Tag: frustration

A scab! On my nipple!

By now you probably know that I have been extra-ly blessed in the boob department. I don’t want to be ungrateful but they can be a total nuisance from time to time. Therefore, it shouldn’t come as too great a shock to know that I’ve had another Boob Incident.

I was making up gift baskets for our best customers; I make all sorts of homemade goodies and put them in lovely baskets and deliver them just before Christmas. And it was during the execution of baking the goodies that I suffered a terrible injury to my right nipple.

All the baking went well. Everything indicated a successful completion of 3 gift baskets and I was already starting to congratulate myself. All that remained to do was decorate the Gingerbread. I had it in the bag. This was easy, easy stuff. First, I needed to clean up the mixer tools so I could get the icing made, and that’s where the whole affair came off the rails.

It had been going so well….

  • I had managed to keep the amount of cookie dough in my bra to a minimum.
  • I hadn’t had a major spill of any sort.
  • I hadn’t severed a digit.
  • I didn’t break any glass.
  • Nothing was burned.
  • I hadn’t forgotten any ingredients – everything tasted perfect.
  • Nobody ate it all, behind my back.
  • I only had to make an extra trip to the store once.

So I was confident! Once everything was clean and dry, I started assembling the KitchenAid again. The batter tool snicked easily into place, but then……

The bowl wouldn’t turn, to lock in place. Why do they have to make these things so tight? Geezus! I grabbed the machine with my left arm so it wouldn’t turn when I tried to turn the bowl but it’s awkward and wouldn’t cooperate. Every attempt failed; the base, heavy as it is, would turn with the bowl. So I started cursing. Surprisingly, it didn’t help.

Then I put the base on the table, which is lower, so I could get my arm around it better. Nope. Fail. Obviously, two arms aren’t enough. Why is it being such an asshole? It’s been very good until now. Why. Won’t. It. Lock?!  Fucker!   I just want to make some damned icing!

So I put it on the floor between my feet but then I couldn’t get a good grip on the bowl. So I sat on the floor, wrapped my legs around the base, except to get a good grip on the bowl handle I needed to sort of lean over the machine. One boob went to the left of the top of the machine and one boob went to the right.

Fail.

Okay, you sonofabitch!! I got up on my knees and wedged the base between my thighs. I anchored my left arm around the top of the machine and gripped the bowl with my right hand. My cheek was squished against the side of the base. With a colossal effort I tried to twist it into submission but then my right hand slipped and the bowl snapped against the base…….and my RIGHT NIPPLE GOT PINCHED INBETWEEN! Mother#$%@er!! Sonofabitch! Shitface asshole bastard pisshead!!!

I flipped my shirt up and gingerly extracted my right boob from the bra. It was bleeding! My nipple was bleeding!!

The Viking walked through the door and stopped short. The KitchenAid was still wedged between my knees, the bowl cockeyed now. I had straightened my torso so I could see my injury; my shirt was up and my boob was out. Bleeding. I looked up at him – surprised. And if I’m honest, I probably looked like I was sitting on the mixer with a boob out, and some people may have misconstrued the entire situation. The Viking knows me well enough though……

Him: What the fuck are you doing?!

Me: Look!  My nipple is bleeding!!  I gestured with the boob.

Him: How in the fuck did you manage that?!

Me: This stupid, fucking, asshole, douchebag KitchenAid pinched my nipple off!

Him: Why do you have it on the floor?

Me: Because I couldn’t get the stupid, fucking, asshole, douchebag bowl to lock into place on the counter or on the table so I was wrestling with it on the floor where I could get a better grip on it!

Him: Why didn’t you bring it to me?

Me: And admit I can’t get a mixing bowl to lock into place on its base? Are you crazy?! Besides, it’s been working just fine until now!

Him: Give it to me.

So he picks the bowl and the mixer base up and puts it on the counter. I knew what was coming. I pursed my lips and nasty smeared across my face. And just like I knew it would be, The Viking, with the tip of his stupid, fucking, asshole, douchebag pinkie finger, flicked the bowl into the locked position then turned to look at me.

Me: You’re an asshole.

Him: Why? I was just trying to help.

Me: You could have tried helping before my nipple had to bleed.

Him: How could I possibly know that you were in a wrestling death match with the KitchenAid?

Me: I don’t know but you certainly know when to come in and catch me in the most compromising of positions.

Him: Do you need any help getting your boob back in the bra?

Me: This is not the time for you to be playing with my boob. Can’t you see it’s dying?

Him: I’ll be gentle.

Me: No! But you can help me off the floor.

By the next day there was a scab on my nipple. A scab! On my nipple! I considered writing KitchenAid a letter of complaint but then thought better of it. There just isn’t any way of explaining it without a loss of dignity.

The cookies turned out brilliantly. They were slightly soft with exactly the right amount of icing to make them completely delicious. My right nipple didn’t like them though and the KitchenAid is on the naughty list. Indefinitely.

Streaking and A Change in Scheduling

I was sitting at my computer last night, playing a mindless card game, wasting time until I could justify going to bed. But then there was a commotion in the hallway and muffled curses from the bathroom. I smiled.

The Viking has a shower every night before bed because he’s a motorcycle mechanic and he gets dirty. Izzie joins him in the shower because water fascinates her. It’s ‘their thing’. Every night Izzie waits patiently until The Viking streaks from the bedroom to the bathroom – okay, it’s a very slow streak but he’s still streaking. I can provide proof if it’s absolutely necessary but I’m hoping you’ll just take my word for it.

Last night there was a change in scheduling though. The Viking’s plumbing decided that what should have happened in the morning would now happen at night, just prior to his shower. In order to save time, he streaked….struck?….Straked?….to the bathroom even though he had something else to do before he got in the shower.

Try explaining that to a cat!  Especially to a cat that has been waiting for several hours for The Streaking Viking already and now finds the bathroom door firmly closed against her.

Izzie: Woooaaaahhh! Muuwah! Aaaaa!

The Viking yelling through the bathroom door: Izzie! Stop it!

Izzie: Aaaaaaa!!! Eeeeooowww!! Muuaa!

The Viking: I’m taking a shit, for fuck’s sake!

Izzie, slapping the bathroom door like a drummer in a rock band: Waaaaaa! Aagg!!!

The Viking: You don’t want to be in here! It smells like shit!

Izzie, now sticking one front leg all the way under the door, slapping the inside of the door, and the floor for good measure: Wah!! Eeeeeeoowww! Eeyahh! Wooaahh!

The Viking: Go away!!

Izzie: Eeeyaaahh!! Muuuuaa!!

The Viking: Fuck sakes! You’re going to smell like shit too!! Okay, fine!

The bathroom door opens and then closes quickly. This is actually an impressive feat because the door isn’t all that close to the toilet; there is significant leaning and stretching involved in the maneuver.

The house becomes quiet. For a minute or two. Then, very muffled, I hear a little squeak.

Izzie: Waah?

The Viking: …..

Izzie: Waahh??

The Viking: …..

Izzie: Wah!!

The Viking: I told you it smells like shit in here! Now you have to wait until I’m done.

Izzie: Waaaaaaahhh.

The Viking: Maybe this will teach you to let me take my shits in peace.

Izzie: …..

The Viking: Uuhhkk! Don’t touch that!

Izzie: …..

The Viking: For Fuck’s Sake!! You know you’re not allowed to do that! Leave the paper alone!!

Izzie: …..

The Viking: NO! Don’t do it!

Izzie: …..

The Viking: I need that now! No! Give me that!

Izzie: …..

The Viking: You little Fucker!!

The toilet flushes.

The Viking: Wait! No!! Let me clean it out first! Stop it! Fucks sake! Toilet flushes again. Okay. There!

2 minutes into the shower The Viking is whistling and cooing endearments to Izzie who is happily slapping water droplets on the floor.

Izzie – Let’s have Coffee….er….Salmon Juice

 

First things first: I don’t drink coffee…..anymore. Because apparently I can’t be trusted with Sugar after my counter-sized Sugar Art Project got poor reviews. And let’s face it, coffee without sugar…and cream…..is terrible. Whatever. I like Salmon juice better anyway.

Now that we have that out of the way, go ahead and spread out on my favorite blanket. Soft, isn’t it? And this is the perfect time of day because we have warm sunshine right here.

So, it’s been a week of ups and downs for me. On the plus side I discovered water. I’ve been dabbling in the shower with The Viking for a long time and it was okay but the bathroom sink is where it’s at.  I can hear the tap turn on from every corner in the house. Someone’s brushing their teeth? I’m there! The Viking was rude enough to spit his toothpaste on my head but The Missus cleaned it up. She just pushes me out of the way when she has to spit. I also like the toilet. The Viking accidentally peed on my head though, when I jumped up between his legs for a little lookee-loo. The Missus cleaned me up from that too.

Unfortunately, there was an incident when I was playing in the bathroom sink. The Missus let the water drip and she put in the plug so I could get all my feet wet. I was really enjoying myself! But then I needed to pee. Do you know how hard it is to hold in pee when you’re playing with water? It’s impossible. Trust me. Anyway, I jumped down and ran for the litter box and came right back to play some more. When the Missus saw that I was heading for a nap after all that playing, she went to turn the water off……….and screamed.

I ran back….of course I did! Who wouldn’t? She was just standing there looking at the sink and the floor and the walls with her mouth hanging open.

Pop Quiz: How much litter will stick to your very wet feet?

Answer: Enough to get you banned from ever playing in the sink again.

On the plus side, I wasn’t banned from the whole bathroom like when I shredded 2 and a half rolls of bathroom tissue. She did spend a long time spraying the whole room down with disinfectant and wiping it all up again though.

Another good thing was that I found my Green Crocodile. It’s been missing for a couple months already. It must have visited an alternate universe because it just showed up behind the sofa beside 3 fake but intriguing mice. The Missus was quite surprised when I showed it to her.

Three bad things happened when I bit The Missus twice and The Viking once. I don’t know what comes over me! They are just giving me a love and then WAM!! They’re bit! I may have Split Personality Syndrome. They play with me several times every day, so it’s not like they neglect me. I think the urge to play happens and then Satan takes over my body. I’m horrified when I come back to myself. There is simply no other explanation. It’s a good thing they don’t hold grudges for more than a few hours. And, I always go and apologize even though it’s not something I particularly like to do.

I saw 3 rabbits, two squirrels and 8 Magpies this week. One day I will be allowed outside and they will fear me.  Especially that one Magpie that sits on the window ledge mocking me.  That one will die.  Slowly.  Painfully.

I accidentally shredded two rolls of Bathroom Tissue again this morning. You would think that I had broken a Ming Dynasty Vase or something the way The Missus goes on and on and on about what a horrible cat I am and wasting money and how I will never be allowed in the bathroom again and blah, blah, blah. I proved her wrong as soon as The Viking needed to pee. He didn’t even see me.

So, you haven’t said much, have you? Maybe next week I’ll let you talk for a while. You just have to butt-in if you have something to say. Also, you should probably run if you see my eyes go all black and Satan-y. I won’t realize that I’m biting you until I’m done biting you. I will apologize afterwards though.

Until next week, my friend. May the mice be slow and the treats be crunchy.

PS: Just before posting, I accidentally bit the Missus 3 times.  In my defence, they left me alone for 14 hours yesterday!!  I needed to play and I really didn’t care if the Missus was too exhausted.  You can’t leave me alone and then not play when you get home!

Izzie, Toilet Paper & Short People

This is a rant.  Because I’m feeling ranty.

Apparently, I’m not allowed to bite! It’s a stupid rule and I am resisting the orchestrated suppression of my biting rights as a Feline. What did they think I was?! A sock puppet?! Cats bite! And it’s not my fault if they didn’t do their research. It’s not as though I bite them all the time, either – 3 to 4 times a day, max. I get excited when we play “There’s a Monster Under the Covers on the Bed!” and when I get excited I can’t help myself – it just happens!  It’s not like I plan it.  Stop being sissies! But instead of getting tough, they decide to stop playing “There’s a Monster Under the Covers on the Bed!” altogether. Where’s the logic in that?! How can I learn not to bite if I can’t play any biting games to learn from?

Continue reading “Izzie, Toilet Paper & Short People”

Did you just rev up my toothbrush?

My second attempt at finding an Adorable Life-Mate was a huge success. I have to give all the credit to him though, because I certainly tried his patience.  It’s not easy trying to find a new mate when your boobs are drooping, the threat of a double chin has become a reality and you need Sherpas to carry all the baggage you lugged out of your marriage.  He persisted though and I finally accepted that there wasn’t a porn addict or a rapist in the closet and he wasn’t after what little money I had (I evidentally watched too many Investigation Discovery programs like Homicide Hunter or Who the #$%* did I Marry?).

Continue reading “Did you just rev up my toothbrush?”