Tag: conversations

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!

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.

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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. 

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.

 

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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.

 

 

Who’s In Charge Around Here, Anyway?

Sleeping peacefully.

Bladder:  Um…..I know you’re sleeping and I don’t mean to be a bother but I’m very full right now.

Me:  Really?  I’m having a great dream.

Bladder:  Yes, I know.  It’s just that the kidneys are being totally douche-y.

Me:  15 minutes.  Just give me 15 more minutes of sleep.

Sleeping.

Lower Back:  Can I bother you to change your sleeping position?  This one is killing me!

Legs:  And punt the cats!  We’re getting cramps.

Neck:  I could use a change, too.  You don’t want to be a Pain in the Neck cliche.

Bladder:  I can’t wait anymore!  If Nose decides to sneeze, you’ll have to bring in a HazMat Team.

Me:  For fuck’s sake!  Fine!

Go to the bathroom without opening eyes and then back to bed.

Feet:  Nice!  The bed is still warm.

Brain:  Remember that time when your sister broke your new Barbie’s legs?

Me:  That was like 45 years ago and you’re bringing it up now?!  Go back to sleep!

Trying to sleep.

Brain:  You know, that Barbie was your favorite toy.

Me:   Seriously!  I don’t give a shit about a fucking Barbie doll.  Go. Back. To. Sleep!

Brain:  It’s 8:30; you should be getting up anyway.

Me:  No, it’s not!

Left Eye:  He’s right.  It is 8:32.

Me:  Fuck!  I’m getting up.

20 minutes later.

Stomach:  Why isn’t there any coffee in here?!

Me:  I’m working on it, already!  Shit!  Now I forgot how many scoops I did.

Brain:  Don’t ask me.  I’m still pissed about your Barbie.

Flops in computer chair and scrolls through FaceBook.

20 minutes later.

Stomach:  HEY!  Where is the coffee?

Right Ear:  I haven’t heard any burbling or grumbling from the coffee maker.

Me:  I’m going.  I’m going.

First slurp of coffee.

Mouth:  Oh my gawd that tastes good!!

Stomach:  Finally!  This whole thing works better when The Viking gets up first.

3 hours later.

Stomach:  I’m finished with the coffee.  How about a Sausage McMuffin with Egg and no cheese?

Mouth:  I second that motion!!  I fucking love those things!

Brain:  If you left now, you could be home with a dozen Sausage McMuffins with Egg and no cheese in 15 minutes.

Me:  Nope!  I will not think about that delicious sandwich – I’m trying to lose a few pounds.  We are going to have an apple and a piece of aged cheese.

Mouth:  I do like the apple and cheese thing but, to be honest, I like the McMuffin better.

Me:  WE ARE NOT GETTING SAUSAGE McMUFFINS WITH EGG AND NO CHEESE!

20 minutes later.

Stomach:  Well, now I don’t have enough room for a Sausage McMuffin with Egg and no cheese.  That’s very disappointing.

Mouth:  I’m disappointed, too.

Brain:  Me too!

Me:  Whatever.

3 hours later.

Mouth:  It’s been a while since you’ve eaten.  Any chance of getting that McMuffin?

Me:  Nope.  You have to wait for supper.

Stomach:  Aaaagh!  But I’m hungry!

Brain:  Did you hear that?!  I think a Dodge Diesel just started up in your stomach!  You shouldn’t eat trucks, lady!

Me:  It’s not a truck – it’s Stomach being crabby.

Brain:  I don’t like that sound.  It annoys me.

Stomach:  I’m starving down here!  Do something, Brain!

Brain:  I’m trying but she is being obstinate.  And my thinks are getting slower.

Stomach:  This is an urgent situation.  I have to pull energy from these fat cells just laying around here.

Me:  That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day, Stomach.  Also….you all are just Hang-gry.

2 hours later.

Me:  Brace yourselves – it’s dinner time.

Mouth:  Yes!!  Finally!

Mouth:  Uh!  What was that?!  That tastes like a vegetable!

Stomach:  What?!  A VEGETABLE?  What kind?

Mouth:  I think it’s a carrot.

Stomach:  I thought you hated carrots.

Mouth:  I DO!  She’s become evil.  It’s carrots but it has butter, which I like, and sesame seeds, which I like.  I don’t know what to do.

Stomach:  Spit it out!  Hurry!

Brain:  No can do!  I’ve been brainwashed since childhood to never spit out food.  That would earn me a finger thump on my head from Dad.

Stomach:  Gawd!  You are such an ass!

Ass:  Leave me out of this.  It’s not my area.

Brain:  I can’t help it.  Dad had big fingers and those thumps hurt like hell.  I’ve been programmed to avoid those situations.  It’s a Pavlov’s Dog sort of thing.

Mouth:  Somebody make up your mind.  I can’t just chew this shit forever.

Stomach:  Intestines, big and small, prepare for invasion!  We have Carrots!

Mouth:  Holy Fuck Fuck!  Aaaa!  There’s cabbage, too!!

Stomach:  Cabbage?  What the hell is she doing?  Abort!  Abort!  I will send that shit right back at you, Mouth.  Cabbage ferments into methane gas and makes things unpleasant down here.

Mouth:  I can’t.  I’m already swallowing.

Stomach:  Shit!  I’m sending this straight to you, Intestines.  It’s a nuclear bomb for me.

Ass:  Would you please stop with all the ‘Shit’ references?  I’m trying to sleep here.

Intestines:  You won’t be sleeping for long.  Cabbage and carrots are heading your way.

Ass:  What’s the ETA?

Intestines:  Gas will start arriving within the hour and the carrots and cabbage within 3 hours.

Ass:  Really?  How exciting!  I love gas, especially cabbage gas.  It ferments quickly and I can play with it for hours and hours – even after the cabbage and carrots arrive.

Stomach:  This isn’t my area.  I’ll leave all that to you and the Intestines.

3 hours later – pre-sleep review.

Brain:  So, that was a terrible day.  The only one happy was Ass.  We have only one chance left to get any enjoyment before we sleep.

Mouth:  Do you have a plan?  Please tell me it’s a Doughnut Plan.

Brain:  Nope.  It’s a Potato Chip plan because we have those in the cupboard.  I can put the thought into her head and if Mouth starts to drool a bit and Stomach grumbles, there is a good chance we can put a stop to the ‘Diet’.

Me:  Shut up!  Y’all are the reason we’re fat in the first place.  It’s time to pay the piper.

Brain:  Does that mean there is more cabbage and carrots in the near future?

Me:  Yes.  And it’s your own fault.

Brain:  Why aren’t you blaming Eyes?  They are the ones that are always too big for Stomach.  We have no control over what you eat.  That’s Hands, Eyes and Mouth’s doing.

Me:  Wrong.  You, Brain, are in total control of cravings.  That makes you the Evil One.

Brain:  What?!

Eyes, Mouth, Stomach, Intestines and Ass:  Bastard!

Me:  All of you – quit your whining and go to sleep.  If you’re good, I might entertain the idea of French Toast for breakfast.

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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.

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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.”

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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.

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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?

Life Lesson – Friday Fictioneers

Wow!  It’s been a while.  Running a business, running a household and offsprings and just plain running takes up a lot of time.  If I were better at budgeting my time I probably wouldn’t have to run so much but then I wouldn’t be me if everything was orderly and under control.

So, without further ado – because I’m still not caught up – here’s my poor offering to the group.

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“Pick one, Son.”

“I like the blue one, Papa.”

Chuckling.  “I like the way you think, but it’s too big for you.  Last thing you want is to be is intimidated.”

Disappointed.  “The green one?”

“There you go!  That’s the perfect size.  So, you walk up beside it and stop when you are almost past it.  Then lift your leg and let her rip.  Like this.”

Water splashing against the orange column.

“Now you try.  Oh, too far.  Back up.  That’s perfect!  Fire away!”

Tinkling.

“The green one is the perfect size, right?”

Proudly.  “Yes, Papa.  My first man-dog pee!”

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As always, the wonderful Rochelle Wisoff-Fields hosts Friday Fictioneers.  The photo prompt for this week has been provided by Sarah Ann Hall.

Many thanks ladies.

Want to read more 100 word stories?  Click the button below.

I Don’t Want to Alarm You But…

I was once accused, by a boss, of being aggressive.  Once I got over the shock I asked around and found out that I’m not really aggressive*, I’m assertive; which was a description I could live with.  That was years ago though.  Nowadays, I’m not so much assertive as prone to bouts of slight aggressiveness.  If I were Freud, I would say I become aggressive on occasion because I’m not being assertive enough to avoid the necessity of aggressiveness.

I bring this up because I am being stalked by my Gel Nail Technician – Nancy.  She’s really, really terrible at doing Gel Nails but I’ve been going to her because I haven’t had any alternative within a reasonable distance from my house.  But my former Gel Nail Technician is back and she’s amazing, she’s closer and I want good quality work again instead of horrible, terrible work.  But now, Nancy is calling my cell phone and leaving messages.  And since I’ve been dodging her calls from the shop she’s become shifty and crafty and called from her personal cell phone and I answered it because I thought it was someone else.

“Hello Lori!  It’s Nancy!  When do you want appointment?”

Well SHIT!  It should be easy to not go to one place anymore because you would rather go to some other place instead.  But Nancy isn’t playing by the rules and because I’m not assertive enough to explain that I found someone better, it will probably need an aggressive response to get her to stop calling me.  Sigh.

And I bring this up because I went to the salon where my former Technician is to get my nails done.

There was a man at the front desk and three other women puttering around the shop.  When Anne looked at my nails, she muttered something in an Asian dialect and those 3 women rushed over to look at my nails too.  There was a flurry of words and tut-tuts and lots of shaking heads.  One said “Who did that to your hands?!”  I waved in the vague direction of the street.  “Some other place out there.” I mumbled.

Long story short – I have beautiful nails on my Man Hands!**  Woop!  Woop!  I’m pretty sure Nancy isn’t done yet though.

AND….the reason I’m telling you this is because later that day, The Viking said:

“You have Sex Hair!  Why do you have Sex Hair when we haven’t had sex?!”

Of course I went directly to the closest mirror and he was right.  I definitely had Sex Hair!  I’m as mystified as he is.  Before I left the house to get my nails done, I made sure my hair was presentable and the only guy I saw the whole time was the guy at the front desk in the salon.

Me:  “Okay.  I don’t want to alarm you but I may have experienced a Missing Time event.”

The Viking:  What the fuck is that?

Me:  “Well, it’s when you can’t remember what happened in a certain stretch of time.  Like people who are abducted by UFOs.

The Viking:  “You were abducted by aliens?  Is that what you’re saying?

Me:  “No.  Well maybe.  I don’t know!  How do aliens have sex?”

The Viking:  “I don’t know!”

Me:  “Maybe that’s why aliens don’t have hair.  Maybe their sex is so wild it was easier to just evolve into hairlessness.”

The Viking:  “So you think you had wild sex with a hairless alien?”

Me:  “It would explain my Sex Hair.”

The Viking:  “Or maybe you were just playing around in the bedroom today when I was working.”

Me (shocked and insulted):  “I wouldn’t do that!  And if I did I think I would remember it.  Unless I was experiencing a Missing Time event.  Geez!  I wonder if I do that every afternoon?”

The Viking:  “I think I’d better check on you more often in the afternoons.”

Me:  “I have noticed that my right hand aches quite a bit lately.  I thought I was just getting The Arthritis!

The Viking:  “I want to go with you when you try to explain that to your doctor?”

Me:  You know what?  I may not remember doing it but I’m still a little proud of myself.

It occurs to me that I am right in the glory years of menopause, when my body is producing less Estrogen and more Testosterone and we all know that Testosterone can make people a little aggressive, more hairy and a lot horny.  With the plethora of other wonderful things Menopause has introduced to me I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that Missing Time events and sore hands might be in the mix.

But now that I’m thinking about it, it occurs to me that of all the other crap that comes with Menopause, missing time and the possibility that I might be hanging out in the bedroom in the afternoons isn’t so bad.  So, there is that.

*I’m not really aggressive….except when I flush the toilet.  Apparently I am an extremely aggressive Flusher because I broke the handle right off the toilet which set off an entire bathroom renovation because The Viking doesn’t trust me with conventional flushing handles anymore.  Instead, he bought a Push Button Toilet with a flushing apparatus developed at NASA.  If it’s good enough for Aliens it’s good enough for us.  I guess.

**Despite our best efforts and an iPhone 4S (yes, I know it’s an antique but it works for me), we couldn’t get a decent picture of my beautiful nails.

 

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Is That You, Mildred?

So I was at the grocery store yesterday – just picking up a few things for dinner.  It was nearly that time already but I had other things on my mind all day and suddenly I thought “Shit!  What am I going to make for dinner?!  It’s blisteringly hot outside so I’m not cooking inside.  Bar-B-Que it is!”

And everything went really well, almost right to the end.  Because as I was waiting for the scale to verify the weight of my bags I looked up and…..time stopped for a moment.

Is that Stanley’s* new wife?  Can I even call her the ‘new’ wife because it’s been a while since he married her.  I consider myself the ‘old’ wife so I suppose that would make her ‘new’ wife.

That kind of makes us sound like cars, doesn’t it?  I’m the old trade-in and she’s the shiny new one that smells awesome inside.  EWW…!!  That didn’t come out right.  Not that she doesn’t smell good inside…..but how would I even know that?  Geez!  Let’s just pretend I never said that, okay?

So……I look up from the scale and I see her, but I’m not 100% certain it’s her….I’m in more like the 85 percentile of positivity.  It looks like her but it’s been a while since I’ve seen her so maybe I’m wrong.  This store is a little out of her neighborhood and while I don’t mind her shopping at my grocery store, I would like to know if it is, indeed, Mildred* or not, because shopping like a Meerkat is going to get weird.

Let’s put that aside for now though, because there are bigger issues here than whether she is Mildred or she isn’t.  Namely, did she see me?  We didn’t quite make eye contact before I dropped my head and stared at the screen in front of me.  I diligently started scanning my items while my mind kicked into overdrive.

How am I supposed to behave?  What’s the protocol?  Do I wave?  Should I do the Floppy Wave and keep it loose and friendly?  A rigid, proper wave – my fingers straight and squeezed together, and make Wash On, Wash Off movements?  Maybe a Queenly Wave – my hand cupped, palm towards me with kind of scooping motions?  Or maybe she didn’t see me at all and the guy at the cashier behind her will think I’m hitting on him and I’ll have a situation in the parking lot?

Maybe I should just take a deep breath and plunge into the morass of awkward Divorc-i-ness.  I’m not harboring any bad feelings but I have no idea what the other side feels.  Maybe there is an incommunicado policy in place that I’m not aware of.  Did Stanley tell her that I wanted to give him away at their Wedding?  I thought it was a brilliant idea – the old wife officially giving him to the new wife.  That would have started things off on the right foot, in my opinion, but Stanley threatened death and dismemberment.

Even if I do decide to take the plunge, what do I say for an opening salvo?  Do I holler across 6 cashiers and say…..what?

“How’s that husband working out for you?”

Or “Hey Mildred!!  Lookin’ good!”

Or should I be more formal “Felicitations Mildred!”

By the time I finished paying for my stuff, I had decided to just screw up my courage and make an oblique approach and maybe accidentally bump into her cart.  I could pretend that I just saw her at this moment and not 5 minutes ago when I ducked down like a 3rd Grader.

There was a tiny whoosh of relief when I couldn’t see her.  And then I wondered if she was doing the same thing that I was doing because she had no damned idea how to behave in these circumstances either.  Maybe she hissed at her cashier to hurry the fuck up, then ran out of the store like the hounds of hell were at her heels.  Maybe she even squealed tires trying to get out of the parking lot before I made my way out of the store.  Probably not because she’s an adult, but I still wonder if she felt awkward too?

I’m going to blame this entirely on Stanley.  First, because I haven’t done that for years and second, because he should have let me give him away at his damned Wedding.  This wouldn’t even be an issue if we had started this off on the right foot to begin with.

In the meantime, I need a plan in case we bump into each other again.  I need a suave and elegant opener and then hope to hell I did my hair that morning.

 

*I’ve changed his name to protect his identity and privacy.  Because I’m just that kind of person.

*I’ve changed her name to protect her identity and privacy.  Because I’m just that kind of person.  What?!  I like the name Mildred and it goes quite nicely with Stanley.  Mildred and Stanley – see?  It rolls right off the tongue.

A Baby In Each Arm

It’s time for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, the photo provided by Danny Bowman.

 

They stood side by side, the older woman’s arm around the younger. 

“Between those two humps, your great, great grandmother buried 2 children – it was cholera.  Three days later she gave birth to twins in the back of the wagon.  They had to stop when the babies came, then they travelled through the night to catch the other wagons.  She walked the whole time, a baby in each arm.”    

“Really?”

“Yes.  You come from a long line of strong women.  A broken heart might hurt like hell but it won’t kill you.” 

“Promise?”

A long, comforting hug.   “I promise.” 

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