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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Wrestling, Depression and Pokémon Go!

There has been a Wrestling Match going on in our house for a few weeks now. Silently and without much grunting, groping or scrabbling. Also, I’m not wearing the skin-tight, elastic short thingy that is the necessary costume for Wrestling, apparently, and neither is The Viking. You’re welcome, neighborhood. So, I suppose it’s less of a Wrestling Match and more of a Non-Wrestling Match.

In one corner of the Wrestling Ring that I have metaphorically commandeered for our Non-Wrestling Match is The Viking. He’s squirrelly and stir-crazy and in desperate need of getting outside and having a party or going on a motorcycle ride or doing anything besides sitting in the house binge-watching television series-es. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, arms flopping loosely at his sides, head bopping like a boxer….or a Non-Wrestler….eager for the bell.

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IKEA and Kryptonite

There aren’t many things that get between The Viking and I, but IKEA is one of them. It’s our Kryptonite. The cafeteria is fine because we can still sit down like civilized human beings and have something to eat. As soon as we leave the cafeteria though, we start getting a little stressed. We give each other a last, loving smile knowing full well that it might be days before we look at each other lovingly again.

For whatever reason, this trip is the worst one yet.  The Gods are laughing at us.  By the time we get home, we aren’t speaking to each other at all. As soon as we get all of our purchases in the house we scatter. I go for Netflix because he has gone to the office to play a computer game.

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Izzie, Toilet Paper & Short People

This is a rant.  Because I’m feeling ranty.

ApparentlyI’m not allowed to bite! It’s a stupid rule and I am resisting the orchestrated suppression of my biting rights as a Feline. What did they think I was?! A sock puppet?! Cats bite! And it’s not my fault if they didn’t do their research. It’s not as though I bite them all the time, either – 3 to 4 times a day, max. I get excited when we play “There’s a Monster Under the Covers on the Bed!” and when I get excited I can’t help myself – it just happens!  It’s not like I plan it.  Stop being sissies! But instead of getting tough, they decide to stop playing “There’s a Monster Under the Covers on the Bed!” altogether. Where’s the logic in that?! How can I learn not to bite if I can’t play any biting games to learn from?

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Bruises, Ballerinas and A Spy Camera

Last night I noticed another big bruise on The Viking’s ass. He shrugged it off when I asked him about it; pretended surprise that there could possibly be a bruise on his ass because he has the grace of a ballerina. I let it go at first, but then later I started thinking about it again and I got suspicious.

It’s usually me who bumps into things, whacks my head, cuts my finger etc. while The Viking looks down from his lofty, graceful pedestal and says, “Be careful” or “Don’t slip” or “Watch out for………..” or “Give me that knife because you are about to chop off your hand”.  There is an entire list of things that I can’t be trusted with:

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Solitaire and the Art of Deviousness

The Viking and I live in a tiny little house with 2 bedrooms and no basement. He bought the property without even looking at the house because the garage was exactly what he wanted – he is a Motorcycle Mechanic after all and has a ton of tools, though some look more like devices of torture than things to repair machines if you ask me.

When I moved in with my shitload of stuff we were overwhelmed with piles of things that had no permanent place.  Over the past 9 years we have whittled down the piles, through either compromise or a lack of necessity. Every room has been rearranged a hundred times, each time with the intention of never having to rearrange it again.

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Teeth, Eye Rolls and a Giant Tiger

When it comes to kittens it’s amazing how quickly they grow and learn.  Izzie has gone through a multitude of stages in her short life. Some are just adorable while others are enough to make The Viking and I take refuge in the Bathroom and call 911.

The Tiny Baby Stage: I kind of liked this stage but I really should have just duct taped her to my neck. Or bought a larger bra and tucked her in because then it would be like the good old days when I could accomplish two-handed tasks.

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The Only Way We Get There is Together

My childhood was rife with fear and confusion.

I was afraid and cornered and trapped and hated.

At 16 I gave up and ran like a wounded animal.

I had money for food and 5 nights in a hotel.

I cowered there in abject misery.

I had nowhere to go, no one to help me.

I was forced to make that terrible phone call home.

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