Tag: Viking

She’s Naked. Again.

I was semi-happily catching up on paperwork Friday afternoon when Izzie popped through the cat door and started bellowing at me. Seriously. She shouts everything. Unless she’s apologizing and then it’s little croaks, but mostly, she bellows.

“Hey, Izzie. How’s it going?” I have to acknowledge her arrival, or she doesn’t stop.

Shouting.

I bent down to give her a little love and discovered that she was naked. “Where is your collar?!”

More shouts.

“It’s brand new! And it was beautiful! All those sparkly rhinestones!”

More shouting.

“Stop shouting already! Gawd!”

She launched herself into my chest-ular area and gave me the stink eye.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the one who lost your collar.” I said, as I was scratching her under her chin. “I suppose I need to go look for it?” Sigh.

I went out to the garage to tell The Viking that Izzie was naked and to keep a look out for her collar. His response was classic. “AGAIN?!”

I nodded and Izzie shouted.

I took a look around but there was no sign of her collar. Someone would return it though. They always do. Everyone within a 3-block radius knows Izzie and where to go to get an apology.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang. “Hello?”

“I’m at your back door and I have Izzie’s collar.” Izzie’s boyfriend. The guy that has been on a year-long crusade to steal Izzie’s affections from The Viking.

Weird. Why didn’t he just ring the doorbell or knock like a normal person? He was literally standing right in front of the door. When I opened it, he shoved Izzie’s collar at me. “I almost had to go to the hospital after I tried to put that collar back on her.” He sounded annoyed.

“Awww…did you bleed?”

“Yes!”

“Well, thank you for bringing the collar home. Apologies for your bleeding.” Izzie is sitting innocently beside me watching her boyfriend’s outrage.

It was difficult to feel any sympathy for this ballsy homewrecker. It’s not like she hasn’t slapped him before, because she has. Many, many times because it’s been a journey*. I suppose he just got cocky when she took a few treats from his hand like he had won the popularity contest. A contest that he bragged about winning directly to The Viking’s face. He obviously over-played his hand and now had the audacity to come to our door, all annoyed because he just realized that the joke was on him.

“She was crawling on my quad and must have caught her collar.”

I couldn’t help myself. Honestly. I tried to be gracious. For a full two seconds. But he had bragged to The Viking’s face, and that can’t go unanswered.

“That’s not what Izzie said. She’s been shouting and name-calling since she got home. It’s almost like she’s blaming you for the loss of her collar.”

“WHAT?! Why would I take her collar?”

“Hey. Don’t get testy with me. You and her have some sort of dysfunctional relationship that involves peeping tommery and food. So, how would I know what you would or wouldn’t do?”

“That’s ridiculous. If I wanted her collar, why I would I bring it back?”

“Like I said, how would I know?”

“She spends every afternoon with me, you know.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

“She usually lets me pet her and eats treats out of my hand.”

I shrugged, still not sympathetic. “Yes, well, she’s notoriously fickle. I’ve spoken to her about it, but it’s like she doesn’t care. Besides, you should consider yourself lucky that she hasn’t stolen your vehicle or a major appliance.”

“Well, I brought back her collar.” He started walking away, unimpressed.

“Thank you for your trouble.”

Suddenly, he turned around. “Just out of curiosity, does she cuddle with you?”

I laughed. “Yes! A lot more than I would like sometimes.”

“She doesn’t scratch or bite you?” Incredulous.

“Of course not. We’re family.” Just to show off, I scooped Izzie up, flipped her on her back in my arms, and started scratching her chin. She tipped her head toward Gregor and gave him a smile. She must not like his attitude.

I went to see The Viking in the garage. “Izzie slapped Gregor and there was blood.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “She did?”

“Uh, huh. And he was annoyed.”

The smile grew. “I feel so bad for him.”

And then we laughed and laughed and laughed.

We never should have doubted Izzie. It appears that her usual routine of crime has become boring and she needs to up her game. Emotional warfare is just the next logical step, I suppose.

*If you aren’t current with the boyfriend drama, click click here.

A Pain in My Ass and Shiver Me Timbers!

It’s going to be fast and dirty today because I have shit to do.

Last Saturday was supposed to be beautiful so The Viking pulled Goldwing out of the corner and got her running.  We decided to go in the exact opposite direction that we projected most other people were going to go and that meant we would go east.  Our destination?  Drumheller!

At first, we were enjoying the ride and the fresh air and getting out of the house, but then my Back decided to mutiny.  It started in my left ass cheek, but true to most mutinies, it spread – to my right ass cheek and down both legs.  Gawd!!  And guess who didn’t bring her super-duper pain meds to deal with this shit.

I started squirming around and stretching my legs to alleviate the pain but it didn’t help much and The Viking couldn’t find a place to pull over to give me a break.

When we stopped at the ‘Welcome to Drumheller’ sign, The Viking had to help me get off Goldwing.  After walking around and stretching a bit I felt much better which was a good thing because how would I get home, right?

And then we thought we could just grab a burger someplace in town but all we could find was an A&W and the line-up to get food was really, really long so we decided ‘fuck that, we didn’t want to eat here anyway!’ and started home where we had two delicious steaks waiting for us.

And then the wind suddenly arrived!  Holy!  Hell!  If I turned my head just a little, the wind would grab my helmet and nearly rip it off.  The Viking was having some difficulty holding on to Goldwing and at one point the wind grabbed us and pushed us to the very edge of the pavement and we both thought we were goners but The Viking roared in the face of Father Wind and saved us!

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The mutiny in my ass returned with such vengeance that it inspired Goldwing to mutiny too, and The Viking was forced to use his motivational shouting-cursing which encouraged her to get us home because who wants to disappoint a shouting-cursing Viking, right?

We both needed several drinks when we got home and I got drunk* and started telling The Viking how much I fucking love him and we almost got into a fight about who loves who the most.  I was drunk enough that I actually prompted him to give me more shots of Pernod which is totally not like me at all because I really hate salty licorice but I suppose this is one of the reasons he loves Drunk Lori so much.

Due to the outbreak of Drunkenness, The Viking had to manage supper on his own because I can’t be trusted with a BBQ when I’m drunk.  Or tongs.  He confiscates them immediately citing that time I pinched his ass with them.

The Viking did an admirable job making supper and I was so enthusiastic in my praise that he finally told me to shut up and eat.  He appreciated it though, I could tell.

I decided we should have sex because getting drunk does that to me which is just one more reason The Viking loves Drunken Lori so much, but the whole thing turned into a disaster despite our best efforts because…. well…. drunkenness.  To be honest though, I probably won’t learn a lesson from the experience.

And then we both fell asleep and woke up at midnight.  Like irresponsible teenagers who have no internal clock and can go back to sleep two hours later.  We were useless on Sunday.

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*Because I also needed some pain meds just to move.

 

 

Apocalypse Now?

I just got home from the grocery store and I have to say….it was a very civil experience.  I wasn’t expecting that.  I was expecting to be cursing and crying and desperately howling at the Gods to deliver me from the madness!  I thought I would be walking into a dystopian landscape of sirens and smoke and empty, blood-smeared shelves and SWAT Teams patrolling the hazy aisles.  I imagined traumatized families huddled in corners defending the last can of Ravioli with limp English Cucumbers and 4-day-old raisin scones*.

To be honest, I was a little disappointed in The Viking for letting me walk into such a horrific situation on my own.  Given what I was expecting I thought I was being brave as hell for suggesting that I should leave the safety of our house to find food.  Surely he wouldn’t let me face the apocalypse alone.  He’s a damned Viking!  Born and bred through 1200 years of natural selection in preparation for Ragnarök which, can be argued, has maybe just arrived.

But that’s exactly what he did – despite watching hundreds of videos online of people almost eating each other to get their hands on the last roll of toilet paper!  Maybe he thought I was just Bad Ass enough to handle it on my own but how he could arrive at that conclusion is a little baffling given that he won’t let me have a Flame Thrower for “safety reasons” but if ever I needed a Flame Thrower it would definitely be right now.

I lingered at the door for a moment.  “Okay…..well…..I’m leaving now.”  He waved a distracted hand at me without turning from the computer screen.  He was probably watching one of those bloody videos!

“Alone.”

“Uh huh.”

“Who knows what I’ll find out there.”

“Yup.”

“So……I don’t know if I’ll make it home……”

“Take your time.”

“No matter what happens……I’ll always love you.”  Heavy sigh.

“Okay.”  Waves again.

So, fine!  I went alone.  I thought the parking lot would be chaos, with cars idling willy-nilly, doors open, crying infants in car seats.  Horns honking and fists waving.  Maybe a handgun or a machete.  But, nope!  There was even a Handicap space for me!  Once inside, everything was business as usual!

There wasn’t a single white/red potato anywhere though – lucky I like Yams.  Plenty of bottled sparkling water – I can let the Brita gather dust for a while longer.  Meat department was well stocked – thank Gawd!  I thought I might have to look at a legume.

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There were tons of eggs.  The fridge display was full of dairy.  Of course, there was no toilet paper, but I’ve got enough for quite a while anyway.

There was one anomaly though – Men.  And there were two distinct groups of men.

  1. Young-ish men who have been in training for the past decade for the imminent Zombie Apocalypse. These guys were mostly alone so I can only guess that they were sent by their wives/girlfriends for a fun couple of hours of zombie-killing-adventure in which they would find, retrieve and bring home food.
  2. Old-ish men who accompanied every middle-aged/elderly woman, except me of course. Apparently, I wasn’t alone in my expectations of mayhem.  I’m pretty sure all these women were expecting to need some muscle for elbowing their way through a press of sweaty, angry people who may or may not want to rip your arm off for the last can of evaporated milk because the local news has been televising shocking videos.

I’m not sure how much help these old guys were going to provide because they certainly weren’t Vikings.** At least I didn’t think they were Vikings, they definitely weren’t very impressive, but who knows?  Maybe they were all old, retired Vikings hoping to intimidate with glares and gnarly teeth rather than resorting to throwing axes.  And it was very obvious that not a single one of them were in the store by choice.

On a side note:  My Ex was a perfectly healthy, robust male in his early 30s with lots of energy and stamina……until we walked into a store……any store that didn’t involve aircraft and all related items.  As soon as we walked in, his arches suddenly collapsed, and his back started to spasm and he felt nauseous and light-headed and thought he might faint at any moment.  He got heart palpitations and clawed at his shirt while he hyperventilated.  Pink Eye developed in both eyes.  Simultaneously.  He broke out in Hives and a fever.  He kept asking fellow shoppers if they smelled burnt toast and if that was a sign of an imminent stroke?  He clung to the side of the cart with white knuckles like he was about to fall off the 18th floor of Airplanes ‘R’ Us, forming the words ‘Help Me!’ to every other man he saw, extending a blistered arm in supplication for rescue.   The longer I took to acquire the things I needed, the closer he got to death.

I mention this now because many, many of the men in Safeway were exhibiting some of the same ailments the Ex complained about.  One even brought his own Oxygen tank!

Anyhoo, my point here is that people are a little jittery.  Uncertain.  Well, not The Viking, obviously, because he’ll send me out to face the hounds of hell on my own, but most people in the grocery store opted to face the suspected challenges in pairs, probably believing that two would stand a better chance of scoring a can of corn than one.

Of course, it was completely unnecessary as it turned out because everyone was wonderful and kind and thoughtful.  There wasn’t a single example of wrestling and cursing in either the parking lot or store.  I was kind of proud of my fellow Calgarians.  We seem to be at our best when the times are the worst.

And even though The Viking’s presence wasn’t technically needed, he didn’t know that for sure when I was leaving the house.  For all he knew, I could be walking into the Zombie Apocalypse without a Flame Thrower.  So……huge disappointment…………..and he may have to answer some hard questions when he shows up at the gates of Valhalla because I am totally telling on him.

 

*the only thing left in the bakery department because raisins are an under-appreciated food

**Unlike my husband who couldn’t be bothered to show up for Ragnarök, sending his wife instead which, I believe, is a serious violation of some kind of Valhalla Code or something isn’t it?

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!

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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!

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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.

Call the Paramedics! Again!

You may not remember, or maybe you do, but a couple of years ago I almost cut off my hand and The Viking tried to steal my well-deserved sympathy by comparing an ass-bruise with my almost severed hand.  He called it a paper cut, but that’s only because he wanted his ass-bruise to qualify as the most significant injury of the week, thereby rerouting my inalienable right for pampering to himself.

And this isn’t the only time he stole pampering rights.  I had an abscessed tooth that required intravenous antibiotics for 5 days.  He countered with swollen glands the following morning that put him in the hospital for over a week.  So, not only did I not get any pampering, I was running back and forth to the hospital to pamper him, dragging my antibiotic pump with me!

I’m mentioning it here because The Viking almost cut his finger off with a box cutter which created a moment of utter confusion because he literally reversed the Natural Injury/Disease Time Continuum.  He came running in the house drizzling blood and swearing profusely and time slowed down as my mind desperately tried to understand what was happening.  His fountain of blood can only happen if a fountain of blood has already erupted from me.  That’s how our shit works.  First me…..then him!  But I hadn’t seen any of my blood or felt any pain and my limbs were all present and accounted for which, logically, would mean I am uninjured.  But, if I’m uninjured and he is injured, something has gone terribly wrong in the Universe.

He fiddles around in the shop with things I can only assume are mechanically magical and now, in light of these events, my only reasonable conclusion is that he accidentally stepped out of the Mechanic Pentagram and unleashed a Demon.  Of course, when you fiddle with magic you know that eventually something unintended will happen, but I had thought/hoped it would involve less blood and more Robots.  Cooking and cleaning Robots to be exact.

Once Time returned to its normal progression, I ran for the gigantic first aid kit* while he drizzled blood into the kitchen sink.  I grabbed a roll of gauze and started wrapping it around his neck.  He said, “What the fuck are you doing?!”  And I said, “Installing a Tourniquet”.  Apparently, crisis humor isn’t appreciated in the middle of a crisis.

He started examining the cut more carefully.  “I think it went right to the bone.”

I said, “Oh my god!” and almost fainted.

Yes.  I almost fainted.  Meaning, he got hurt and I was pre-empting his injury.  He sat on a kitchen chair holding pressure on the cut while I sat on a kitchen chair with my head between my knees, sucking in air like a guppy out of water.  After a couple of minutes, I thought I was okay and sat up and almost passed out again!  It took me 20 fucking minutes to get a grip!  To add insult to injury – my injury, obviously – he was happily calling me “Pale Face” which is Danishy for “Pasty Face”.

We needed to get to the hospital, I knew that immediately.  The Viking disagreed.  We should wait and see if it would quit bleeding on its own.  I had wrapped some gauze around the middle finger fairly tight and I was a little concerned about leaving it on too long.  Two and a half hours later, it was still pumping out blood and would obviously need professional medical help.

Four and a half hours after that, the ER Doctor was impressed that The Viking had managed to cut his finger so deep that he severed the main blood vessel and yet hadn’t severed the nerve.  It took 5 stitches to sew his finger back together.

So, to recap:  The Viking reversed the Natural Injury/Disease Time Continuum and in so doing may or may not have created a demon in the shop but definitely didn’t create a Robot that could cook and clean.  Being so confused by the shifting of reality, I co-opted his pampering opportunity by almost fainting.  I finally got to use the Gigantic, Industrial-Sized First Aid Kit and it wasn’t on myself.  The Viking called me a name, I put a tourniquet around his neck and an ER Doctor was impressed with The Viking’s cutting talents.

And that’s how you get yourself an extra-long weekend on strict Doctor’s orders.  And also additional state-of-the-art medical supplies for the next attempted amputation.

 

*He bought the largest kit available because he assumed I would hack a limb off while cleaning Cauliflower one day and he wanted to be “prepared”.  I took a brief moment to remind him of that and to point out exactly who almost cut what off first.

Pudding Crypts for Cookies

When we adopted Izzie (the black succubus from Hell), and Teddy later (the feline equivalent of Joey Tribiani), The Viking did a shitload of research into the best cat food versus the best price.  After developing a complex algorithm, he decided on a brand and invaded the pet store to purchase it in bulk, both dry and canned.

For three years we’ve fed the Cats the same food and everything was fine.  Until it suddenly wasn’t.  They just stopped eating the canned food one day.  I don’t know why – it smelled fine, it looked fine, the ‘best before date’ was fine, it was FINE.  According to the Cats though, it was a toxic stew that we should be ashamed to call food.  So, The Viking went back to the complex algorithm, found the next best food and invaded the pet store again.

And guess what?  They love it!  They love it so much they’re willing to trample me to death to get to The Viking as he dishes it up.

However, we still had a couple cans of the old stuff.  Personally, I was willing to just get rid of it because it was apparent that neither Cat gave a thought to being fiscally responsible.  We discussed it and they were adamant: not a single speck of the old food would pass their lips for the rest of their lives!   But nothing annoys The Viking more than wastefulness*.

So he came up with a diabolical plan that is only slightly less diabolical (only because he didn’t do it to me) than my Mother’s diabolical plans.  She used to make delicious pudding when I was a kid and then hide old, dead cookies in the bottom of the bowl and we were forced to eat it because child abuse was not quite as frowned upon as it is these days.  And now The Viking took a page out of Mom’s diabolical book and mixed the toxic stew with the new food and presented it to the Cats like it wasn’t abusive at all.

I’d like to say that both Cats noticed immediately and refused to eat it.  But, nope!  They happily chowed that crap down and licked the bowls clean and I find that reprehensible.  It’s like they compromised without a thought.  Where’s their pride?  What happened to standards and expectations?  Don’t they know they have a responsibility to the rest of us?  When they give in to tyranny once, the overlords know they’ll do it again.  And if Cats will cave, then humans will cave, too, because everyone knows that Cats have an aversion to authority that surpasses even The Viking’s aversion to authority.  It is common knowledge that if you want to take over the world the plan begins with Cats and they’d better have good catnip toys.

What they’ve done is create a world of possibilities where any atrocity is possible.  They’ve shifted the current Space/Time Continuum and we now live in an entirely different place.  A place where Mom’s diabolical Pudding Crypts for Cookies is the norm and not considered the unimaginable horror that it is.

And I can’t just ignore who kicked off this current regime of terror – The Viking!  He has become the kind of person who will hide terrible food under delicious food.  He’s become a Monster!  If he’ll betray our cats, it’s only the smallest of steps to betraying me.  How can I trust any food he makes now?  Will I find Pickled Herring masquerading as a pork chop?  Fried Liver hiding under a lovely cream sauce?  Sauerkraut disguised as Spaghetti?  Curry Meatballs pretending to be any normal kind of meatball?

I’ve given this considerable thought and my only option now is to install HD video surveillance in the kitchen.  Yes, I could sit and monitor exactly what he does when he’s cooking, but he’ll bide his time until I need to pee, or the phone rings, or another Just Energy salesman rings the front doorbell, before he slips Kale into something.  I would rather be safe than sorry, so I’ll install a Viking Cam in the Drinking Horn on the sideboard.  And then I’ll squat like Golem in a dark closet with the monitor, watching every move he makes until I can bust his ass for Food Crimes Against Humanity.

The cats are on their own, though.  The little traitors deserve every gross thing The Viking hides in their bowl because they brought this on themselves.

 

*Slow drivers in the fast lane comes in a close 2nd.

A Viking Lawn Mowing Competition

So, this happened…..

The Viking handed me a list of parts he needed STAT!

Adrian, from Rocky Mountain Honda in Calgary, is the best Parts Man on the planet so I emailed him the following:

Hi Adrian,

 Our neighbour mowed our lawn on Monday and it freaked The Viking out because he’s the one that’s supposed to do the favours, not the other way around.  What followed was a frantic search for our mower only to find out it wouldn’t run.  How is he supposed to keep the neighbour from mowing our lawn again if his mower won’t work?  If he’s going to get into competitive lawn-mowing, he needs some parts.  Also, the neighbour has no idea what he started.  Who will do the next Mow first?!  I’m taking bets that it’s The Viking, but the neighbour is kind of tricky.  I wouldn’t put it past him to do a midnight Mow.  The Viking isn’t afraid of a little rain though, so he has that going for him.  I’m setting up a viewing stand in the front yard to watch the action.  Maybe with some score cards where I can hand out points for technique, speed and design.  I’ll need popcorn.

 Here’s what he’ll need to stay in the competition:

           List of parts needed

 The neighbour may or may not have fertilized our lawn when we weren’t looking so The Viking will want his mower in tip-top shape as soon as possible.  He’s doing calisthenics and stretching to get in shape and loading up on carbs for short bursts of energy.  I’m so excited! 

PS:  Can you put Nitrous* on a Mower? 

 Lori

And, because Adrian is such a good sport, this is what he replied:

Hi Lori,

All I can say is… I WANT in on this. It’s been a dream of mine to be part of a neighborly fun lawn cutting feud!

I’ll start with helping on parts!

 List of parts ordered.

 Oh and PS: We can’t do nitrous but we can do this…

Of course, I needed to reply:

Yes please!  Go ahead and order those parts.

Also, The Viking wants that Mower!!!  It’s gorgeous!  He’s positive he can take full points for speed with it.  And, I can’t stop laughing, imagining the neighbour’s face when he sees The Viking riding that mower.  With a horned helmet on his head!

And you are more than welcome to get in on the action.  How do you feel about heading up the Pit Crew?

I probably should have asked for specs on turning radius and G-forces but Adrian is a busy man.  I am hoping the exhaust spits fire and brimstone because ‘Go Big Or Go Home!’

UPDATE:  Adrian just got back to me, confirming the parts order and he had this to say:

Good Morning!

I have ordered them up! There is a full video by Honda on YouTube with that lawnmower…let’s say it’s not your average mower haha. However, knowing how he is…maybe don’t show him as he would end up building one…maybe that’s a good thing?  Pit Crew is under way!

A video?!  There were a couple videos actually, but my favorite is this one:

The Stig’s 130mph Lawnmower

And now I want that Mower as much as The Viking does!

 

 

*Nitrous, when injected into fuel intake, increases horsepower dramatically for a short period of time.  If you use it too often you’ll blow up the machine but, The Viking is a professional and knows what he’s doing.

Good Luck With That Prostate Exam

WARNING:  The views expressed in this blog do not necessarily reflect the blogger’s opinions or beliefs – we just find it funny. 

The Viking is a proud guy and he has every reason to be so.  He makes no compromises when it comes to things he does and believes in, has a soft squishy heart under all that cursing and shouting, and he comes from a long line of heathens.  He’s particularly proud of his heathen-ness and Danish-ness.

There is just one little thing – he’s half English……‘God Save the Queen, a stiff upper lip, adorable taxis and double-decker busses’ English.  It muddies his Danish bloodline and is the root cause of his every ailment…..in his opinion.  It doesn’t matter that every English person has a healthy dose of Viking & Saxon, it only matters that his hemorrhoids are English.

The reason I’m telling you this is because his Doctor is a lovely English lady who finds it charming that I accompany The Viking to every appointment so there aren’t any translation and diagnosis misunderstandings.  And the reason I’m telling you this is because The Viking had a Doctor’s appointment on Tuesday morning.

He needs a thorough health check-up and we wanted to talk to her about his heart murmur*.  He is 60 years old, after all, and one can’t be too careful given the amount of cursing and shouting he does.

The appointment was going great – his blood pressure was a little high, but he had been out of meds for a week or so, and she assured us that the problem Erik had with blocked arteries was an entirely different thing from The Viking’s heart murmur.  Then she started talking about cholesterol and that’s when the train jumped the rails and careened, out of control, into the Medical Clinic, taking out 1 patient, a receptionist, and 14 old magazines.

The Viking:  All my sisters and my brother have high cholesterol.  And they aren’t even fat.

Doctor:  Then you really need to start taking those meds I prescribed two years ago.

The Viking:  I started them a couple weeks ago.

Doctor:  Great!  Keep taking them.

The Viking:  It’s that shit English in me.  All my problems are because of my fucking English genes.

Doctor (slow blinks as she processes what he just said):  ….

Me (eyes widening and lips pulling back in a grimace):  ….

The Viking (staring at the floor):  ….

Doctor (looking at me):  …..

Me (looking at everything else in the room other than her):  ……

Doctor:  Okaaaay, let’s go get you weighed.

Later that day, The Viking comes in from the garage and grumbles about his knees hurting from kneeling on the cement to work on a snowmobile.

I collapse into a heap of laughter.  “Are your knees English, by chance?”

The Viking:  Yes!  Fucking shit English knees!

Me (tears have started rolling down my face):  You do realize that your Doctor is English?

The Viking:  I don’t care!

Personally, I think he hadn’t thought of that before the whole hot mess came out of his mouth but once he was in, he wasn’t going to back out. That’s his Danish stubborn-ness.

Me:  You also realize she’s the one that’s going to check your Prostate, don’t you?

The Viking:  Whatever.

The English half of his heritage is also responsible for his quick temper, foul language, buddha belly, sleep apnea, and bad back, but I’m hoping he won’t feel the need to explain this to his lovely Doctor.

And since I’ve known The Viking, his English genes have caught the flu 4 times, his English Appendix almost burst, his English neck glands became irritated and put him in the hospital for a week, his English finger got a really bad cut, his English heart has a murmur, and his English sinuses have caught 13 colds.

His Danish body parts are still going strong without the slightest complaint.  And that, my friends, is the single most important reason Denmark is the happiest place on earth.

*Since we ARE talking about The Viking, I will henceforth call it a Heart Shout.

The Vikings Are Coming!

Well, so much for sleep – I’m too excited.  Erik & Annette* will be here this afternoon, dragging suitcases bulging with Danish candy and Akvavit.  We’ve missed them so much there is a very distinct possibility of a spectacle in the Kiss and Cry.

They’ve come all the way from Denmark to help us celebrate The Viking’s descent into Grumpy Old Viking-hood.  He’s been practicing for several years now and I think he has it nailed, just in time for his 60th birthday.

For now, I need to finish getting the house cleaned and I’m expecting shouting and crying and a loss of the will to live.  You know – the usual emotions that precede just such events.

I feel several stiff drinks in the works later today and Hygge.  Lots and lots of hygge.

Go ahead and leave The Viking birthday wishes in the comments.  I’ll read them tomorrow at the party!

*Erik is The Viking’s brother and Annette is his beautiful partner.

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!