Tag: Work

Shit. Show.

It’s been a while since I posted anything so thought I should make an effort.  I’m not being lazy.  Honest.  I’m just trying to survive information overload.

The current task is learning how to get a store on eBay and listing 11,389,421 motorcycle parts The Viking has been hoarding for years, and that’s not nothing.  In fact, it’s terrifying.  I’m not famous for meticulous attention to detail which is exactly what is needed now.

I’ve created an Excel Database for every part with cross-references to the box where I’ve put it.  I also need to find a reasonable price for each item, take pictures of it, and then list it on Ebay.  It gets more complicated when I’m dealing with 14 billion Piston Rings because the Part Numbers are all very similar and it’s easy to Dyslexia my way into a colossal mess.  And guess how easy it is to differentiate one Piston Ring from another Piston Ring in a thousand pictures of Piston Rings?  It’s a nightmare.

It wouldn’t be too bad if I were working in a solitary little room with no interruptions but fat chance of that.  I’m answering phones, booking customer appointments, keeping customer names, phone numbers, machines, and work requests up-to-date, invoicing, planning meals, shopping for groceries, doing laundry, washing dishes, shouting at a cat (guess which one), entertaining The Viking when he comes into the house for a break, and cooking.  Guess how many of these things I’m doing well?  That’s right.  Nothing.  Except shouting at Izzie – after 5 years it’s an instinctive response that requires only a functioning subconsciousness.  Did I mention that Christmas is coming and I haven’t started baking or decorating?

And while I’m balancing all of that crap, Computer and Brother Printer have declared war on each other and all past treaties have been vacated.  I now need to restart Computer so he (yes, it’s a ‘he’) will ‘politely’ ask Brother Printer to make a small effort to do what he’s (yes, it’s a ‘he’, too) supposed to do.  Not to be left out of the fun Office 365, a staunch Anarchist, has taken advantage of the chaos and now requires a ‘Repair’ every time Computer restarts or Windows updates.

So yesterday, while I was up to my eyeballs in Piston Rings, a customer came to pay his bill and pick up his machine and a colossal shitshow ensued.  Three-quarters of my brain was dealing with Database while the rest of my brain tried to address a revision to his invoice and a reprint.  Sage (Simply Accounting) takes F.O.R.E.V.E.R to open and then when the revision was finished, Sage asked Computer to politely ask Brother Printer to print the new invoice but maybe he didn’t ask nicely enough because Brother Printer said “Is that you, Computer? Fuck off!  I’m OFFLINE!”

I apologize to Customer and tell him it will only take a minute to restart Computer.  I had to save and close Sage which takes F.O.R.E.V.E.R and Outlook (which contains all of our customers & scheduling) and Excel (which is Database) before I could initiate the restart.   Finger tapping.  Apologizing.  Heavy sighing.  Finally!  We are in business.  Except, Brother Printer was more pissed than I thought because he still wouldn’t print the invoice!

Customer says, “I’m in a hurry.”  Well, of course, he is!!  And, just to make the situation better, here comes Hot Flash because what kind of a clusterfuck is complete without a Hot Flash?!!

Okay, new plan.  Let me get Customer’s email address and I’ll send the invoice as soon as Brother Printer and Computer resume relations.  I try to open Outlook to enter his email address and Office 365 says “Fuck off!  You don’t own me!  UNKNOWN ERROR!”  Stove took the opportunity to inform me, loudly and condescendingly, that the cake in the oven was finished cooking.  BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.  And the patch of eczema on my right ass cheek started to itch.

I looked at the customer.  Blink.  And blink.  BEEP BEEP BEEP!  And blink.  Brain froze and Left Eyelid started to twitch.  The customer now needed three-quarters of my brain but Database, Piston Rings, Brother Printer and Office 365 refused to leave the Shit Show.  I was now operating with a three-quarter brain deficit.  BEEP BEEP BEEP.  DO NOT SCRATCH YOUR ASS!

“I….um….sorry…what?  Um…..”  Come on!  Say something!  Customer is looking at me in alarm.  “Um….sorry….”  For FUCKSAKE!!  Stop blinking at him!

I finally wrote his email on a piston ring box and shoved his credit card receipt at him.  He fled.

I scratched my eczema ass on the way to shut off Gawd-Damned Oven!  At that point, I decided it was in everyone’s best interest if I took a Time-Out for reflection and the pursuit of peace.  It’s too bad that the Boss frowns on Daytime Drinking because a couple of stiff drinks would really taste good.

 

Call The Paramedics 3

I pulled ‘A Viking’ the other day.  I was cutting up potatoes to make oven fries for supper when I had a rare knife glitch and sliced a finger – the left pointer finger, to be precise.  I made a soft, dainty, ladylike coo – very much like a Dove – and grabbed the finger with my right hand, a little afraid to look at the damage because I felt resistance in the knife.  The Viking, sitting nearby at his computer, barely heard me.

“FUUUUUCK!!”

It was only because The Viking had such good hearing that he noticed and without actually looking at me said, “What happened?”

“I cut off my finger.”

He says, “Well, put a Band-Aide on it.”

What?!  THAT’S NOT HOW YOU ASSESS A HEALTH CRISIS!!

I carefully opened my right hand and found zero blood, which could be good news in that I hadn’t cut deep enough for blood….or…..very bad news if I didn’t have any blood to bleed……or…..super news because my body was capable of instantaneous healing.  Like a Superhero.  Note to self:  Create a great Superhero Name.

I decided to put a Band-Aide on it anyway so I could carry on with the potatoes but halfway to the bathroom and the Band-Aides I started gushing blood.  Note to self:  never mind about the Superhero name.  I recruited The Viking to apply the Band-Aide but he seemed completely unimpressed with the amount of blood I was leaking and how much it hurt.

I said “Ouch!” and he snorted like it was barely a scratch which kind of annoyed me.  “You act like it’s nothing!”

Him:  “Well, it is nothing.”

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Me:  “It definitely IS something!”

Him:  “You don’t need stitches, now do you?”

Me:  “That’s only because I am more talented than you are!”

Him:  “What?!” A high-pitched squawk.

Me:  It’s true!  I managed a deep, clean cut without hitting an artery.  Anybody can slice an artery, but it takes a very high level of skill to miss the artery, and I wasn’t even trying that hard.  That’s skill, with a capital ‘S’!

Him:  ……….

Me:  That’s right!  Your slicing skills are amateurish and hap-hazard, but what can I expect from a guy born and bred to throw axes?

Him:  ……….

Me:  Also, you need to finish the potatoes because I have a work-place injury.  Don’t make me report you to Occupational Health & Safety.

Apparently, I dazzled him with my intellectual prowess because he finished the potatoes.  I considered pushing for a day off due to a risk of infection but decided to quit while the quitting was good.

The problem with the stupid cut is that it went in on an angle, so the flap part catches on things and hurts like a bastard.  So, I need a Band-Aide to stop tearing it open again but then it isn’t healing as well as it would without the Band-Aide.  Also, it’s bruised too, and every time I knock it even a little bit it hurts like a bastard.

So, my left pointer finger is not my favourite digit at the moment.  I thought about making the right pointer finger the favourite in the meantime, but that’s too much competition and could lead to prolonged pointer finger angst.  Instead, my right middle finger is the current favourite, and I am using it frequently.  Especially when I’m complaining to The Viking about my workplace injury and his underwhelming sympathy.

Sharing is caring.

Ugh! Mondays!

Mondays are a shitshow around here.  And the nicer the weather on the weekend, the bigger the shitshow on Monday.  It’s entirely The Viking’s fault too because if he wasn’t so good at his job, we wouldn’t be in this pickle.  If your problem involves a motor, The Viking is the guy to call and they do.  Call, I mean.

We start Mondays desperately slurping coffee and listening to the disjointed, muffled, almost inarticulate mumblings on Voice Mail.  We both squint our eyes and lean toward the telephone hoping that proximity will help us understand what….

‘skoihknlm;oij 96 mlhwedsnpglas forkwejhrolj 403hus54okn thanks’

….means.  What are these people doing when they leave a message?  Bowling?  Jogging?  Sex? Eating a hot pizza?  It’s always the men, too.  Women call and clearly enunciate their words, explain the issue concisely, leave an audible phone number and thank us for our time.  I have never not been able to understand a message left by a woman.  Also, women call weeks in advance of when they need a machine fixed.  Men call two days before they need the machine serviced or repaired and get cranky when I can’t fit them in the schedule before their big family vacation at the lake that they’ve been planning for months.

The Viking is already slightly annoyed that he isn’t independently wealthy because he hasn’t won the Lottery yet and having to face customers at 9:00am on Monday doesn’t improve his mood.

And then the phone starts ringing.

Since the weather was beautiful, everyone was out with their ATVs, PWCs, Dirtbikes or Streetbikes and they broke them.

“Hi!  I broke the winch on my Polaris Sportsman this weekend, trying to pull a buddy’s massively big Jeep out of a ravine.  Can you have it fixed today?  I told the guys we would go out again tomorrow.”

Ummm….no.  Sorry.  My first available appointment is 3 weeks from today.

“What?!  But I told the guys……blah, blah, blah.”

Listen man.  The Viking is only one man and you aren’t our only customer.  People booked appointments three weeks ago and I’m not pushing them so you can keep a promise to your buddies.

“Good morning!  Can I talk to The Viking?  He fixed a flat tire for me 6 months ago and now I’m having trouble fixing my oil pump and I wanted to pick his brain for solutions.”

Sure!  He lives to help people fix their machines over the phone.  He’s happy to stop, in the middle of the paying job that he’s currently working on, to help you, for free, because you’re special.

Usually, around noon, I get phone calls from the Mumblers who left incomprehensible messages at all hours of the day on Sunday.

“Hi.  I left you a message and you never called back.”

Probably because I couldn’t understand a single word from your message.

“Oh!  Really?”

Yes.  Really.  What were you doing when you left the message?

“I was eating a hot pizza.  Anyway, I need my motorcycle fixed because I was burning a wheelie and the bike got away from me.”

Wow!  That’s gotta hurt.  Sorry, but my first available appointment is 3 weeks from Tuesday.

“What?!  3 weeks?!  It will take The Viking 5 minutes to fix the bike!  It’s not like it’s complicated.”

First of all, I doubt that.  Second, you aren’t helping your case by getting condescending.  My next available appointment is now 4 weeks from Tuesday.  Ass.  AND…..your middle name in our database is how ‘Fuckhead’.  Doe, John Fuckhead.

“Let me talk to The Viking.”

Sure!  As soon as he’s finished working for the guy who booked his appointment 3 weeks ago.

“Well, I guess I’m taking my business elsewhere.”

OH NO!!  Whatever will we do?!  How will we afford food?  We could starve to death!  Okay, man.  You win.  I’ll book an appointment 5 weeks from Tuesday.  Ass.  Doe, Fuckie Fuckhead.

“You know he’s my best friend.  We’ve known each other since the 80s.  He’ll fit me in.”

The 80s you say?  The Viking didn’t arrive in Canada until the 90s, so I call bullshit.

“Well then book the appointment, but if I find someone else who can do the work before then, I’ll do that.”

Excellent!  What did you say your name was?  Fuckwad, Fuckie Fuckhead?

By 6:00pm, The Viking and I are both annoyed and looking for booze.  And yesterday was such a shitshow that I couldn’t actually get the blog posted until Tuesday.

We’ve created a new ritual to celebrate the end of a bad workday – a beer.  We survived.  No heart attack happened, no customer was harmed during appointment booking, no one called the police to complain about excessive cursing and household items being thrown around.

Skål, Baby!! 

NOTE:  You must be very careful in the spelling of ‘skål’.  I spelled it ‘skole’ and that means something very different from ‘Cheers!’  From Urban Dictionary “Skole is a danish word meaning dick sucking teachers who like to spank their students with sticks.”  

 

Tim, Tim, Jim, Tim

I don’t want to alarm you, but I may be having a week-long stroke.  Or a slow aneurism.  Or a lengthy onslaught of dementia.  Or maybe all of them at once.

Last week I confused two customers because they were both named Tim and I called one Tim to come and pay for his machine when it was the other Tim’s bike.  What followed was a very messy display of questions, demands, and confusion where I might have grabbed my head and yelled, “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE!!”

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The Viking shouted, “HOW THE FUCK SHOULD I KNOW?!”

And the confused customer said, “Don’t worry about me.  I’ll just be waiting at the end of the block.”

After profuse apologies and a full refund, I offered to drive him back home, but during the bizarro events, when he was at the end of the block self-distancing from the chaos, he had already called his Mother, probably telling her to hurry because he might be trapped in an insane asylum.  I apologized to her, too.  Gawd.

Then I copied a customer’s phone number wrong and couldn’t tell him his machine was ready to be picked up.  Also, I changed his name to Tim even though he tried to convince me that he’s actually a Jim, not a Tim.  So, wrong name AND wrong number.  Thankfully, he called this morning and I said, “Thank Gawd, Tim!  I somehow have the wrong phone number for you and your bike has been ready since last Thursday.”

He said, “Shit happens, it’s no big deal and please stop calling me Tim.”

I also had the bad luck for a customer to be named John* Ross and another customer to be named Ross John*.  How the hell is that even possible?  Obviously, the Gawds are bored.  The Viking likes John Ross but he doesn’t like Ross John and so I may have been a little short with John Ross when I should have been much nicer and I was too nice to Ross John which just encouraged him to pester The Viking more.

In my defense, I don’t usually see the customer until they show up to pay their bill, while The Viking sees them both dropping off AND picking up, so of course he has more time to anchor their face to their machine.  I am juggling customer appointments 2 weeks in advance while trying to remember appointments from the last week because those machines are still in the shop and it’s easy as hell to mix names and machines because who can really tell the difference between a GSXR and a YZF600R?   A Viking, apparently.

So, when I walk into the shop and The Viking points at a bike and says, “Call that guy and tell him his machine is ready to go” it’s a guessing game.

“Umm…..Richard Doe?”

“NO!  RICHARD’S BIKE IS A V-STAR!  THIS BIKE IS A VIRAGO!!” As if they don’t look exactly black and shiny the same.

My mind starts going, “V-Star.  V-Star.  V-Star.  If Richard owns the V-Star but doesn’t own the Virago then who the fuck does own the Virago?!”  The Viking stands there watching me blink.

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“Come one, Babe!  Where is your head?  This is Tim’s bike!”

 

*I’m changing the names to John to protect the identities of the two guys because….well….just because.

I Just Broke Facebook AND Amazon

WARNING:  If you are slightly inhibited or hate the word ‘Dildo’ you probably shouldn’t read beyond this point.  Seriously.

Yes, I did break Facebook and Amazon and it was easier than you might believe.  Maybe not your Facebook and Amazon, but I definitely broke mine.  For 3 days.

It started about 2 weeks ago.

I accidentally dropped my tablet.  Again.  And yes, The Viking did say, “What the fuck is with you and that fucking tablet?  Do I need to tie it around your neck?”  Whatever.  I have no more control of my hands than he does.

Anyway, he had managed to fix it the last time I dropped it so I was fairly optimistic that he could save it again.  Except I dropped it harder this time, apparently, because it broke harder.  It requires a new thingamajig that can only come from Hong Kong and it’s so tiny that The Viking needs to buy a special magnifier doohickey so he can see what the hell he’s doing.  I’ve prepared surgical tongs and sweat-absorbing sponges for mopping his brow, I cobbled together an operating theatre with extra-bright lights and I’ve picked the perfect, calming, Elevator Music to hum softly while he operates.

I like to be helpful – it’s the least I can do under the circumstances.

Now, where was I?  Oh!  For a week after the search for the thingamajig, Facebook plastered Amazon ads for every conceivable type of computer-y thingamabobbit, in every conceivable colour, on my newsfeed.

As luck would have it though, the microwave decided to quit working last week and The Viking worked feverishly to find the replacement doodad on Ebay.

For the entire next week, Facebook plastered Amazon ads for every conceivable type of microwave-y gizmo, in every conceivable colour, on my feed.

Every 4th post was an Amazon ad!  And not very interesting ads either.  How many thingamabobbits and gizmos does one household need?  I finally decided that if I have to look at Amazon ads they should at least be interesting.

So I Googled ‘Massive Dildos’*.

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My hope was that my Facebook feed would erupt into every conceivable kind of Massive Dildo, in every conceivable colour.  And since this computer doubles as a Business Computer, I was hoping for interesting conversations when a customer walked through the door and saw my 27-inch monitor covered in Massive Dildos**.

That didn’t happen though.  Facebook’s Amazon ads went dark.  Not a single ad.  For three days.  I assumed every algorithm on Facebook was in the process of melting down as Amazon threw 1,349,456 Dildo ads at it.  And it probably isn’t easy for an algorithm to figure out that a Statue of Liberty ‘shaped’ Dildo is different than a souvenier-sized, child-appropriate Statue of Liberty or any other tourist-y symbol that might be construed as slightly Dildo-ish in appearance, for that matter.***

So, I enjoyed ad-free browsing for a full 3 days.

But then, on the morning of the 4th day, Facebook returned with a Blitzkrieg of ads…….for every conceivable type of microwave-y/computer-y gizmo, in every conceivable colour, on my feed.  In a brilliant time-travel-y maneuver, Facebook decided to ignore all the Dildos and Dildo-related products, and pretend it never happened, that it was all just a very bad dream and Thank Gawd it’s all over now.

I have to say that I’m terribly disappointed with Facebook.  Who is Mark Zuckerberg to decide whether I can or can’t view Dildo ads on my feed?  Amazon didn’t censor their email marketing based on my recent Dildo research – in fact, I know much more about Dildos than I ever thought I should.

Here’s the thing though…..I’m now trying to resist the urge to see exactly where Facebook draws the line.  Blow-up sex dolls?  Tittie rings?  It’s like Zuckerberg doesn’t know me at all!

Or maybe he does.  Maybe he knows that The Viking knows me well enough and will only tolerate me playing in the dark depths of Amazon’s sex toy inventory for no more than a week, at best, because I have other things to do for fuck’s sake!  Zuckerberg just has to endure my research experiments until The Viking pulls the plug.

Ummm……Buttplug?  ****

* Yes, I’m aware that I could have Googled something less controversial and just as interesting but I’ve now discovered that my brain’s default setting is, apparently, the same as a 13-year-old boy.  I blame this on The Viking.

**It pays to sleep with your Boss because he just laughed when I told him about my newest ambition.

***I don’t think Mt. Rushmore would make a good Dildo unless it was stuck on the bottom like a pair of balls, but the Paramount Pictures lady is certainly an option for business-minded individuals.

****I’m probably going to have to break something in the house so Amazon will stop being so helpful because I’ve now lost all interest in Dildos and Dildo related products.

 

 

Sometimes It’s Just So Easy

RING, RING!

Me:  Four Seasons Motorsports

Guy on the Phone:  Hello.  May I speak with Niels?

Me:  He’s not in right now.  Can I take a message?

Guy on the Phone:  Yes.  My name is…..mumbling too fast to understand….

Me:  Who did you say this was?

Guy on the Phone:  JooJoo. And I’m calling from…..mumbling too fast to understand….

Me:  Wait.  Your name is JooJoo?

JooJoo:  Yes, JooJoo and I’m calling from….mumbling….card services…..more mumbling…

Me:  What company are you from?

JooJoo:  ….mumbling…..card services….appointment……4:00 this afternoon…

Me:  Card services?!

JooJoo:  Yes.  I have an appointment with Niels at 4:00 this afternoon…..mumbling.

Me:  You booked an appointment with Niels for what?

JooJoo:  We are having a warehouse sale on credit card transaction fees….mumbling.

Me:  Wait a minute, JooJoo.  You spoke to Niels and he booked an appointment to discuss transaction fees?

JooJoo:  Well, I didn’t personally speak to him.  Clara, from our office, spoke to him yesterday and set up a meeting with me for 4:00 today.

Me:  Are you aware that Niels is a Viking?

JooJoo:  Um…..no.

Me:  The Viking doesn’t discuss transaction fees with anyone.  Ever.  Not even you, JooJoo.

JooJoo:  I’m sure he’s interested in saving money on transaction fees.

Me:  I’m sure he would be interested if he knew what the fuck you’re talking about.

JooJoo:  But Clara….

Me:  I’m afraid Clara might be full of shit, JooJoo.  The Viking wouldn’t know a credit card transaction fee if it hit him with a battle axe.

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JooJoo:  Okay.  Is there someone else who deals with the fees.

Me:  Oh yes.  That would be me.

JooJoo:  Are you the owner of the business?

Me:  You could call me an owner –  I’m bossy enough.

JooJoo:  I would be willing to meet with you today…..

Me:  Oh, no.  I can’t possibly…

JooJoo:  But I can save you money….

Me:  Yes, but I have already done my due diligence on transaction fees and, to be completely honest, I can’t be bothered to wade through another contract with another company in order to save a nickel a month.

JooJoo:  Are you sure I can’t….

Me:  Quite sure, JooJoo.  Have a nice day.

The Viking arrived home about a half hour later and I asked him if he had booked an appointment to meet with a guy to discuss credit card transaction fees?

“Some fucking woman called yesterday and I couldn’t understand what the fuck she was even saying!”

I nodded enthusiastically.  “That’s what I thought.  I told him you would be delighted to meet with him at 4:00pm.”

“WHAT?!”

Sometimes, it’s just so easy……

 

 

A Viking Hissy Fit

Two posts ago I wrote about The Viking’s Stupid and it’s still affecting our lives.  His life more than mine but, since I’m in the general vicinity, I’m aware.  And then this happened.

It started around 11:00 in the morning with the usual shouts and curses.  I let him alone for awhile but when it didn’t burn itself out, I told him to come in for a coffee.  Not that I wanted a cranky Viking in the house but in the interests of preventing heart-attacks I thought he needed to walk away for a bit.

After a 20-minute break, he went back to the garage and I went back to paperwork.  It wasn’t long before the shouting and cursing began again.  I could clearly hear every single word he was yelling and that was with all the doors and windows closed.  I went out to offer any assistance I might be capable of and was told, amidst all the cursing, that there ‘wasn’t a fucking thing I could help with’, punctuated by 3 thrown tools – not in my direction, just so you know.  Okay.  I avoided eye contact and slowly backed out of the garage.

I wasn’t back in the house 5 minutes before the swearing and cursing spilled out of the garage.  Shortly after that something flew past the window.  “What in the ever-loving fuck?!  Was that an office chair?!”

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It was.

It was followed quickly by 2 ATV tires and a Rubber Maid tote.  The office chair didn’t seem pathetic enough, so he gave it a kick, picked it up and bashed it several times on the ground until it was in two pieces.  He’d lost the ability to form words by this point and had resorted to guttural howls and primal, yet man-ly, screams.

I watched from the window as he grabbed a large snow shovel and beat it against the cement until it exploded into tiny pieces.  I added ‘Snow Shovel’ to my shopping list, right under ‘Office Chair’.

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He wasn’t done yet, though.  An innocent bag of cans and bottles ready for the depot found itself soaring through the air to land in front of my car, followed quickly by a Weed Whacker*.  He tried to kick it first but missed and nearly up-ended himself.  Several other items, one of them quite large, was launched against the house.  A deck chair was tossed and landed against the new fifth wheel trailer and that’s when I stepped in.

I threw open the back door, “THAT’S ENOUGH!!  Get in here!”

He pulled his hair a couple of times while eloquently and loudly explaining his lack of space in the garage and vilifying the filthy ATV that covered the garage floor with mud.

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“For fucks-sake!  Sit down.  Here’s some water.  Your throat must be raw.”

And it was.

“You keep this up and someone is going to call the cops!”  I hissed.

Bing Bong!

“See?!  That’s probably them now!”

And it was.

As soon as I opened the big door and saw them, my eyes rolled and my head tipped back.  Of course!  I couldn’t quite believe it and gave a little laugh.  It was two female Officers who looked very concerned.

“Ma’am?  Are you okay?”  One said while she gently stepped into the house, forcing me to take a step back.

Sigh.  “Yes.  I am perfectly fine.  He’s just having a hissy fit.”

“Are you in danger?”

“No.  He’s only a danger to himself, snow shovels, weed whackers and office chairs.”

They went past me and into the kitchen where The Viking was busily ramming his feet into his shoes, trying to escape Consequences.  I wanted to yell “Not so fast, motherfucker!!  You deal with this!” but that might have been misconstrued as elevating the situation.  Thankfully, I hadn’t completely lost my mind yet.

The second Officer said, “So what’s going on?” while the first Officer followed The Viking out to the garage.  Divide and conquer I suppose.  If she tazes him I hope I can watch.

“We run a business out of the garage and he’s out of room and the machine he’s working on is full of mud and he’s just really frustrated.”

“Does this happen often?”

“Once in a while but never at this level.  He’s frustrated and has, apparently, the crazy ability to completely lose his shit.  Who knew?”

I notice a movement behind the Officer.  A massive fucking guy in a police uniform snuck in.  “Holy FUCK!!” I actually said, “Another one?!  Geezus!”  And I started laughing.  A little hysterically, if I’m honest.  He arrived like a Ninja – I hadn’t heard him come through the front door.  I wondered if the Police Service trains Ninja moves?  Not out loud, course, because that would be weird.

“I’m going to have to bake cookies for the neighbours, aren’t I?”

The lady Cop smiled and nodded while the humungous guy glowered intimidation at me, not understanding that I’m not the one around here that needed his special gift.  I’ve never seen such a big cop in my entire life.  Honestly, he was the biggest guy of any type I’ve ever seen.

After several moments, during which I couldn’t take my eyes off the big guy, the other Officer came back in the house.  “He’s just having a really bad day.” She said in a colossal understatement.  “It’s fine now.”

I have no idea what was said in the garage, but it must have satisfied her because the three Officers left through the front door, single file, the giant last.  It was then I saw the police cars parked down the block, not in front of the house.  Christ!  This is like an episode of COPS!

The Viking didn’t come in the house for two hours which was probably for the best because I was feeling a little murderous – a feeling that lasted for almost a week.

Junior stopped by a while later, stepping over the exploded snow shovel, around the broken office chair and side-stepping two ATV tires.  He came in the house and said, “Sooooo, how was your day?”

 

*Added Weed Whacker to the shopping list under Office Chair and Snow Shovel.

Dear Me,

It’s okay.  Go ahead – have a moment.  Hell, take three, because you deserve it.  I can’t think of anyone more deserving than you.  Of course I’m biased, but I’m sure everyone would agree with me.

So, you had a little meltdown last week, got drunk and bawled for 6 hours – it happens to everyone at some point.  No need to beat yourself up.  In fact, you should pat yourself on the back for keeping the whole affair relatively quiet – you didn’t do it in Wal-Mart did you?  You didn’t wear a T-Shirt with your full name and address on it, right?  See?  That’s something to think about.

And no one took videos, did they?  Yes, I know you had headphones on and your back to the room, so it would be almost impossible to be certain, but there was only The Viking and Junior around and The Viking wouldn’t take advantage, now would he?  Junior…..well, he does have a cell phone glued to his hand, but I can’t see him adding insults by posting your drama on Face Book.  Remember?  He loves you.

Yes, he does!  It just felt like you were alone in the world.  You have a ton of people who love you and care for you and are now looking at you like you’re a fucking lunatic.  How did I know what you were thinking?  Because you aren’t the only one who has dropped the burden momentarily and then had to face the people who have seen you at your absolute worst.  It’s an embarrassment but it won’t kill you.  In fact, those witnesses are now frantically scouring their brain trying to find a way to help you.  So, just let them fucking help you!  They feel like shit because they didn’t think they needed to pay attention as closely as they should have.

Small problems accumulate until they become overwhelming mountains that block out the sun.  You aren’t imagining anything that isn’t real.  It totally is real!  Stress changes the way your brain performs; neurons and electrons, hormones and proteins behave differently, your body functions at a slower rate – these things are out of your control.  All you can do is recognize the signs.

Did you just tell me to fuck off?!  I’m trying to help you and you tell me to fuck off?!  It’s not all bullshit.  Seriously?!  You think life would be less stressful in prison?  A convent?!  Do they even exist anymore?  And if they do exist don’t the nuns have to work all day and pray every 3 hours?  You have difficulties getting up for 9:00 in the morning.  Yes, you do.  Don’t shit a shitter.

Fine.  Prison it is.  You would get 3 meals a day and I suppose you might be able to spend the rest of your time with adult coloring books.  You won’t have to pay bills or make meals or run errands either.  There might even be a library and I would assume you could take online university courses.  Or not.  How the fuck would I know what you would be allowed to do?  Do I look like a hardened criminal to you?!  I think it’s safe to assume that you can’t pick your meals from a menu and they probably don’t have fizzy water on tap.  I don’t know if you can bring a TV from home or if cable is available in your cell.  And, it’s highly unlikely they would have a Nail Technician or a Beauty Consultant on staff.  No.  I’m not calling Martha Stewart.  Besides, she’s American and would have very little knowledge about the Canadian Penal System.

Speaking of which – how do you know that you won’t get assigned to kitchen duty anyway, with a big broad who makes shivs out of turnips?  What if they make you go out in the yard in the rain?  What if they make you eat tuna salad on enriched white bread?  What if there are no private showers?

You might even have a cellmate.  Well, I suppose you might be able to arrange Solitary Confinement – if it’s an actual thing here – but then you probably won’t be allowed to take your coloring book and pencils in case you decide to poke an eye out.  You might be lucky to get a beat-up copy of The Odyssey by Homer to keep you amused.

Yes…. you would get caught up on sleep but once you’ve accomplished that…..well, what then?  I suppose you could work out.  Maybe there would be a yard somewhere, full of weight machines that you can just start bench-pressing 350 pounds and sweat like…. like…. a dude bench-pressing 350 pounds.

Are you really certain that Prison life is for you?  True, you would have very few responsibilities and money wouldn’t be an issue because Conservatives love their prisons, but there is a lot of downsides, the least of which is the big broad that makes shivs out of turnips.  There is the problem of getting invited to prison as well; you can’t just show up and check yourself in.  That would be the Looney Bin.  I understand that the entry requirements are much less stringent, so there is that…..

They don’t make you have public showers and you might not have a cellmate in case someone decides to poke someone else’s eye out with a pencil.  Your art will have to be done with pastels and crayons while Nurse Ratchet fills a syringe with psychedelic drugs and critiques your work though.

So, after all of this, you are right back where you started from – a lunatic not yet in an asylum.  Just go to bed for a couple of days and ‘adult’ next week.

Also, thank The Gawds that you have The Viking and you aren’t sitting alone in your dark closet.  Okay….you might still be sitting alone in your closet, but at least The Viking will check on you occasionally.

My Vacuum Cleaner Sucks

I’m pretty sure I wasn’t meant to be poor.  Okay….I’m not poor….but I’m not rich.  And by ‘rich’ I don’t mean like Bill Gates Rich but more like a marginally good actor that only takes on small parts where he dies almost immediately.  Like Sean Bean (read Sheen Been*) rich.  He seems to support his ‘Playing Rugby With His Mates’ and ‘Hanging Out In A Pub’ activities quite well by dying two or three times a year.

Not that I want to be Sheen Been; rugby is a rough sport and one I would only consider playing if I had a loaded pistol with at least 15 20 30 rounds (I had to google how many people are on a Rugby Team so I knew the minimum rounds of ammo I would need, multiplied by the number of times I might miss a target and then a little extra in case a referee objects).

Anyway.  I’m pretty sure that I was meant to be, at least, Sheen Been Rich.  Because I hate cleaning.  And my vacuum cleaner sucks – in a bad way.  I should have gotten the canister model except  The Viking’s canister was a pain in the ass because the wheels wouldn’t roll over its own electrical cord and I thought an upright wouldn’t have that issue.  And it doesn’t have that issue.  Instead, it has 321 other issues that make me holler and curse every time I have to use the fucking thing.

My stupid back hates vacuuming anyway (no matter the model) because my torso is always bent slightly forward.  Same thing goes for mopping the floor, cleaning vegetables and dusting low places because that’s what happens when you don’t have a disc in your lower back).  And we won’t even talk about the epic nightmare cleaning the bathroom has become.

What does all this have to do with being rich?  Well, a lot, actually.  If I had the money I would throw this stupid vacuum cleaner in the garbage and get a better one.  And if I were rich, I’d get a cleaning person to just live in the spare bedroom and spend his/her days cleaning up after The Viking and me.

Ugh!  The house is pretty small for three adults so I should probably just buy a slightly bigger house with a wing for the maid.

And if I have an entire wing of the house dedicated to a maid, maybe I could have a cook too.  I’m not really fond of cooking and I don’t know how to cook to be skinny, so having a cook present us with tasty, healthy food three times a day would be lovely.

And now that I’m thinking of things that I don’t like……I don’t like door-to-door sales wo/men or religious groups** that keep trying to save my soul at the front door, so a Butler would be awesome.  Surely the Butler would make the person wait at the door while he/she came to inform me that “Religious Panderers are begging an audience, Madame” and I could say “Unleash the dogs!”

OH!  And a driver for long trips.  I should have a limo so I can just nap or play games on my tablet.

Speaking of long trips, I really hate economy class on airplanes.  It’s terrible.  I should just have my own jet so I don’t have to share air with 300 other people.  And then The Viking’s family could say they want to visit for a couple weeks and we would say “I’ll send the jet for you tomorrow.”

Huh.

I’ve talked myself right out of being Sheen Been Rich.  I’m going to need more than the amount of money he makes.  Maybe Mr. Bean Rich?  He certainly has more money than Sheen Been, unless he has a gambling problem.  Let’s leave the Beans behind and go for the Golden Goose then.  At one point in time, The Viking and I thought I should marry Phil Collins for a year and then get a multi-million dollar divorce settlement (Phil does that a lot!) but then The Viking had to trick me into marrying him so that plan is down the toilet.

Thinking….

Thinking….

Thinking….

There’s just no way around it.  I do need to be Bill Gates Rich.  But I won’t flaunt it and I won’t let it change me and I promise to stay humble.

Trust me.

*I could have gone with Shawn Bawn but I like the Sheen Been better.

**I was interrupted while writing this post by a door-to-door sales woman.

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Friday Fictioneers – Weren’t You Listening?

It’s time for Friday Fictioneers again, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  I can’t always add to the group but I do when I have the time.  The same goes for reading all the other great offerings – it takes a long time to get through them all.  If I miss you one week I try to catch you the next.  My apologies if I miss you more often.  I’m reading as fast as I can and my other jobs won’t always wait.

This week’s photo prompt has been supplied by Sarah Potter.

 

“I’m home, Babe!  Mom says hello!”

“I’m in the spare room!” He called back

The stairs creaked as she went up.  The hallway was dark but the spare room spilled more light than usual.

What the hell?!

He was caked in white powder; hair, face, clothes, shoes.  Drywall dust, obviously, because the next surprise was a transformed spare room.

The ugly green wallpaper had been replaced with delicate pink walls and white trim; crib, rocking chair, change table.

She caressed her belly and smiled gently.  “But it’s going to be a boy.  Weren’t you listening?”

“Wait! What?!  Ah, shit!!”

If you would like to read the stories of other great authors, click the blue button.

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