Tag: playing

The Viking’s Stabby Sport

When it comes to recreational activities, I choose them carefully, based entirely on the potential for humiliation or injury.  And in the age of smart phones with good cameras, my humiliation won’t be limited to just a few lucky by-standers but could be posted to Youtube before I get finished dusting my pants off.

So, when The Viking first mentioned how much he enjoyed playing Darts I was, understandably, alarmed.  Playing Darts involves stabby things and that’s never a good idea for me.  You would think The Viking would know this by now – we’ve already established that I shouldn’t play with fire, automatic weapons, or knives.  As much as I would love to Fence, we all know that I would fumble the Foil and fall on it in a weird kind of Japanese ritual OR fumble the Foil and accidentally stab an observer.  It’s just in everyone’s best interest to keep stabby things out of my hands.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that a Viking would like a Stabby Sport because it’s kind of in their genes, along with boating activities and looting churches.  To be fair though, I haven’t heard of any recent looting or even pillaging, so everyone should stay calm.

Anyway, The Viking hung up a Dart Board, gave me a Gin and Tonic*, handed me the stabby things and said, “Let’s play!”  Obviously, his enthusiasm for the sport over-rode his better judgment.

Of the first 6 Darts I threw, 3 missed the board and stabbed the wall, I dropped one which nearly impaled my right foot, one bounced off the cabinet and almost stabbed the cat, one stabbed my left boob and one hit the Bullseye.

I gave The Viking a look.

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Truth be told, it went better than I anticipated.  By the time we closed the cabinet there were only 6 stab holes in the wall, the cats were happily unstabbed, and the wound to my Jugular Vein was only superficial.

It’s still a good idea to have the First Aid Kit handy though, in case The Viking wants a rematch.

 

*What the fuck?!  The potential for a catastrophic event triples as soon as you give me booze.

Sex Hair

If you are faint of heart, you may want to stop reading now.  Hmmm….maybe I shouldn’t have said that because there is a real possibility that you might be ‘faint of heart’ but also have a cat’s curiosity, so now you can’t stop reading.  If that’s the case, please accept my advanced apologies in case you won’t be in any state to accept the apologies at the end.

The Viking and I have sex every Sexday because…well….because.  The point isn’t about the sex itself but what comes after the sex, so rest assured we won’t be getting too specific about that.

Except that one time, with the English Tween Author, who I thought was just going to give me a New Year’s Kiss but 4.6 seconds in I was on the floor wedged between the coffee table and the sofa hollering “Geezuz Cripes!!”  22 seconds later he was sitting on the sofa smoking a cigarette and asking if I’d like a glass of wine.  He was like a Sex Ninja or something and I wasn’t entirely certain whether I had actually participated or not.  I suppose I should have been flattered at his apparent enthusiasm but to be honest I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to appreciate it.  All the way home I kept thinking “It’s not the size of the army, it’s the speed of the attack” and then laughing so hard I was snorting.

I digress.  What I really wanted to talk about was my hair.  Specifically, my hair and what happens to it during sex.

Not that hair!  The hair on my head!  Geez!  I’m trying to be delicate here!

I’ve always been extremely talented at Sex Hair but it wasn’t until this past Sexday that I truly understood the vast artistry of my ability.  As I wandered past a mirror on my way to the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of myself.

Me:  Viking!  Come here!  You have to see this!

The Viking:  Ooooooo…..that’s impressive!

Me (twirling around):  I know!  I think it’s my best one yet – it’s sort of reminiscent of a Turkey’s Ass.

The Viking:  Yes.  Now that you mention it, it does look a lot like a Turkey’s Ass.

Me:  I should get an award for this.

The Viking:  I’m not sure this is your best one though.  I kind of liked the Llama Long Hair.

Me:  That one was truly terrible, wasn’t it?

The Viking:  Yes.  And don’t forget the Holy Hell Monkey one either.

Me (laughing):  I still can’t believe that my baby-fine hair could stick up like that!

Sometimes I can guess what motion caused the hair – like the head tossing from side to side while hollering ‘Yes!’ over and over again.  Other times I haven’t got a clue what I was doing that could possibly create the end product on my head.

Did a hurricane sweep through the bedroom without us noticing?

Maybe a bat got in and I was too distracted to be freaked out?

I tried keeping a picture diary of my Sex Hair Creations but my talent is, obviously, not taking pictures.  Instead I trolled the internet to find comparable animal facsimiles.  Surprisingly, some animals are pretty good at Sex Hair.

If I had a choice, I probably wouldn’t have choosen Sex Hair as my major talent.  I would have picked something like painting or rally car driving or tap dancing but I wasn’t given the choice.  I’m not sure who I should complain to either.  My parents?  How would that conversation go?

“Why is my only talent Sex Hair?”

“You should have stayed in band.  I hear Clarinet players can make decent money nowadays.”

So, there it is in a nutshell.  I have a talent but only The Viking gets to admire my work and I haven’t figured out how to make any money doing it.  Unless I can convince Kate Middleton to ditch the hats and go for better hairdos.

I’ll send her a letter.

 

 

 

Two Cats, One Week – A Review

Hello!  Come in!  We don’t have to huddle in my bedroom this week and can have our coffee at the kitchen table like normal people do.  Muffin?

First things first, we finally settled on a name for poor Kent: Teddy Bear. Because he’s quite literally a fuzzy, sweet Teddy Bear and since he’s already a year old I can’t see him outgrowing it. He looks bigger than Izzie but that’s because his fur is ridiculously fuzzy. It’s like he’s wearing Chinchilla pajamas.  There’s no other way to describe the way his fur feels. So, while he looks bigger than Izzie, she actually weighs more.

Mim approved of the name, The Viking liked it and, best of all, Kent came running when we called the name.  So, ‘Teddy’ it is.

The first couple of days were….well….hair raising. The profanities and curses were completely out of control. I had no idea cats could be so precise, eloquent and long-winded in their opinions and the blizzards of slapping were, to be honest, appalling.

But that was then and this is now and the situation has calmed down significantly. Izzie has transformed from Indignant, Profane, Furious Feline to Resigned, Defeated, Slightly Confused and Excited Feline.

And while the household has eased back to normalcy, there have been complaints.

“Something is playing with my toys. Make it go away.”

“A turd was on my Castle and now it has The Stank.”

“You touched it and now you have The Stank.”

“A very large hairball is in my tunnels and I like it not!”

“It touched my tail! My TAIL!”

“The Turd put a turd in my litter box! I can never use it again. Ever!”

“The Hairball ate all of my food and now I’m starving to death.”

On several occasions she didn’t bother with complaining at all but took matters into her own paws.

Me: Is that some of Teddy’s fur between your toes?

Izzie: Maybe.

Me: Stop slapping him! He just wants to be your friend!

Izzie: ……

For his part, Teddy is just happy to be here but he’s not above disturbing shit.

“Hey Izzie!  Look! I’m sitting on your precious Mama!”

“Oh! Oh! I’m touching your castle!! “

“YooHoo! I’m in your tunnel! Ha HA!”

“Are you going to finish that? No? Perfect! I’m still hungry.”

And it turns out that Teddy isn’t too nice after all and is quite capable of defending himself, as evidenced by a few well-placed slaps of his own.  However, as the week progressed, the slaps lost momentum until now it’s more poking than slapping.

They are experimenting with chasing each other at the moment but there seems to be some tricky negotiating going on. Apparently Teddy got too close for comfort once……“Whoa!  That’s my Lady Parts, Buster!  Back off!”…….and then Izzie was just a little too enthusiastic for Teddy’s taste…….Holy Shit!  It’s just a game!  Dial it back, Sister!”…... so there is a flurry of shouting, cursing and name calling.  Playing has never been so complicated. A short burst of Spontaneous Patty Cake went surprisingly well though.  I call it a win.

And then, there was ‘The Incident’. While Izzie was taking a nap on my keyboard, Teddy figured out how to get on top of the fridge and invaded her Secret Place To Sleep. He settled himself comfortably and then called:

“Izzzzie! I’m in your BE-ed! It’s so nice I think I’ll sleep here forrrrr-evvvvver.”

Izzie launched herself off the desk and onto the window sill, behind the curtains and then a big jump onto the fridge. Every bone, sinew and muscle was ready for battle. Except Teddy wasn’t easy to push around anymore and he was settling in for a good, long nap.

 

 

 

Which necessitated another complaint.

“Mom, we need to talk about Hairry. He has to go. Seriously. He has taken over my bed and now I won’t be able to sleep ever again.”

Obviously, I had better get another bed. Pronto.

They are greeting each other with nose touches and Ring A Round The Sofa is a success. Teddy has taken to The Viking and The Viking has taken to Teddy. It’s a Bromance. Just two guys hanging out, watching TV. In the meantime, Izzie curls up with me, just a couple of girls hanging out, making fun of the two guys hanging out and watching TV.

I am cautiously optimistic at this point.  Izzie is learning how to give Love Eyes that don’t look like she’ll kill me in my sleep and Teddy has learned that a collar isn’t the end of life as he knew it.  The only problem left then is that our desks simply aren’t big enough……

Perhaps The Queen of Mean has met her match.

PS:  The cover photo isn’t mine – I found it on the Internet.  All other photos are actually Izzie & Teddy.

 

How My Boobs Won Crib

Yeah! Coffee time! Come on in for some Tim Hortons brew and a doughnut. What’s not to like about that? I hope you had a good week. I can actually say that mine was pretty darned good, too.

Last weekend The Viking made me dinner. I love it when he cooks; it’s always delicious and I feel spoiled. After dinner we decided to do something really wacky and play Crib instead of sitting in front of the TV.

The thing about playing any game with The Viking is that he always wins. Always. We are talking about a guy who can roll 8 Yahtzees in one game. Granted, it’s selective winning because he’s shit at the Lottery, but when there is nothing more than my pride at stake, he wins. I don’t play Strip Poker with him unless the heat is turned up because I’m the only one sitting there naked. I dress in several layers for any game beginning with the word ‘Strip’ so the game will last longer than 5 rounds, too.

So, when The Viking suggested Crib and not Naked Crib, I was willing and completely prepared to lose. I promised myself to be a good loser and not throw anything at him. Instead, I would focus on chatting and enjoying my Parfait Amour while being trashed on the Crib board.

But this time it was different. Sure, I was leading after the first couple of hands but that means nothing. The Viking is one of those guys that lures you in so he can trounce you when you think you’ve got the game in the bag. I had to admit though that I was doing very well and the space between our pegs was increasing with every hand.

He moaned when I was half way around the board and a good twenty points ahead. I said, “Stop complaining, you’ll come from behind and win as usual”. That’s just how the universe works. Just when you think you’ve got him, Odin steps in and ruins everything.

I was starting to pay attention now though. Could Odin be busy? Was I on the verge of achieving the impossible? Not only was I far ahead but he was becoming concerned that he might not make it over the Skunk line. A bubble of excitement formed in my stomach, battling the certainty of failure for space.

Don’t get all giddy yet; this is exactly what he wants. He’s playing with you. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch and all that. Manage your thoughts so your disappointment isn’t too keen when he does charge from behind and win the final peg hole. Remember he did that last time you played. He beat you 5 games in a row!

Try to distract him!

So I said: “I bought these new bras and they are super comfortable but they don’t have a lot of support. See?” And I bounced in my chair a little bit and my boobs started jiggling at him. It worked! He was mesmerized! So I kept bouncing while I pegged my points (not an easy feat). I lost his focus for a moment when he pegged his miserable 4 points but I bounced harder and higher and that seemed to get him thinking less about his cards.

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He was still quite a distance from the Skunk line; he would need to get a 20 point hand if he had any hope of avoiding the dreaded Skunking. When I picked up my hand I felt the thrill of triumph! He can’t catch me! I’ve won! I’ve beaten The Viking! Sweet Geezus I’ve pulled it off!! I will never complain about my boobs again! All that remained to be seen was whether he could make it over the Skunk line.

AND HE DIDN’T!! I’VE SKUNKED THE VIKING!!

I tried to be gracious while I was doing the Strutting Turkey Winners Dance. “It was just a bit of bad luck. You have killer Crib skills. Don’t let it get you down! Ha! Ha! Ha!” I couldn’t help myself. This was unprecedented.

He played it cool though; pretending it didn’t bother him. He shrugged, “I don’t give a fuck if you won. Will you stop dancing and deal the cards? Please?”

I sat down and shuffled the cards. “You’ll beat me this time. I’m sure of it.”

He grunted, “Whatever. Deal already.”

And I really believed he would beat me. I really did. You don’t just beat The Viking at something and then not expect him to annihilate you the first chance he gets. I thought I’d be lucky to be simply Skunked and not Double Skunked.

Unfortunately for The Viking, Odin really wasn’t paying him any mind at all. Maybe he’s a Boob Man, too. Who knows? The first few hands were sort of even – he was ahead of me at one point. I was encouraging and helpful all the way; I didn’t even laugh. But I won again! Not by a lot, but I still won, and if we had played another round he most certainly would have gotten me. But he had Jet Ski Races to watch and I was spared.

I did have a word with the Gods explaining that I really wasn’t being a poor winner, I was just celebrating a rare win. Like David celebrated victory over Goliath. Or, more appropriately considering which Gods I was bargaining with, how Thor would celebrate a battle victory. And wouldn’t Thor use every asset at his command to win? Well, I have boobs and if they’ll help me win a damned card game once in a while I will definitely use them.

I think we’re good.

PS:  I probably will still complain about my boobs.  I’m not infallible.

PPS: A big thank you to Part Time Monster for the weekly Coffee Share.

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!