The Viking finds me laying on the kitchen floor begging for death to take me now so I don’t have to figure out what the hell to make for dinner for the 5th day this week, he doesn’t need to ask questions.

As luck would have it though, he loves cooking!  Give him a bottle of red wine and a Danish radio station and he’s the happiest damned Viking on the planet.  So, on Saturdays, if he doesn’t have to work in the garage, he makes me dinner.  And he goes shopping for the ingredients, too!

via GIPHY

Unfortunately, last Saturday there was an issue.  It all began when I lost my Airmiles card a couple of weeks ago.  A cashier at Safeway must have forgotten to hand it back to me when I bought groceries and I was, undoubtedly, cranky because I would now have to cook all the crap I just bought and that’s my excuse for failing to reacquire the card.  It wasn’t until my next trip to buy food that I realized it was missing because that’s about the only place I use it.

Anyhoo, I took The Viking’s card to use until my new one arrived.  And that brings us right up to Saturday when he went shopping for the big feast he was making for me.  I happily sat at the computer listening to a documentary and playing solitaire while he was gone.  At one point I thought I heard thunder in the distance but that was impossible because it’s winter.

And then The Viking arrived home.

“Where the fuck is my Airmiles card?!!”

Me:  Oh, I have it because I lost mine somewhere but I’ve ordered a new one.

Him:  Well that’s fucking great!  I stood there looking like a stupid, dumb Fuck, going through my entire wallet searching for my fucking card while 3000 people were waiting behind me!

Me:  Ummm……sorry?

Him:  I was going through the whole store, picking up deals that would give me extra Airmiles!!

Me:  ……

Him:  The cashier was getting all pissed off!  What am I supposed to do?!!  I felt like a fucking dumb fuck!

Me:  ……

Him:  I almost walked away and left it all right there!  I’m so pissed off right now!  I have all these stupid, fucking groceries and NO AIRMILES!!

Me:  ……

He stomped out to bring more stuff into the house, muttering.

Him:  ….so bad if you at least told me you had my card!!  You should have put it back in my wallet when you were finished with it.

Me:  To be fair, I use the card more often than you do and it seemed the better use of the Airmiles card for me to…..

Him:  I MISSED OUT ON 14 MILLION AIRMILES!

Me:  Okaaay.  Since we’re talking about such a tremendous number of miles, it’s clear I made a huge mistake…..

He stomped out again to bring the remainder of his shopping treasures.

Him:  If I had known you were going to fuck me over I never would have bought you these fucking flowers because you certainly don’t deserve them!

Me:  Awwww….you bought me flowers!

Him:  YOU DON’T DESERVE THEM!

via GIPHY

And then I couldn’t help myself.  I started to laugh.  And I couldn’t stop!  He was just so indignant that I “fucked him over” by pinching his Airmiles card.  Tears in my eyes, laughing so hard.  And then I understood that the thunder I thought I heard wasn’t thunder at all but most likely the rumblings of Viking discontent from 4 kilometers away.

In the 12 ½ years I’ve known The Viking, I have never not deserved flowers.  Who knew that pinching his Airmiles card was the hard-line in floral deservedness?

    • I accidentally bleached most of his laundry so he had to wear ridiculous clothes for 3 years until they wore out.
    • I mashed the potatoes when we were serving a Danish Pork Roast to my parents, totally destroying the entire meal.
    • I drove his truck across wet paint when highway workers were painting the centre lines.
    • I smashed his Seadoo onto a big pile of rocks.
    • I forgot to buy his Lottery tickets and we probably would have won a Billion dollars in that draw.
    • ETC.

The list of my sins is lengthy and yet I’ve always deserved flowers.  Until last Saturday.  The good news is that The Viking doesn’t hold grudges against me.  Don’t get me wrong, he’ll hold grudges against anyone else on the planet, just not me.  Because I’m special.

And as impressive as him losing his shit is, it’s not quite as epic as me losing my shit when he forgot to buy Fresca 2 years ago and he laughed his Danishy ass off, right in my face.

So, there is that.

Knock, Knock!

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

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

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

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

Knock, Knock

The Viking turns his head.

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

Shrug.

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

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

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

Shrug.

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

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

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

Shrug.

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

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

I HAVE TO PEE!

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

I decided to wait for a gas station.

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

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

Shrug.

I tried to keep my squirming to a minimum.

Knock, Knock

Head turns.

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

Muffled curses and lewd hand gestures.

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

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

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

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

What the Fuck is That?!

The new season of Grace & Frankie is finally out which means The Viking and I are binge-watching!

I gathered all the standard Binge-Watching Necessities – water, chips, chocolate, licorice (for The Viking only) and the remote control.  After two episodes, I needed to fill up our water.  Two episodes later another refill and a pee break.  Two episodes after that the water needed to be filled again but I was so comfortable I didn’t want to get up.

If only there was a way to encourage The Viking to do the refill this time?

Me:  My water is empty.  Rock, Paper, Scissors – the loser gets the water?

Him:  Okay.

Me:  Alright.  One….Two….Three (I went for scissors)

……

……

Me:  What the fuck is that?!

Him (staring at his hand):  …..

Me:  Are you seriously trying to combine all three into one Super Tool?

He starts laughing so hard he can’t talk.

Me:  I can’t believe you’re cheating at Rock, Paper, Scissors!  Who does that?

He’s still laughing.

Me:  This is no laughing matter!  Rock, Paper, Scissors is the pre-eminent Decision-Making Tool worldwide, next to The Magic Eight Ball.  What if everyone started cheating?  Imagine the chaos this could unleash on the world.  You may have, single-handedly, brought about the end of civilization.  It’s shameful is what it is.  Obviously, you have to get the water.  Cheater.

Now, I have to find a new way to settle disagreements because apparently he can’t be trusted with such a powerful Tool.  Thumb/Pinkie Wars and Arm Wrestling gives The Viking an unfair advantage because he lifts shit all the time, so I’ll have to settle with Leg Wrestling.

This is what happens when someone fucks around with a good thing, Viking!

Sometimes It’s Just So Easy

RING, RING!

Me:  Four Seasons Motorsports

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

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

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

Me:  Who did you say this was?

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

Me:  Wait.  Your name is JooJoo?

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

Me:  What company are you from?

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

Me:  Card services?!

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

Me:  You booked an appointment with Niels for what?

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

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

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

Me:  Are you aware that Niels is a Viking?

JooJoo:  Um…..no.

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

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

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

JooJoo:  But Clara….

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

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

Me:  Oh yes.  That would be me.

JooJoo:  Are you the owner of the business?

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

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

Me:  Oh, no.  I can’t possibly…

JooJoo:  But I can save you money….

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

JooJoo:  Are you sure I can’t….

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

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

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

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

“WHAT?!”

Sometimes, it’s just so easy……

 

 

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?!

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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!