Viking – Page 4 – Mrs. Completely

Coffee, Wedgies and Nipple Flicking

Come in! Coffee is ready.

OH! Watch the kitten…..she bites! I know she’s absolutely adorable but she’s like a rose with extra thorns. And it’s probably not a good idea to sit on that particular chair because she uses it as a launch pad to get to the window or as an aid to change directions in a flat out race. You’ll feel like you’ve been molested by the time you leave.

Okay. You’ve been warned. :o)

So, I decided that I just don’t get enough fun time during an ordinary day. I haven’t pulled The Viking’s pants down in the garage for eons or given him a Wedgie either. I think it’s because he doesn’t react; he just stands there putting that carburetor together without missing a beat while his pants are around his ankles. Honestly, I’ve gotten bored with his lack of reaction and gone in the house. I did wonder once if I should just pull his pants up again for him but then I thought “No way! What little fun I did get out of Pantsing him would be obliterated!” I think he’s being Passive Aggressive or something. One time he cooked a whole pound of bacon and fried 4 eggs with his pants around his ankles.

No. I’m not kidding you. I stood beside the table the entire time and he never pulled up his pants. I think I even asked, “Aren’t you going to pull up your pants?” and he said, “What the fuck for? You’ll just pull them down again.” Which was probably true.

The one time I actually did get a reaction was when I started flapping his left nipple when we were reading in bed. I kept reading but my finger was flicking the nipple at approximately 6 flicks per second. He didn’t do anything! So I moved it up to about 8 flicks per second. Still nothing! Finally, at about 15 flicks per second he said, “What the fuck are you doing?” I’m not sure what kind of reaction I was hoping for but that wasn’t even close! Maybe mutual nipple flicking? I don’t know but after a while I got bored and stopped flicking it.

Exactly! That would have been a load of fun! There would be laughing and giggling and finger flicking…..it would have been awesome! Instead, it’s a bloody shame. Sometimes, when I’m walking past him, I’ll give one of his nipples a half-hearted flick but I’m beyond expecting a reaction anymore.

And then, night before last, we had a conversation:

I said to The Viking: You know what we’ve never done? Wrestle. We should wrestle.

He said: No.

Me: Why not?

Him: I don’t want to hurt you.

Me: What kind of wrestling do you think I’m talking about? Optimus Prime vs. Megatron?

Him: Someone always gets hurt wrestling.

Me: Not always! When it’s love-wrestling no one gets hurt and maybe it’ll end up in something else entirely.

Him: No.

Me: Come on! You’ve never chased me around the bed before either.

Him: Why would I chase you around the bed? That just wastes a lot of time and we don’t need that shit!

Me: Well….not a lot of time because the bedroom isn’t that big. And now that I’m thinking about, it we can’t run around the bed so we’d have to crawl over the bed. That would make it the slowest chase in recorded history – like getting run over by a steam roller. And there would be a significant risk of me getting a boob caught under my knee. Fine! You don’t have to chase me around the bed.

Him: Pfft!

Me: That doesn’t excuse the lack of love-wrestling going on in this house.

Him: I’m not fucking wrestling with you. You’ll get hurt! I’m only trying to protect you!

Me: …..

Him: …..

Me: You’re one of those people who are ‘in it to win it’, aren’t you!

Him: …..

Me: You always have to win, don’t you?!

Him: Oh for fucksakes!

Me: You always have to have the last word too.

Him: I do not.

Me: Yes you do.

Him: I do not.

Me: See? The last word.

Him: FOR FUCKSAKES!! I’m going to read!

Me (calling after him as he stomps down the hallway): Last word!!

So, I guess wrestling is off the table. I’m down to prank phone calls now. When I go shopping and he’s all alone to answer the phones I’ll call and ask if Mike Hunt is there. He’ll probably recognize my voice though. Sigh.

OH! Let me get you a Bandaid. And some Peroxide. I told you she bites. I’ve been buying Bandaids in bulk since we got her.

I’m so glad you dropped by. I’ve missed you terribly. We have to get better at staying in touch.

Culture, Throwing Axes and Tradition

It can be no surprise that a woman born and raised in Canada and a man raised in Denmark may have a few culture clashes. Sometimes they are just little discussions and other times they are nothing less than Shield Walls, Throwing Axes and shouted Curses. And, as you may suspect, The Viking is better at shouting curses than I am. He’s also the one who taught me every single thing I know about the Danes.

Here is a list of things that are affected by our cultural differences:

Food

Especially pork because Canadians have absolutely no idea how to cut up a pig, apparently. Also Pickled Herring, Thin brown cardboard called Rye Bread, Red Cabbage, Licorice Liqueur/Shooters/Candy and anything Cheese.

Me: What do you mean we don’t eat Turkey?! Everybody eats Turkey!

The Viking: I fucking hate Turkey. In Denmark we eat Pork Roast, Duck, Caramel Potatoes, Plain Potato chips and a side of Pickled Red Cabbage.

Me: Caramel Potatoes? That sounds horrible! You are supposed to eat Mashed Potatoes with Pork Roast! Duh!

The Viking: That’s bullshit. You never, ever, ever, ever serve Mashed Potatoes with Pork Roast. They are merely boiled – not Mashed. It’s fucking tradition!

Me: So when do I get Turkey and Stuffing and Mashed Potatoes and Corn Casserole and Sweet Potatoes and Pumpkin Pie?!

The Viking totally ignoring me: On New’s Year Eve we will have a Julefrokost.

Me: Not Turkey again?! Fuck!! Easter? What do Danes eat for Easter? Let me guess…..Pork Roast again? Ham? Thanksgiving? Nevermind, I’ll just guess.

Gifts

They don’t give gifts to each other, I guess. Gifts are a symptom of over-commercialization and spoils the true meaning of Christmas which is to watch Nisseman (Elves) on TV and then feed them a bowl of rice, boiled to a stew-like state with one almond in it; the first Nisseman that chokes to death on the almond wins a small toy. At least that’s what I think it’s all about. I find it all confusing.

Me: What?! No gifts? Where’s the fun in that?!

The Viking: It’s bullshit! You spend all your money buying junk for people who don’t even appreciate it and then you spend the next six months trying to pay it off.

Me: Not everyone does that. I’ll admit that some people do that but I don’t.

The Viking: If you want something go buy it yourself! I bought you a Dryer last month and that’s your Christmas gift!

Me: But I want to give you gifts. I would rather give one than receive one anyway.

The Viking: Not good for the fucking wallet, now is it!

Me: Sigh.

Walls

They must be painted white. Always white. Actually, everything has to be white. Kitchen cabinets, tables & chairs, carpets, dishes and flooring. Except the ceiling which is wood that has been white-washed.

Me: Why is everything so white?

The Viking: Because it’s usually overcast through the winters in Denmark and white brightens things up.

Me: What about the summer? Don’t they get blinded by the glare when it’s sunny? Don’t they lose all depth perception like people with snow blindness?

The Viking: It looks neat and clean.

Me: A lovely caramel color on the walls would look bright and neat and clean, too.

The Viking: Caramel is for Potatoes.

Me: Sigh.

Beds

They don’t share bedding. Ever. Each person has their own Duvet which they wrap themselves in to sleep. When they get up in the morning, they fold their Duvet lengthwise and lay it on the mattress.

Me: But that’s UGLY!

The Viking: Who’s going to see it?

Me: Someone might see it if they walk all the way down the hallway.

The Viking: …..

Me: Well, I would see it! It should be a beautiful room not something that would look comfortable as a University dorm room! It should be a place that exudes love!

The Viking: I don’t need a fucking room to remind me that I love you!

Me: Ack!! It’s not about that! Well it is about that but it’s also about an intimate and inviting environment, Dammit! Nothing ruins the mood for me faster than Frat Boy Décor!

The Viking: Fuck’s sake! It doesn’t look that bad!

Me: YES IT DOES! It looks awful! I want to stop and admire what a beautiful bedroom we have instead of looking away from the ugliness, shielding my eyes with my hands so I don’t get an accidental freak peek. I have to walk into the room backwards so I don’t have to look at the horribleness! Gawd!!!

Christmas Decorating

They cut out paper Nisseman and paste them all over the house. The tree is decorated with crafty woven paper heart-shaped pockets and filled with candy…..licorice, no doubt. The tree skirt is burlap. Yes, you read that right, burlap. They put real candles on the tree, light them up and then dance around it singing Christmas Carols.

Me: Wait. I can’t put all the decorations I’ve been carefully collecting for the past 25 years on the tree?

The Viking: Your decorations aren’t even Christmasy. You can put a couple on but then we should put traditional Christmas Balls and paper heart pockets on it. Mostly paper heart pockets.

Me: So I have to make these things?

The Viking: You can buy little kits with pre-cut paper at the Danish Store.

Me: So I have to make these things?

The Viking: I can help you.

Me: Do I have to fill it with Licorice or can I put something delicious in them?

The Viking: You can put whatever the fuck you want in them.

Me: I have to cut out all these Nissemen? What if I cut myself? I’ve never had to do arts and crafts that could kill me for Christmas before. Why can’t they be perforated or something to make it less Arthritis-y?

The Viking: I can help you.

Me: Somehow I doubt that. And I have to put a crudely stamped, burlap tree skirt around the tree instead of my beautiful iridescent, gold-beaded skirt?

The Viking: What does your skirt have to do with Christmas?

Me: It is embroidered with golden Christmas Trees! What makes your Burlap skirt Christmasy aside from the stamped Candle on it?!

The Viking: It’s TRADITIONAL!! Fucksakes!!

Me: There is no way our arms will reach around this tree so we can dance around it singing carols. And, by the way, that’s probably a dangerous thing for me to do. One slip of the foot and the whole house could burn down.

The Viking: We can skip that part. But we should have candles.

Me: Isn’t that a fire hazard? A passing Fireman could look in the window and see the live candles burning next to the tinder dry branches! He might think he needs to save us so breaks the window and starts throwing snow on the tree! Wait! What if it’s a brown Christmas like last year?! He might have to PEE on the TREE! I’m not cleaning that up!

The Viking: For fucksakes! We only light the candles while we are singing carols and then we blow them out!

Me: Fair warning: I only know the dirty version of the Twelve Days of Christmas.

The Viking: Sigh.

hansisland_png_653x0_q80_crop-smart — Hans Island

Thankfully, The Viking and I are reasonable people and I’m pretty sure I can convince him to let me have Turkey, Stuffing, Mashed Potatoes, Corn Casserole, Sweet Potatoes and Pumpkin Pie sometime in the next 5 years. After all, if the Danes and the Canadians can leave each other whiskey on a deserted but contested island for over 30 years, I should be able to have turkey.

Canadians and Danes leave each other whiskey gifts on Hans Island

PS: Once again, I learned every single thing I know about Danes from The Viking. Address all complaints to him. Thank you.

PPS: I actually love our Julefrokost! It’s just him and me but we get smashed on Akvavit and share our love and laughter and it’s amazing.

Spayed and Betrayed! Yes, There’s Coffee

Whispers…

Come in, come in, come in! Did anyone see you? Were you followed? Are you sure?

Phew! That’s a load off my mind, my friend, because I’ve had a hellish week. Here’s some coffee – I’ll explain later. We can’t lay in the sun today either. Come along, my blanket is behind the sofa. It’s actually quite cozy.

Oh yum! I forgot how good coffee is and, to be honest, Salmon juice just doesn’t cut it as a morning beverage.

So……my week started great – just like every other week – but on Tuesday The Missus started acting a little funny. She was all sweet and cuddly and attentive. The Viking was even better! He was ‘tut tutting’ me all the time and coo-ing. I thought “Finally!! I’ve finally trained you people how to serve me properly!!” But it was a ruse! I was tricked!

They took me to the Vet and the people there shaved my belly, cut me open, took some stuff out and sewed me back together. See?! My beautiful belly is ugly now! It turns out they took away my right to decide if I want a bushel of kittens or not! I don’t know what having a bushel of kittens would be like but that’s not the point! The point is that they took away my right to decide. And that’s nothing compared to what they did next.

Whispers….

They put a microchip between my shoulder blades. They can track me now. Big Brother, The Overlord, The Borg…..they’re watching me. They know where I am all the time!

No, I don’t have a tin hat! Gawd!! You’re a terrible friend sometimes. I don’t know why I even put up with you. This isn’t a conspiracy theory like the Siamese twins down the street who think their owner is an alien. This is serious and all too real!

I overheard the Vet and The Missus talking. Apparently ‘AVID’ is the name of Big Brother and he can tell exactly where I am, any time, day or night. Millions of pets are being tracked! Well, not the cat I saw pooping in my neighbor’s flower bed because I’m pretty sure they would have eliminated him by now if he was microchipped.

Oh my Gawd!! I just realized…….that’s what “Animal Control” is!! It’s The Overlord’s minions trapping pets that have gone rogue. They could come for me any time. There are posters all over the neighborhood about missing cats – The Missus thought it was some cantankerous old guy with a cat trap but I’d be willing to bet a whole can of food that it’s The Overlord.

Well, how should I know what he wants with all those cats! I don’t know everything – just most things. What’s important right now is to come up with a strategy to minimize my exposure to Big Brother. As long as I stay in the house The Viking will protect me.

Well, of course he can protect me. He’s a Viking! That’s what they do…..when they aren’t pillaging and berserking.

And to be honest, today is the first day that I’ve felt good enough to contemplate the ramifications of my microchip. Thursday I could only sit in the sun or fall asleep. Yesterday I wasn’t as spaced out but my belly hurt really bad. Today, I am quite a bit better.

And while The Viking and The Missus were still feeling sorry for me this morning, I managed to pilfer coffee, sugar and a touch of cream.

You’re welcome. They caught on to me fairly quickly though when they saw me trying to sneak away with the Treat Bag. Hence no treats to have with your coffee. I’m only one cat after all.

Watch your back, my friend. Big Brother is watching me and I can only assume they will target my friends and associates. You may be scooped up one day…….

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.

Toilet Paper, a Swiss Army Knife and a Massacre

Saturday was Viking Days at the Danish Canadian Museum. The Viking and I were…..well, not giddy exactly….but pretty excited. We’ve never attended a Viking Massacre before. Now that I think about it though, perhaps The Viking didn’t think this whole plan through because maybe I shouldn’t be trusted with knowledge involving massacre-ing Vikings. I’m only human, after all, and not always in a good mood. But…..too late now! It’s not like I can un-learn it.

We stuffed the Goldwing with a blanket, Swiss Army Knife, food, water, sandals, a sweater each, next of kin notification in a fire-proof box, driver’s licenses, bear spray, antacids, matches in a water proof/fire proof container, Tylenol, first aid kit, night vision goggles, extra earphones, a jerry can full of gas, a machete, compass, toilet paper, bug spray and The Viking’s contribution – an extra set of helmets (Don’t even ask because I can’t explain it).

I was in charge of what to pack while The Viking was in charge of complaining about what I wanted to pack.

I shouldn’t have to explain this every single time we want to go somewhere but apparently I do. Things happen when you leave home:

We could be hit by a car because the driver was texting 911 as he was having a heart attack.
An abnormally large insect could smash through the windshield of the bike, through the mask on his helmet and lodge itself in his left eye causing us to careen out of control, over an embankment and blow up in a fiery explosion. Admittedly, Polysporin probably wouldn’t be much help in this instance but maybe we would survive and then it would come in handy.
One of the Vikings could go rogue and we’d be forced to fight for our lives with our bare hands until we could steal a battle axe and then we would have to flee into the woods and maybe get lost and have to spend the night huddled together for warmth under a tree.
One of us could get heartburn from our picnic lunch.
There could be an earthquake and we might be cut off from civilization for whole minutes where my cell phone won’t work and we’ll have to make a fire to send smoke signals to the kids that we’re okay and that we will find them one day soon.
My earphones may stop working which would be a disaster because all I will be able to listen to is muffled wind or worse…..The Viking’s choice of music. Shudder.
We could run out of gas on one of those range roads and suddenly the movie ‘Deliverance’ could happen and we’d have to slog our way through steamy swamps to escape.
One of us may need to pee/poo while we’re on one of those range roads and squatting in the ditch behind a shrub might become necessary and we’ll hope this doesn’t coincide with the scenario above because that would be really embarrassing.
We could be attacked by a bear while we are stopped for a drink so we have to stand and fight it to the death. Or hit it with bear spray.
What if we’re motorcycle-jacked and have to track the culprits down and take our revenge?
What if your tipping maneuver going around corners does what physics says it should do and we slide and I’m spit out by centrifugal force to land in a stranger’s car? I should probably pack a box of chocolates or something to say thanks for the great catch.
What if we break down and have to catch a ride in the back of a truck hauling 3 pigs and a goat? I should pack a big jug of Febreez.

The possibilities for catastrophe are infinite! The Viking might swear and grouch but if something ever did happen he’d be like “You are the best woman ever! So smart! Thank Gawd I have you or I’d be fucked! I’m so sorry for yelling at you. Can you ever forgive me?” Or something like that.

So, loaded up and dressed in my best facsimile of Biker Gear, we headed out. We met Mim and Darb part way, who then proceeded to make The Viking and I feel stupid by pointing out that Mim has a GPS on her phone and doesn’t need the 18 pages of directions we printed at home. Fuck.

We had to take one gravel road which is never fun on a motorcycle and it’s even less fun when you are following a vehicle. By the time we hit pavement again we looked like those sand creatures from Star Wars. Why didn’t I think to bring our Shark Vacuum?! I should have known we might need to vacuum ourselves off! Instead, we had to spend 5 minutes smacking the shit out of each other to get most of the dust out of our clothes.

The weather was beautiful at the Museum and crowds were already gathering for the big Massacre. We found a great vantage point on a grassy knoll and sat down to wait for blood and gore.

Soon, a big guy decked out in chainmail, helmet, shield and sword strode into the impromptu arena and started declaring himself the best warrior ever. And then another guy came out and declared the first guy was ‘Full of Shit’ and a fight ensued where the second guy died and the ‘full of shit’ guy proved he actually wasn’t ‘full of shit’. A woman came out and declared that she was a Shield Maiden and would kick his warrior ass but instead, promptly died. Booooooo! Boooooo!!

Another 4 guys came out trying to prove the first guy was ‘full of shit’ but they all died too which left no one for him to kill. The crowd shouted ‘MEAD’! and all the dead people came back to life so the first guy could kill them all over again. By then he was just being a bully.

The violence ended when an army of children arrived, armed with short pool noodles and massacred every Viking on the field. The crowd shouted ‘MEADE’! again and all the dead people came back to life so they could be massacred all over again. The death and violence was awesome and it was great to see all the kids dressed up for massacre-ing with their little helmets and shields. Good wholesome fun! I wish my parents had taken me massacre-ing when I was young. I would probably be a much better Viking now.

There were some very good artisans set up and we enjoyed browsing. The Viking bought me a beautiful set of amber ear rings (I hope we don’t get robbed on our way back to the bike because I left the machete in the side bag) and we found out where we can buy free-range pigs. That in itself was worth the admission fee.

The trip home was uneventful except for the Iced Maple Cappuccino we stopped for in Olds, which turned out not to be an event but delicious anyway. So we didn’t need the machete for sure. Or the night vision goggles and the water proof matches.

I’m sure that the next time we want to go somewhere The Viking will cite this one trip as evidence that we don’t need such things as Machetes or Night Vision Goggles. But he’s not in charge of what we pack. I am. He’s only in charge of The Complaints Department and the Putting It All In The Vehicle Department.

Because that’s what he’s good at.

If You Suddenly Smell Flowers……

I never thought I would need to write about this but it’s become a very big issue lately. It’s so big, in fact, that I’ve resorted to carrying a can of Air Freshener and a large fan.

When our bathroom was renovated The Viking wisely found the largest, fastest, smell-suckingest fan on the market. It’s like a jet engine; it spools up with a whine as it reaches its full rpms and our hair gets pulled toward the ceiling. This is a small house with only one bathroom and the fan plays an important role in our marital happiness.

Ordinarily, it’s The Viking who needs the fan most. We eat the same things but his body does something with food that my body doesn’t. He’s very good about closing the door and turning on the fan but every once in a while I’m concerned Cadaver Dogs will come calling.

Full Disclosure: I will admit to one evening 3 months ago when something happened in my digestive tract. I sat in the livingroom, watching a movie, silently leaking noxious odors and covertly looking at The Viking to see if he could smell what I could smell. And every time, he just continued to watch TV like everything was fine. I was having difficulty keeping a straight face because I couldn’t remember a time when I leaked anything that smelly and because smelly farts are just funny. Particularly to the Farter. And the fact that my eyes were watering made it even funnier!

The weird thing is that I was farting in an almost constant stream but 3 out of 4 of those farts were completely innocent, non-smelly, quiet gusts of wind. However, at one point Izzie woke from her nap in my lap, gave me a nasty look and stomped over to the trunk in front of the window to continue her nap. And still The Viking said nothing. The fucking cat, that plays in her own litter box, couldn’t stand the smell but The Viking could?!

Finally, after at least an hour of toxic emissions:

Me: “Oh come on! Can you not smell this!?”

The Viking: Yes.

Me: So why haven’t you left the room?! Or told me to leave the room?

The Viking: It’s a good movie.

Me: You are willing…..sucking breath in…..to inhale…..Bahahaha!…….noxious fumes so……I can’t breath!……you don’t have to……..wipes tears from eyes……pause the movie? Didn’t you see…….wiping more tears from eyes……the Cat?!

The Viking: It’s just farts! It’s not like you shit on the sofa! And yes, I did see the cat and I almost laughed out loud. I wanted to know how long you would keep this up without saying anything.

I was laughing so hard I peed my pants a little bit. Not once in the past hour did he wave a hand in front of his face or try to blow the stink away. He did attend a boarding school though so I can only assume his odor detectors are fried.

Aside from that one and only time, I emit flowery fragrances. If you’re in our house and you suddenly smell flowers – it’s me. I did that. It’s a gift.

The Viking usually gives a loud courtesy horn that an odor may be seeping into the room and I really appreciate it. If it’s a bad one, he says, “Phew! Sorry, Babe!” and I run. I once walked into the garage to give him a message and it was like walking into a very large and very stinky wall. I shouted the message from 6 feet away.

Izzie isn’t quite as polite. Day before yesterday, she was in her Cat Castle, ostensibly sleeping, but about every 15 minutes or so a horrible smell floated past my desk while I was trying to work. I waved my hand under my nose and gave her a filthy look but she was smiling. Payback I assume.

Izzie has also discovered that she loves water, so anytime anyone – especially The Viking – goes into the bathroom she streaks in behind them before they get the door closed. She’s hoping the water in the sink will accidentally be left on so she can do the Hokey Pokey and shake water all around. The real trouble is when The Viking is done with his deposit because it takes him extra time to get Izzie out of the room. That extra time means extra smell seepage and greater spreadage and there is a limit to what the Jet Fan can do.

And then Junior showed up last night. We chatted for a little while then he needed to pee. But he didn’t pee! He pooed! And he didn’t turn the fan on either! After he left I needed to pee. I opened the door to the bathroom and immediately fainted. Holy Shit!! What in the hell is that guy eating?! Due to his fried odor detectors, The Viking braved his way to the fan switch and grabbed the air freshener. It took the combined efforts of both of us to tame that Stink.

We’ve considered putting in a second bathroom – a Poop Room – but we’d have to give up a closet and we don’t have enough of them in the first place. Maybe I should just get one of those nose thingys that Synchronized Swimmers have. They look like they could keep out smells but that would make me a ‘mouth-breather’ and I couldn’t handle the stigma involved.

But look what I did find! I could stuff the beak full of flowers and other nice smelling things. FYI, these are not my pictures. I found them by Googling “beaked masks”.

And also, Fart Patches for underwear. I wouldn’t have to wear a Beaked Mask at all if people – and certain cats – were responsible Farters! It might be uncomfortable to remove the patch from Izzie’s rear end though – for both of us.

And on this note I’ll bid you ‘farewell, see you again’ because I’ve had 3 cups of coffee and I need to pee. The Viking made his deposit an hour ago so I think the stink should be gone!

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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The Faint of Heart and Beserkerville

We survived. Barely.

Curses were shouted, tears were spilled, hair was pulled, fingers were pointed and doors were slammed. And slammed again just for effect.

I knew going in that the big office move was not for the faint of heart. If you are at all sensitive, if your skin is not 12 layers thick, if words ending in ‘it’ or ‘uck’ or ‘ucker’ or ‘ard’ offend you….our house was definitely not the place to be last weekend. On the plus side, there haven’t been any flaming bags of dog shit on our front step so I’m going to assume that the neighbors didn’t hear the worst of the gong show. OR…maybe we’ve managed to immunize them over the past few years. Either way I should probably take gift baskets to the closest ones.

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Bruised Boobs, Neon Socks and Herman Munster Shoes

I stuck earphones in my ears and then encased my head in foam, rubber and hard plastic yesterday. It was so tight that every little bit of fat, muscle and skin on my head was pushed up toward my eyes and nose and made me look like a Shar Pei. Yup, we went for a ride on the old motorcycle. I pushed as much of my face as possible back into the helmet so I could at least see, but cheeks being cheeks, they weren’t overly cooperative.

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I Need a Battle Axe

Sometimes the ugly comes out in The Viking and it’s not pleasant AT ALL! It’s so ugly I want to bury his battle axe in his back. And to make matters worse, his weapon is the fucking cat! I think he crouches out in the kitchen giggling to himself as Izzie goes to work.

It starts with a single claw picking at my pillow. That bloody sound tears through the interesting half sleep dream I’m having. Pick. Pick. Pick. Pick!

“Stop IT!” I growl and blindly swing my arm around. Was that a Hee-Hee from the kitchen?

In quick succession: pick pick pick. “STOP IT!” I swing an arm again.

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Tag: Viking

Coffee, Wedgies and Nipple Flicking

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