A Fart in the Wind

Like a fart in the wind, Christmas is over for another year. We ate and drank and laughed and spent time with loved ones……..well, the ones we loved at the time. It was all wonderful until Junior decided it wasn’t Christmas until the entire family was dead from disease. I’m pretty sure it’s the Hanta Virus. I had Ebola last year and this feels different.

We probably should have dipped him in a vat of disinfectant before allowing him in the vehicle with us but he looked completely healthy. He was smiling and joking and lulling us into a false sense of Christmas Spirit while the entire time he was incubating and encouraging the virus that would send us straight to hell on a wave of snot and diarrhea.

By the time it became obvious that he was sick it was too late. We should have thrown him out in the snow and burned the house down. That’s what we should have done but we didn’t because we were still harbouring some love for him. It’s amazing how quickly that love disappears though when one’s nose is a faucet and one’s legs have fallen asleep because you’ve been on the toilet for 42 minutes with no end in sight.


The Viking went down like a ton of bricks and I followed shortly after. Our bathroom door became the centre of our existence. The toilet seat didn’t cool off for 48 straight hours. The only small blessing with the Hanta Virus is that it took up residence in our sinuses so we couldn’t smell the by-products. And when one wasn’t cursing Junior’s name to the Gawds, the other one was. In the space of two days he wiped out The Viking, me, Mim, MimsMan and Stanley – his father. No military operation could have been as efficient.

Mim sent me a message on Facebook: “It’s official. We’re dying. Our cat is the only nanny we have right now.”

I sent a message back: “You’re lucky you have a Nanny cat. We have a…..a……well, the OPPOSITE of a Nanny cat.”

Izzie bit me while I was in a Buckleys/Nyquil stupor and drew blood because she wanted to play. I explained we were deathly ill, in all probability dying, and she just stared at me with those flat, dead eyes. I finally just gave in and started rubbing her head but I nodded off and my hand stopped moving. Her little black body stiffened and her head whipped around to give me the stink eye until I started petting again. No Nanny here.  Here is a couple of pictures of our angel for your enjoyment:

Eventually we had to do something about sustenance. So far the only things we’d eaten in two and a half days are Dayquil/Nyquil tablets washed down with Buckleys. So, I put a toque on my head to cover my disaster of a hair-do and shlumped to the store. Pale and weak, my eyes running from Eucalyptus Oil fumes, I draped myself over a cart and slowly trolled the produce department. A mother pulled her kid out of my way, one woman grabbed the cross around her neck and held it toward me and an old man helped me get a bag of carrots into my cart but then he ran away immediately after. I didn’t mind because everyone sort of got out of my way.  Even in the check-out lane – 3 people let me go in front of them.

Shaking, sweating and nauseous, The Viking and I made Chicken Soup. I don’t remember exactly what we put in it aside from chicken and carrots. There is something green in there which may or may not be leeks and I think I recall peeling onions.  Oh!  And some soup noodles.

Junior called last night to tell me he’s feeling much, much better and I said “Whatever! Your days are numbered, boy! The rest of us are conspiring revenge. We are only in the initial phases of discussion but so far I can tell you it’s going to be ugly. Oh! And Mim is now my favorite child.”

He laughed. “Parents aren’t allowed to have favorites, Mooom. Dad loves us equally.”

“No, he doesn’t. You ensickened him too if you remember correctly.”

So, instead of catching up on newly released movies, we are sitting listlessly in front of the TV watching episodes of Midsomer Murders, wrapped and muffled with blankets, reeking of Eucalyptus. At random intervals one of us makes a mad rush for the bathroom and the other one pauses the show. Not that it matters because we keep nodding off and have no idea how they solved the damn murder anyway.

And now there’s an undertone of competition happening between The Viking and I.  He coughs and then I cough, except my cough sounded a little worse than his cough so he coughs again only more miserably.  I can’t let him have the win so I sneeze and then cough but then he doubles down on the sneezes and his cough turns into a gagging thing so then I have to make my cough be more gagging and finish off with a prolonged wheeze.  But he’s better at wheezing than I am so I have to up the ante with a higher fever which I’m better at because Menopause.  It’s exhausting being us.

And Damn You Junior!  You will rue the day…….


Love, Laughter and Embarrassing Moments

Well, it’s nearly here.  It’s the calm before the storm.  The gifts are bought and trimmed, the turkey is in the fridge thawing out, the groceries are ready and I’m taking a moment for a few deep breaths.  We leave for Mim’s tomorrow at noon.

I’ve kissed The Viking and patted his head.  I’ll enjoy these last hours before all hell breaks loose in the morning.  There will be yelling, cursing, tears, threats and perhaps projectiles.  It’s always the same with us.  We can’t go get groceries together without a damned dust-up.  Do you have my wallet?  No.  Why would I have your wallet?  I have my wallet.  Did you remember the Airmiles coupons?  FUCK!  Turn around.  Yes!  I know it’s my fault, you don’t need to rub it in.  Okay.  Let’s go.  Again.  Do you have the list?  What?!  I thought you had the list!  FUUUUCK!  Turn around!

Blah, blah, blah.

The good thing is that we are accustomed to it now.  It’s water off a duck’s back for us.  The neighbours still take it hard, though.  I’ll take them cookies when we get home and apologize.  The neighbours to the west have two children now and I’m expecting a sheepish visit one of these days to ask us not to curse so much and so loud.  We’ll have to give them advanced notice of our departure times so they can hurry the kids in the house and put headphones on them.

Mim is very excited to host her first ever Family Feast.  I’ll show her how to do the turkey and she is doing the rest.  The Viking and I can sit back and relax, maybe have a nap on the sofa.  Mim says we aren’t allowed to have sex but she didn’t say we couldn’t get lovey on the couch.  We’ll do our level best to disgust the kids.  I have every intention to be one of those Grandparents that you have to warn the kids about.  Smile.

I’m taking cards and poker chips and dominoes so we can play a few games.  Add some booze and we should have a great time.

As much as I will love being with Mim, MimMan and Junior, the BIG DEAL is The Viking’s Christmas Present.  We aren’t taking it to Mim’s because it’s just really, really big, so I have to wait to give it to him when we get home on Christmas Day.  I can hardly stand it!!  Gawd!!

I’m sending my best wishes to everyone for a wonderful Christmas filled with love and laughter and embarrassing moments – because everyone should have at least one every Christmas.  May the food be great, may the gifts bring joy and may we all end this year with fireworks.

Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year

Glædelig Jul og Godt Nytår





Warm Hands, Cold Ass

It’s time for coffee again? Already?! What happened to the week? Did I sleep through a couple of days or something? Well, come in anyway. I’m always up for company if it gets me out of doing something I would rather not do. I’ll blame it on you when you leave.

Nah! The Viking won’t hold it against you. I blamed Carol when I didn’t get the truck registered. I blamed Wilma when I forgot to pick up licorice from the Danish store. I blamed Lukas for throwing away that tiny piece of wire that ended up being worth $193,692.74. I blamed Mim when I wrecked the can opener. He would have an awfully long list to work his way through before he got to you, so I think you’re safe.

So was your week a full 7 days long? I remember Monday – I was all Gawd! I don’t want to get up! Why isn’t there a cup of coffee in my hand yet?!  I have no memory of Tuesday and Wednesday though.


The police haven’t come calling so I must not have done anything illegal. And whatever I did, it apparently wasn’t that memorable. Or fun, because I think I would remember something fun. And I must not have accomplished anything either because everything is exactly as I remember it on Monday.

I remember Thursday because I had to go out in the cold to run errands and when I got home my hands were so cold they ached. The Viking let me put my hands down his pants and cup his buttocks to warm them up. Oh sure, he hollered, but when I asked if he wanted me to take them out he just stood there and grunted. So I turned them over so I could hear him holler again.

Yes. I’m quite aware that the level of spoilage I enjoy is completely off the charts.

The Viking’s Christmas present arrived on Thursday as well. I am so excited I can hardly contain myself! He is going to LOVE! IT! I was worried whether it would arrive in time. I ordered it in November and I thought that would be plenty of time but by December 6th I hadn’t received a shipping notification and it had a long way to go to get here. So I sent an email:


I’m checking on the status of my order. I purchased a Giant Pink Bunny (code for his real present so he doesn’t figure it out) for my Viking husband on November 22, 2016 as his Christmas gift. I haven’t received a notice that it’s been shipped yet though, and now I’m getting a little concerned that it won’t arrive before Christmas Eve.

 I don’t know if you know anything about Vikings but they have a tendency to scowl and curse and froth at the mouth a lot when things go off the rails. And, unfortunately, I’m not an actual Shieldmaiden that would have much of a chance in a pitched battle, especially since I don’t have any Viking food – like a pig leg – to offer as a distraction. I’m defenceless here. The best I can do for armour is a Dutch Oven and a large Flipper. I suppose I could put a pot on my head as a helmet but it wouldn’t fit very well.

 Also, he has bought me a gift for Christmas but I can’t possibly open my gift if I don’t have the gifts for him. That will just make Christmas a very sad event for both of us. And Christmas in January isn’t the same at all. Have you ever seen a very sad Viking? That’s worse than seeing an angry, snarling, farting Viking!

 Anyway, I’m hoping for good news but if you don’t have that then I’ll settle for bad news as long as I know it well in advance of Christmas so I can let him down gently.

 Thank you for your time and attention,

 The shipping notification arrived 2 hours later. They must have had quite a lot of sympathy for my situation. OR they hadn’t completely understood the implications of making a Viking sad.

Now that I think about it, maybe the events on Thursday overshadowed everything that happened in the early part of the week. It’s not every day that The Viking allows me to warm my hands on his ass and it’s definitely not every day when a simple email to a company gets such instantaneous results.

I probably don’t need to make an appointment with the Memory Specialists, then.

Which means that life is still good.

Merry Christmas!  Glædelig jul!

Thanks, as always, to Part Time Monster and Coffee Share.

A scab! On my nipple!

By now you probably know that I have been extra-ly blessed in the boob department. I don’t want to be ungrateful but they can be a total nuisance from time to time. Therefore, it shouldn’t come as too great a shock to know that I’ve had another Boob Incident.

I was making up gift baskets for our best customers; I make all sorts of homemade goodies and put them in lovely baskets and deliver them just before Christmas. And it was during the execution of baking the goodies that I suffered a terrible injury to my right nipple.

All the baking went well. Everything indicated a successful completion of 3 gift baskets and I was already starting to congratulate myself. All that remained to do was decorate the Gingerbread. I had it in the bag. This was easy, easy stuff. First, I needed to clean up the mixer tools so I could get the icing made, and that’s where the whole affair came off the rails.

It had been going so well….

  • I had managed to keep the amount of cookie dough in my bra to a minimum.
  • I hadn’t had a major spill of any sort.
  • I hadn’t severed a digit.
  • I didn’t break any glass.
  • Nothing was burned.
  • I hadn’t forgotten any ingredients – everything tasted perfect.
  • Nobody ate it all, behind my back.
  • I only had to make an extra trip to the store once.

So I was confident! Once everything was clean and dry, I started assembling the KitchenAid again. The batter tool snicked easily into place, but then……

The bowl wouldn’t turn, to lock in place. Why do they have to make these things so tight? Geezus! I grabbed the machine with my left arm so it wouldn’t turn when I tried to turn the bowl but it’s awkward and wouldn’t cooperate. Every attempt failed; the base, heavy as it is, would turn with the bowl. So I started cursing. Surprisingly, it didn’t help.

Then I put the base on the table, which is lower, so I could get my arm around it better. Nope. Fail. Obviously, two arms aren’t enough. Why is it being such an asshole? It’s been very good until now. Why. Won’t. It. Lock?!  Fucker!   I just want to make some damned icing!

So I put it on the floor between my feet but then I couldn’t get a good grip on the bowl. So I sat on the floor, wrapped my legs around the base, except to get a good grip on the bowl handle I needed to sort of lean over the machine. One boob went to the left of the top of the machine and one boob went to the right.


Okay, you sonofabitch!! I got up on my knees and wedged the base between my thighs. I anchored my left arm around the top of the machine and gripped the bowl with my right hand. My cheek was squished against the side of the base. With a colossal effort I tried to twist it into submission but then my right hand slipped and the bowl snapped against the base…….and my RIGHT NIPPLE GOT PINCHED INBETWEEN! Mother#$%@er!! Sonofabitch! Shitface asshole bastard pisshead!!!

I flipped my shirt up and gingerly extracted my right boob from the bra. It was bleeding! My nipple was bleeding!!

The Viking walked through the door and stopped short. The KitchenAid was still wedged between my knees, the bowl cockeyed now. I had straightened my torso so I could see my injury; my shirt was up and my boob was out. Bleeding. I looked up at him – surprised. And if I’m honest, I probably looked like I was sitting on the mixer with a boob out, and some people may have misconstrued the entire situation. The Viking knows me well enough though……

Him: What the fuck are you doing?!

Me: Look!  My nipple is bleeding!!  I gestured with the boob.

Him: How in the fuck did you manage that?!

Me: This stupid, fucking, asshole, douchebag KitchenAid pinched my nipple off!

Him: Why do you have it on the floor?

Me: Because I couldn’t get the stupid, fucking, asshole, douchebag bowl to lock into place on the counter or on the table so I was wrestling with it on the floor where I could get a better grip on it!

Him: Why didn’t you bring it to me?

Me: And admit I can’t get a mixing bowl to lock into place on its base? Are you crazy?! Besides, it’s been working just fine until now!

Him: Give it to me.

So he picks the bowl and the mixer base up and puts it on the counter. I knew what was coming. I pursed my lips and nasty smeared across my face. And just like I knew it would be, The Viking, with the tip of his stupid, fucking, asshole, douchebag pinkie finger, flicked the bowl into the locked position then turned to look at me.

Me: You’re an asshole.

Him: Why? I was just trying to help.

Me: You could have tried helping before my nipple had to bleed.

Him: How could I possibly know that you were in a wrestling death match with the KitchenAid?

Me: I don’t know but you certainly know when to come in and catch me in the most compromising of positions.

Him: Do you need any help getting your boob back in the bra?

Me: This is not the time for you to be playing with my boob. Can’t you see it’s dying?

Him: I’ll be gentle.

Me: No! But you can help me off the floor.

By the next day there was a scab on my nipple. A scab! On my nipple! I considered writing KitchenAid a letter of complaint but then thought better of it. There just isn’t any way of explaining it without a loss of dignity.

The cookies turned out brilliantly. They were slightly soft with exactly the right amount of icing to make them completely delicious. My right nipple didn’t like them though and the KitchenAid is on the naughty list. Indefinitely.

How My Boobs Won Crib

Yeah! Coffee time! Come on in for some Tim Hortons brew and a doughnut. What’s not to like about that? I hope you had a good week. I can actually say that mine was pretty darned good, too.

Last weekend The Viking made me dinner. I love it when he cooks; it’s always delicious and I feel spoiled. After dinner we decided to do something really wacky and play Crib instead of sitting in front of the TV.

The thing about playing any game with The Viking is that he always wins. Always. We are talking about a guy who can roll 8 Yahtzees in one game. Granted, it’s selective winning because he’s shit at the Lottery, but when there is nothing more than my pride at stake, he wins. I don’t play Strip Poker with him unless the heat is turned up because I’m the only one sitting there naked. I dress in several layers for any game beginning with the word ‘Strip’ so the game will last longer than 5 rounds, too.

So, when The Viking suggested Crib and not Naked Crib, I was willing and completely prepared to lose. I promised myself to be a good loser and not throw anything at him. Instead, I would focus on chatting and enjoying my Parfait Amour while being trashed on the Crib board.

But this time it was different. Sure, I was leading after the first couple of hands but that means nothing. The Viking is one of those guys that lures you in so he can trounce you when you think you’ve got the game in the bag. I had to admit though that I was doing very well and the space between our pegs was increasing with every hand.

He moaned when I was half way around the board and a good twenty points ahead. I said, “Stop complaining, you’ll come from behind and win as usual”. That’s just how the universe works. Just when you think you’ve got him, Odin steps in and ruins everything.

I was starting to pay attention now though. Could Odin be busy? Was I on the verge of achieving the impossible? Not only was I far ahead but he was becoming concerned that he might not make it over the Skunk line. A bubble of excitement formed in my stomach, battling the certainty of failure for space.

Don’t get all giddy yet; this is exactly what he wants. He’s playing with you. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch and all that. Manage your thoughts so your disappointment isn’t too keen when he does charge from behind and win the final peg hole. Remember he did that last time you played. He beat you 5 games in a row!

Try to distract him!

So I said: “I bought these new bras and they are super comfortable but they don’t have a lot of support. See?” And I bounced in my chair a little bit and my boobs started jiggling at him. It worked! He was mesmerized! So I kept bouncing while I pegged my points (not an easy feat). I lost his focus for a moment when he pegged his miserable 4 points but I bounced harder and higher and that seemed to get him thinking less about his cards.


He was still quite a distance from the Skunk line; he would need to get a 20 point hand if he had any hope of avoiding the dreaded Skunking. When I picked up my hand I felt the thrill of triumph! He can’t catch me! I’ve won! I’ve beaten The Viking! Sweet Geezus I’ve pulled it off!! I will never complain about my boobs again! All that remained to be seen was whether he could make it over the Skunk line.


I tried to be gracious while I was doing the Strutting Turkey Winners Dance. “It was just a bit of bad luck. You have killer Crib skills. Don’t let it get you down! Ha! Ha! Ha!” I couldn’t help myself. This was unprecedented.

He played it cool though; pretending it didn’t bother him. He shrugged, “I don’t give a fuck if you won. Will you stop dancing and deal the cards? Please?”

I sat down and shuffled the cards. “You’ll beat me this time. I’m sure of it.”

He grunted, “Whatever. Deal already.”

And I really believed he would beat me. I really did. You don’t just beat The Viking at something and then not expect him to annihilate you the first chance he gets. I thought I’d be lucky to be simply Skunked and not Double Skunked.

Unfortunately for The Viking, Odin really wasn’t paying him any mind at all. Maybe he’s a Boob Man, too. Who knows? The first few hands were sort of even – he was ahead of me at one point. I was encouraging and helpful all the way; I didn’t even laugh. But I won again! Not by a lot, but I still won, and if we had played another round he most certainly would have gotten me. But he had Jet Ski Races to watch and I was spared.

I did have a word with the Gods explaining that I really wasn’t being a poor winner, I was just celebrating a rare win. Like David celebrated victory over Goliath. Or, more appropriately considering which Gods I was bargaining with, how Thor would celebrate a battle victory. And wouldn’t Thor use every asset at his command to win? Well, I have boobs and if they’ll help me win a damned card game once in a while I will definitely use them.

I think we’re good.

PS:  I probably will still complain about my boobs.  I’m not infallible.

PPS: A big thank you to Part Time Monster for the weekly Coffee Share.

Stalking Authors

The first grown-up novel I ever read was Debbie Does Dallas. I was 13 years old.


I found it on a bookshelf, squished between my father’s Louis L’Amour books; the neon pink spine stood out like a giraffe at an alligator convention. Of course I didn’t know it was porn in the beginning and by the time I did figure it out……well…..there’s no easy way of confronting your father with it because his first question is going to be “How do you know it’s porn?!” And his second question would be “Did you learn anything?” which terrified me so I kept it to myself.

The whole point of Debbie Does Dallas, to 13 year old me, was that it wasn’t the sterile, watered down version of life that Children’s Classics portrayed. No one slipped and fell on a penis in Black Beauty. Those Little Women never once discussed their vaginas or orgasms. The Wizard of Oz never sold crack to Dorothy and there was no pay-by-the-hour motel in Call of the Wild.

Admittedly, there are more gentle ways to learn about the sexual side of life that won’t leave your eyeballs drying out from lack of blinking and make you question what your parents are up to behind their closed bedroom door. I could have done without that.

The ultimate lesson learned from DDD is that book characters are not always the sweet, kind, thoughtful, boring people who inhabit Children’s books and I wanted to meet more of them. In a way, I blasted out of children’s literature like I’d been fired from a cannon.

And then High School Literature happened and nearly turned me off books completely. The novel choices were terrible and they taught my generation nothing more than to drive to the nearest book store and buy the Coles Notes version that we could read in 2 hours. The only thing that kept me going was Debbie Doing Dallas.

I’ve read my way around the block more than just a few times; I’ve come across wonderful authors and truly great stories. I’ll share rousing, cursing, bloody novels and pee-your-pants laughing novels and I-cried-at-the-end novels and novels that pissed me off and novels that changed the way I look at the world.

And if we’re honest with ourselves, we all know that what I get out of a novel probably isn’t the same thing that other people would get out of it.

I’m working on my first author as you read this. I’ll give you a hint: it’s about cursing, farting, screwing, bloody, beard-growing Vikings that you’ll fall in love with.

Trust me.

You will.

The Apple Didn’t Fall Far From the Tree

I started doing laundry this morning, checked Facebook, scrolled through the mountain of emails I get every day, checked the admin page for my blog and then opened up a blank word document and waited for inspiration.

Nothing. Nada. Ingen ting.

I haven’t fallen down in the last few days, no one has wronged me, I haven’t had a colossal mishap in the kitchen, The Viking has been flying under the radar for days and I haven’t embarrassed myself in public in quite a long time. So I sat staring at the computer screen, hands poised on the keyboard, ready for even the smallest nugget so I could harness it before it flitted away.


Nope. There really is nothing. I have a headache just above my right eye but that’s only interesting to my right eye. Even I’m bored with it. I stood in front of the family room window for a while, hoping something would happen. Sometimes I get lucky and the front doors of the Seniors Apartments, across the street, vomits out the cranky old lady with her yappy dog. That’s usually worth watching because she anchors her walker on the sidewalk and the dog lunges at passersby. The younger ones veer into the street to avoid the dog but the older ones become indignant about obstructions on public sidewalks and shouting matches erupt with lots of cane pointing and gesticulating. One time the canes became light sabres. I didn’t actually see it myself (of course), but our next door neighbour was happy to fill us in.

Today – nothing.

And then…..


A message from Mim. It was two pictures.

mims-hand    mims-hand-4

Her: “I’ve been impaled! And by that I mean I stabbed myself. With wire. At school*. The size to pain ratio on a puncture wound is like 1:1,000,000,000! It hurt sooooo bad! But it’s just this tiny little prick! In my defence, it did bleed pretty impressively but once I mopped up the initial flow my skin basically healed itself. And I wasn’t the only casualty of the day, nor the worst. One guy got it under his nail. Another guy sliced his hand with the chicken mesh and had blood smeared everywhere. It was a catastrophe. A blood bath! The worst part though….the guys were wounded while working. I was simply holding the wire in my hand and for some reason I made a fist. I don’t know why. I just made a fist and it went through gloves and flesh to an astonishing depth of about 5mm. I think my hand might need to be chopped off!”


Me: “It’s the tiny wounds that hurt the most! I read your tale of injury to The Viking and he said “For Fucksakes!” which means that he has as much sympathy for you as he has for me. Zero. I think we should chloroform him and jab him with sharp objects so he can appreciate the puncture to pain ratio for himself. Was your Man sympathetic? Because I know how to make chloroform at home now and I can make enough for him as well. The trick, as always, is to chloroform them and not me.”

Her: “Hahaha! Brad actually was sympathetic. So was my teacher. They understand how painful steel is when it cuts. Linda almost broke her toe last week from tripping over sheets on the floor and I said I could definitely see how that could happen and Brad got so mad! Like actually started yelling that it was impossible to break your toe like that. I had to demonstrate it at home and even then he just shook his head and mumbled something about women. LOL!”

Hmmmm…….I haven’t met Linda yet but I’m sure that I’m going to love her. I tripped on a piece of lint on the carpet once and got rug rash on my forehead, the tip of my nose and my chin. If we have nothing else in common, swapping accident stories and comparing scars should occupy us for quite some time.


So, I’ve been saved by my clumsy daughter and may have found a new best friend – all in the space of an hour or so. Without them I would still be staring at the blank computer screen, which worried me for a little while. If I don’t fall down or embarrass myself in public or fight with The Viking, am I mute? Is that the entire extent of my talent? Do I have nothing else to say?



Nah! This world is full of shit that can happen to me. It’s full of shit that I will misinterpret or misunderstand. It’s just full of shit and I am drawn to shit like a moth to a flame. Or a 5 year old to Knock Knock Jokes.