Tag: relationships

First Aid Kits and a Missed Opportunity

I’m so glad you came for coffee. Have a seat. Yeah, it’s gross, right? Sure I’ll tell you how it happened.

On the third day of our vacation I banged my right foot on the Seadoo trailer. Considering we were at a very busy gas station I thought I did well to keep my wails and curses from all but the closest people. The Viking was as sympathetic as always.

“What the fuck did you do now?” There wasn’t a hint of concern in his voice.

“I banged my foot!  And there’s blood!”

A loving person would stop fueling and check my injuries but he opted for the ‘fuelling is more important than you are’ approach. I was left to poke at my toe – the main victim in the accident – and wonder if I could die from blood loss. There were two (2!) fairly big cuts after all. What if a major artery was nicked? Do big toes have major arteries?

Disappointingly, the blood started clotting – too soon in my opinion. I was hoping for a small puddle of blood congealing around my foot; surely he would spare a little sympathy for that.

“I’m done. You can go get the change.” He called as he finished up.

You see?! Zero sympathy! If he cut his toe in 2 places and there was blood I would definitely have sympathy.

“Fine!” I said as I hobbled back to the cashier. “If I die from blood loss before I get back, you are totally to blame. Make sure you tell the kids that!” Unfortunately, I didn’t die so there was no accountability and he just got away with severe indifference.  There is no justice in this world.

When we got back to the trailer I tried making my toe more noticeable. I called attention to a cat toy and pointed to it with my red, bleeding toe. He looked at the toy and completely ignored my toe which annoyed me.

I take care of everyone! You got a cold? Here, let me get you some Neo-Citran and a warm blanket. Does your back hurt? Let me get you some muscle cream and the heating pad. You need a ride? Let me drop what I’m doing and help you out. Feeling sad today? Come here and I’ll baby you with a fuzzy blanket, a cup of tea and Netflix.

But WHO BABY’S (BABIES) ME?! I get a cold and I have to go to the store myself to buy some meds, come home and make my own damned Neo-Citran and find my own damned blanket. When I’m sad? Pfft. My back hurts? I go find my own pills and keep going.

I’ve been taking care of people for over 30 years now. Yet I can count on one finger how many times someone has told me to sit down and handed me a warm blanket while they fixed me a cup of Neo-Citran. So when I bang my damned toe and it bleeds and it hurts like hell……someone had better give me some fucking attention! How hard can it be?

“Oh Honey! That looks nasty! I bet it hurt. Let me get some disinfectant and antibiotic cream. Would you like a cup of tea? A warm blanket? Can I tuck you into bed?”

See? Not hard at all!

Finally, I poked one of the cuts until it started bleeding again and said, “It’s bleeding again. And my beautiful neon pink toe polish with the lovely white flower is ruined.” Then I lifted my foot so it was inches from his face. “Does it look infected to you?”

“No. I think it’s fine if you quit fucking with it.”

“I don’t think it’s fine and it feels like it’s getting infected!” Of course it was fine and would heal nicely if I just quit fucking with it, but I was fully invested by now and there was no going back.

“So what do you want me to do?” The Viking was annoyed. For some reason Facebook was more important than the gangrene growing on my toe!

So I went to the bathroom and got a bottle of peroxide and a cotton ball. “You could disinfect it.”

I saw the question in his eyes.  Why can’t you do it yourself?  Maybe he read something in my eyes because he sighed heavily then rummaged around in a cupboard to produce an enormous First Aid Kit. I said, “Holy Shit!”

He opened it up; it had everything you would expect a well-stocked emergency room would have. It was almost as big as the First Aid Kit in the garage at home, and only slightly bigger than the First Aid Kit he had in the house. And then I remembered there is another one in one of the Seadoos and one in my car as well.

The Viking has been stockpiling First Aid Kits! Why would he think he needs a Trauma Kit around us at all times?

And that took the wind right out of my sails. Sonofabitch! I hate it when this kind of thing happens. So he actually does care…………but not in the way I recognize care and when I finally do recognize his brand of care I have to accept it and forget about the kind of care I really wanted because I’m a fucking adult! No cup of tea, no warm blanket and no getting tucked into bed with a kiss on my forehead.

FUCK!

What I got instead was a disinfectant swab made of cardboard banged repeatedly on the cuts until I said it didn’t feel infected anymore, a swipe of antibiotic cream and the joy of putting the First Aid Kit away.

2 weeks later it became apparent that an ugly dark purple splotch was taking over my toe nail. It’s now living proof that I should have been coddled and an opportunity was missed.  But…..we have 5 industrial sized First Aid kits which proves The Viking loves me.  I guess.

And that’s how my toe got gross.

Naps, a Slap Chop & I May Have Been Wrong

You know when you have one of those moments when everything you thought you knew turns out to be completely wrong? Like you find out that Karen is actually Sharon and you’ve been calling her the wrong name for 3 months? Well, I had one of those moments on Sunday.

Since our return from Vacation, The Viking and I have been exhausted. We are just barely hanging in there, waiting for Day Light Savings to kick in on the 6th. So, when Saturday rolled around, I went for a nap and it was the loveliest nap I’ve ever taken!

There was a moment though when a terrible banging was going on in the kitchen. At first I thought maybe The Viking wasn’t happy about my napping and he was being Passive Aggressive. This wasn’t a vague, barely audible banging, this was a deafening, shake-the-house kind of banging. I was too tired to really care at that moment, and while most times I would have charged out of the bedroom, wild-eyed, bellowing “What the fuck was that noise?!”, this time I just waited until it stopped and then fell into a warm, dreamless cocoon.

Once I was awake enough…..

Me: What was all that banging earlier?

The Viking: I didn’t hear any banging.

Me: That’s impossible. It shook the whole house.

The Viking: Seriously. I didn’t hear any banging.

Me: It was you! You were out here banging something like you weren’t happy that I was taking a nap!

The Viking: I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have an issue with you having a nap. You can do whatever the fuck you want.

Me: So you weren’t banging just to ruin my nap?

The Viking: No. That would be childish.

And here’s where everything went sideways.

Me: Then I would like to have naps like that every day!

The Viking: Only on the weekends. Week days are for working, not napping.

Me (indignant): Of course only on the weekends! You don’t need to suggest that I don’t know enough not to nap on work days!

The Viking: I just wanted to be clear.

Me: What if I’m sick?

The Viking: Well, of course if you’re sick…..

Me (shrugging): I just wanted to make sure I understood the Fine Print.

The Viking: Ok……….Mim.

An explosion happened in my head. Actually….several explosions. My face must have gone slack with shock because The Viking started laughing. “You didn’t think of that, did you?”

No. I didn’t.  But that sounded exactly like something Mim would say.  I’ll bet she has actually said that to me at some point.  I always thought Mim was like her father.  Could I have possibly gotten this wrong for twenty…..how old is she again?…..2016 minus 1989 equals…..where the fuck is the calculator?!…..TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS?! Is she really twenty-seven years old?! That makes me…..

Focus. Age is for another time.

I start scrolling back in time, flashes of memories examined through this new filter.

Fuck!

I did get it wrong. There’s no other explanation.

Double Fuck!

Of course that’s what I would have done if my mother had taken my Beanie Babies away (except I grew up in a corporal punishment world and never had anything worth taking away). And that’s why she sucked at math! And that’s why she doesn’t have the grace of a gazelle. And that’s why she hates turnips and sauerkraut! And that’s why she has trouble with clocks!

Well, I can’t tell her any of this. I can’t admit that I got it all wrong….for 27 fucking years! Right now I have plausible deniability. If she suspected…..well….there would probably be a Turkey Dance and some “I told you so”s. She probably knows the exact number of times I told her she was just like her father. Of course there is a whole conversation here that Freud would have loved but I’m not going to get into it. The fact remains that since The Viking gave me permission to just be me, all my weirdness looks exactly like Mim’s weirdness.

Triple Fuck!

So, how do I contain this? I know I won’t tell her because….well….I’m the Mom and Moms are always right! Right? But when The Viking has a couple of drinks he gets all honest and sincere and will spill the beans. I need to explain to him the catastrophic effects of Mim finding out that her Mom might have been wrong about something fundamental to her childhood. She might have considered the possibility but a confirmation would completely change the dynamic, undermine the entire child/parent principle.

The Viking is the weak link here. This may call for the application of a Headlock again. I don’t condone violence so it will be a gentle Headlock, more like a caress really, but he tends to listen closer when there is nothing to distract him. Well, there is the problem of my boobs but a thick sweater and a tight sports bra will camouflage them enough to get the job done. And I should try to catch him off guard, like when he’s putting on his socks or in the shower.

The Viking: Why are you looking at me like that?

Me: What? Um. Nothing. So why were you banging so loud if not to annoy me out of a nap?

The Viking: I wasn’t banging.

Me: Yes, you were.

The Viking: Maybe it was Junior.

Me: IT WASN’T JUNIOR!! It was you! In the kitchen! The neighbors must have heard it!

The Viking: I think you dreamed it.

Me: I didn’t dream it! It sounded like you were banging two pots together.

The Viking: Ohhhhh. I was using the Slap Chop to cut up the onions.

Me: You do remember that we have that small electric chopper don’t you? No banging required.

The Viking: It’s not the same.

Me: Of course it’s not the same. It’s quiet.

The Viking: Whatever.

I made a mental note to make that Headlock/Caress just a fraction harder. When I catch him off guard.

Divorce, Sex and a Pub Fight

How long does it take for a repressed, depressed, anally retentive, ultra-sensitive, terrified, divorced woman to become normal? 10 years. Well, 9 years and 4 months for sure but I’ll be positive and give myself an extra 9 months to get the job done.

I’m not going to tell a long, sad tale of abuse; a lot of people have those. Too many people have those. What I will tell you about is that moment when I was feeling like shit because I had just had my gall bladder removed. I was lying on the sofa, sort of whacked out with drugs, listening to the husband holler because he had to warm up a bowl of soup for me. When he handed it to me I looked in his face and it hit me.

On the day I die, I don’t want this man to be anywhere near me.

Death is such a personal thing. It’s intimate and heart-breaking. It is vulnerability and hopelessness and fear. And a man that can’t bring me a fucking bowl of soup after major surgery doesn’t deserve to be there at the end of my damned life. Especially that guy who has been coddled for more than 2 decades by yours truly.

I went to see the Psychologist who had saved me from myself several years earlier. I asked him if I was making the right decision because once you’ve had depression you learn that sometimes your emotions lie and you can’t always trust them. I told him I didn’t want to end a 23 year marriage because of fucked up reasoning and emotions. It took him 32 minutes to say that my logic and emotions were just fine and he wasn’t sure why I had come to see him to begin with.  I needed to be sure though.

Having embraced the idea that I would rather die alone and homeless than be married any longer, I moved on. I found a lawyer. I bought a condo and a car and found a job I loved. Dissolving a marriage doesn’t transform one overnight; it doesn’t quiet fear and it doesn’t make one care-free. There’s baggage. And I carried all the baggage alone. I was worried about the kids and my future and money and because that’s just what I do. I had determination though and I was bloody well going to learn to love life and love myself, even if it killed me.

I met an English, childrens book writer. He was….well…..English. He was also the second man I ever had sex with. And he was the first guy who’s approach was “It’s not the size of the army but the fury of the attack!” I went for a glass of wine and ended up on my back on the floor with an impressive rug rash. I thought of my childhood dog that used to hump my stuffed tiger the whole length of the basement. I drove home slightly stunned and wondered if all Englishmen are so enthusiastic and if so it’s a wonder the entire world doesn’t speak with an English accent. I didn’t see him often; he wasn’t looking for a relationship, just very fast sex. When he found someone else for speed screwing he asked if we could remain friends. I said we never were friends so why would I want to be his friend now? I figured he kept women as friends so when he hit a dry spell he could always call up a friend who had a spare 5 minutes.

I met a couple other guys but none were of note. And then I met The Viking and fell in love with his mantra of “Who gives a fuck?” before I actually loved him. He won me over with things like:

“I was an asshole! You should have just said so instead of having hurt feelings for 6 weeks.”

“Who cares if you farted?!”

“I filled your car up with gas.”

“Why in the fuck would you spend your money on lingerie when I just have to waste time getting it off?!”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s burnt. I’ll eat it anyway!”

“It’s just a sex store! Everyone has sex! There’s nothing to be shy about!” and “Yes, he’s creepy but we’re only buying the dildo from him, not inviting him to join us.”

“I’m going to make supper for you.”

“How could I not love you? You drive a manual transmission car and it’s not a piece of shit Ford!”

He introduced me to his friends in Denmark and I learned about loyalty and who has your back. It came in a pub where a guy called me Canada and kept touching my ass and brushing (accidentally) against my boobs. I thought I might have to punch him but if I got into a fight then The Viking would be in a fight and if The Viking was in a fight then his best friend would be in a fight and if the best friend was in a fight then the best friend’s giant of a son would be in a fight and then the whole pub would be in a fight……so I decided to maneuver closer to the corner away from Mr. Too Friendly.

Over the course of 9 years and 4 months I’ve changed a lot. I’m not afraid anymore. I can let things go. I don’t hold a grudge for more than a day or two. It hasn’t been easy and sometimes I thought I’d never make it but it seems that as good as The Viking was for me, I was just as good for him.

There is a school of thought out there that no wo/man is complete without a partner, that alone s/he is only half of what s/he could be. The right partner brings the balance and harmony that is required to be whole. Despite being married I was alone and, to be fair, so was my husband.

Now, together, The Viking and I have been transformed into one viable, complete human being.  But just one. I could never be so impertinent as to suggest that we could possibly be two complete humans. He curses too much for that. And yells.  And throws things.  While I drop things.  And fall over things.  And get lost.

So as long as I don’t curse and he never drops things we qualify as one whole person.  Which is all we ever wanted to begin with.

Transformation

Telepathy, Shit and Leonardo Da Vinci

When I first met The Viking just over 9 years ago I didn’t have high hopes that we’d end up in a long-term relationship. At first blush we didn’t have much in common. He’s a guy’s guy while I am a girly girl who has man hands and, among other things, big feet. However, according to him he started falling in love with me when he saw my car had a manual transmission. That’s as good a foundation for a long-lasting relationship as any other. Right?

When I moved in with him I brought all my shit from my condo. And my shit wasn’t shit because I had collected it over the 4 years since I had left my husband. It was shit that made me happy, shit that made me smile every time I saw it.  It was shit that reminded me to take care of my soul and to find joy every where I happen to be. The Viking’s household shit though was mostly shit. Wal-Mart shit. Shit that a guy’s guy would buy to serve a function regardless of sex appeal. But his shit was his shit and my shit was my shit and we squared off in front of our respective piles of shit to decide what shit to keep and what shit to trash.

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