A Shower and a Wedding

Mim’s getting married on the 23rd of this month which means only one thing – I am one step closer to a grandchild that I will spoil rotten.

I suppose it means more than  just one thing to Mim, like love and joy and a flashy ring finger, but for me, it’s all about the babies.

Of course, I share her excitement and want to make her day wonderful.  When it was time to buy shoes and jewelry, I was more than happy to make a day of it.  She had already purchased her Gown which left only the little things.

She came to the house expecting me to be ready….but I wasn’t.  I was 15 minutes away from being ready and it was entirely The Viking’s fault.  I didn’t want to waste time explaining at that moment and put us even further behind, so I waited until we were in the car and on our way to meet the Maid of Honor.

Me:  It wasn’t my fault I was late.

Mim:  It’s okay, Mom.  It’s no big deal.

Me:  But I hate being late.  The Viking decided to poop just before I needed to be in the shower.

Mim:  I hate that!!  Argh!

Me:  Me, too!!  And he claims that he didn’t plan on pooping at that time, but I think it’s an entire male gender conspiracy.  They know.

Mim:  Oh, they know.  When poop smell meets water vapor it becomes a solid!

Me:  Exactly!  The poop particles are in the air and as soon as I turn the shower on it turns the dust poop back into solid/liquid form and I’m essentially showering in poop.

Mim:  YES!  That’s just so gross!  How can you possibly feel clean when you’ve had to shower in poop?!

Me:  I’ve tried to explain this to The Viking and he just goes “Pfft!”

Mim:  Haha!  That’s also the sound of farts!  Coincidence?  I think not.

Me:  Hahaha!!  The Viking has never had to take a poop shower.   Because I’m a nice person!

Mim:  I yell when it happens at home.  I totally understand why you had to wait for the dust poop to get sucked up through the fan.  It’s a good thing you have such a good fan or you would have had to wait for a lot longer.

Me:  And that’s why you’re my best friend.  You understand how Science works.

The day turned out to be wonderful and we found beautiful things for her.  I don’t often get to spend time with Mim; she lives about 5 hours from me – a fact that I point out every time I talk to her.  I’ve even tried to bribe her but, apparently, she loves living where she does and the thought of coming back to the city isn’t very appealing.  So, I make due with the time we have.

In the meantime, I’ll need to have a conversation with The Viking about solids, liquids, and air particles.  Because there is no way we can have a freshly baked Grandchild exposed to that kind of thing.  Since our little house doesn’t have room for a special Poop Room, we might need to consider the facilities at the gas station on the corner.

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Our Faces Are Trying to Kill Us

This is going to be a fast and dirty post so hang on to your panties/gaunch.

In the middle of last week, one of my teeth decided to be an asshole and host an infection party that probably included hookers and pimps and dope dealers.  The music was terrible and my TMJ started complaining bitterly.  Long story short, there was a trip to emergency where they pumped me full of antibiotics and ordered me to their HPTP clinic the following morning to be installed with a pump and bags of antibiotics.  I would have an extra appendage for the next four days.

I was positive that I deserved some pampering.  It’s not every day that I have the excuse of a massive infection to just loaf around the house being waited on hand and foot by The Viking.

Unfortunately, The Viking had other plans.  On the way home from Emergency he says:

“My neck hurts.”

Me:  Oh no you don’t!!  It’s my turn!  You always take over my illnesses.  I get a cold, you get a cold too, only worse so I have to take care of you even though I’m sick too.  Why do I always have to be the one that has to ‘soldier on’?  I want pampering!

Him:  I didn’t plan it, you know!

And he didn’t plan it, but it happened anyway.  The following morning his neck was swelling up quickly.  So, while I was getting my pump installed, he went to Emergency.  Once I was finished, I found him and we waited for the results.

Which said exactly nothing.  They sent him home with a preventative course of antibiotics but they didn’t think it was an issue.  In fact, the Doctor was sort of condescending.  Fast forward to Friday afternoon and we were back in Emergency and the Doctors were impressed at the size of the lump on the left side of The Viking’s neck. And it kept growing!  I think it was starting to develop its own brain.  They pumped him full of morphine and antibiotics and sent him for tests.

FYI……those people who ferry the ill back and forth to radiology are antelope.  They aren’t people at all.  They look like people but just try keeping up with them as you juggle your IV bags, 2 coats, a purse, a water bottle and 2 tablets.

I started to judge them on the length of their legs.  One Flamingo showed up and, I swear to Gawd, her legs were 8 feet long.

Holy Shit!  You look like a ‘fast walker’ if I’ve ever seen one!”

She looked down on me.  “What?”

I mumbled “Nothing.  Please don’t lose me or I may starve to death in the maze that is this hospital.”

They laugh like I’m making a joke, but I’m not trying to be funny.  By the time we reach radiology, I’m bent over and sucking in air like a jet engine, my legs are shaking and I’m gasping out curses at fucking Olympic athletes loping around the gawd-damned hospital killing the innocent relatives of the fucking ill.  And then an orderly comes out and sees me about to pass out.  “Are you okay, Ma’am?”

“Do I fucking look okay?  I’ve just run a bloody marathon with Usain fucking Bolt and I’ve got my own IV nightmare going on if you don’t mind (I wave my IV’d left arm under his nose)!  Get me some water already!”

The rest of the time is spent in crushing boredom.  Fighting off my own infection, I was finding it difficult to cope with the length of time this was all taking.  I assumed they would fill him up with antibiotics and install a pump like they did with me.

That didn’t happen though.  They admitted him right into the hospital because they thought they could drain some of the infection and because they were starting to get alarmed at how quickly his head was building another entire person.  And then there were more trips down to radiology and more cursing.

The cats are pissed off.  Well, Teddy is just concerned but Izzie wants answers and someone to slap!  What the fuck is going on here?!  Where’s The Viking?  He always holds the spoon for me to lick.  You stink like Hospital – don’t touch me, that’s gross!  I chewed the container of chicken broth and made a mess.  That’s how pissed I am.

I gave them treats and tried to spoil them a bit.

The following morning there was a single paper towel on the kitchen floor with two small corner bits torn off.  As a communication it was brilliant.  They are still pissed but only this amount of pissed and not an entire roll of toilet paper pissed.  I thanked them both for their understanding and promised to be more attentive when I could.

Back at the hospital, The Viking was scheduled for yet another ultrasound.  The ferry person turned out to be a penguin and I dared to think that I might be able to keep up with herHA!  Her little legs were pumping like pistons as she careened around corners.  The Viking’s gown was riding up around his belly and IV lines were streaming behind like ribbons.  I was running to keep up, the Tic Tacs in my purse shaking like Maracas.  Finally, I had to yell at her….

“Wait a fucking minute….gasp….I have nerve damage….gasp….in my fucking leg….gasp….and I….gasp….can’t keep up!”  Gasp, gasp, gasp.

I heard a faint apology drifting back to me but she didn’t slow down at all.  Thank gawd she had to wait for an elevator.  When we arrived at our destination, The Viking smiles into my sweating face and says….

“You’re getting a little bit of exercise, Babe.”

….as he reclines comfortably, pushing his dressing gown to cover his sex area.

And that, my friends, is pure bravery coming from a man laying on a stretcher in a dressing gown that leaves his ass exposed.



Izzie – It’s Mine Now!

The Viking is always getting visitors.  They drop shit off and pick shit up and they all make me happy when they leave.  I don’t like people invading my yard any more than I like other cats invading my yard but if they really feel the need to stop by the least they can do is leave their truck door open, or a window at a bare minimum.  I’m short, you know, and getting into your vehicle isn’t always easy.

I bring this up now because I found the perfect Izzie-mobile.  Lucky for me, the guy I am stealing it from spent a good amount of time talking with The Viking so I could do a long and thorough inspection.  That’s the most important thing about getting a new vehicle – check it over carefully.

I like the color.  It’s not pink but it’s attractive nonetheless.

That seat belt is a little high.

It has a rack to carry my litter box and cat tree – unlike that monstrosity The Viking drives.

Lots of leg room for my people.

Plenty of cargo space for my toys and food.

The side mirrors are in good order – I just need to reset them for my height.

Methinks I’m going to need a Booster Seat.

Hey!  You!  Hand over the keys so I can take it out for a test drive.

And then, in what I can only call a complete breakdown in communication, the guy takes the truck away!!  What the hell were you thinking, Viking?!  I wanted it and you just let him drive it away?

I was just getting over your betrayal with the neighbor’s cat and then you pull this shit?!  How hard could it be to just put the guy on a bus?

What?!  I’m not allowed to have a truck now?  Is that what you’re saying to me?

Where’s Mom?!  She’ll let me have a truck.  Just you wait and see!

I put up with a lot of crap around here.  Mim brings her damn cats here all the time and you won’t leave the water running so I can drink when I want and Teddy eats my food.  You even tried to make me wear a sweater!  I don’t do sweaters!

Look at me when I’m giving you the Stink Eye!  If I had poo right now I would fling it at you.

Someone had better get that Treat Jug out.

I don’t know why I even put up with you.  There seems to be no end to the atrocities.  I’m calling PETA!  Black Lives Matter, you know!

You think I’m going to ‘sit pretty’ anymore?  I don’t bloody think so!  I’m going for a nap and there had better be zero noise!  You hear me?  ZERO!


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Just Listen Already!!

People don’t listen to me.  I talk and they nod like they are listening and then they go and do as they damn well please!  Like I hadn’t spoken at all!  I believe in doing your own thing and being your own person but when I’m paying for something I’d like them to LISTEN!

I just got home from the grocery store and I’m still a little annoyed.  Safeway sells wonderful collapsible square bags that are actually boxes that stand on their own, can handle a lot of weight and are easy to carry – I have many of them.  So when I got to the cashier, I placed the box in front of my groceries and moved down to the other side where she was packing the box.  She put in a six pack of canned flavoured water and I said….

“Just leave both six packs and the jugs of Cranberry Juice out of the bag.  I won’t be able to lift it if there’s too much weight.”

Her:  I was going to put all the light items in a plastic bag and the heavy stuff in the box.”

Me:  I don’t want a plastic bag.  Just leave the heavy items unbagged and I’ll hand-bomb them into the car.”

She put a six pack of the flavoured water in the box.  I reached in and took it out and put it loose in the cart.  She scans in the second six pack and puts it in the box!  I take it out and put it beside the other six pack in the cart and said….

“Don’t put the Cranberry Juice in the box.  I would like it loose and unbagged, please.”

She scans in some cereal and the fresh produce and deposits them in the box.  Then she scans the Cranberry Juice and puts it in the box!!!  What. The. Fuck?!  She pretends I’m not even there!

I just gave up at that point. I paid for my damned groceries, muttered all the way out to the car and came home.  If that was the only example I wouldn’t have much to complain about, but it’s not the only one.

About 6 weeks ago I went to the dentist and it was a total shit show and the ultimate end product was an incredibly painful TMJ issue.  I went back to the dentist, he took an x-ray and said my TMJ was just fine.  So I went to a physiotherapy clinic and they recommended I see Anne, the Traditional Chinese Massage Expert.  I told her what the issue was:  the entire right side of my face is killing me and the pain shoots up from my neck, through my jaw, up through my temple and across my forehead.  I explained that the dentist said it wasn’t TMD so it must be from the huge lump on the back of my neck.

Her:  Your face hurting but problem isn’t face.  Your face like computer screen that not working.  You think the problem is screen but it not screen.  It hard drive or software.

Me:  Oookay.

Her:  Lay down face up.  Show me where the pain is.

Me (laying down, face up, waving my hand all around the right side of my head):  Everywhere but mostly in my jaw and temple.

Her (poking my jaw):  Here?

Me:  OMG!!!  Yes!  That fucking hurts!

Her:  Ah!  You see?  Like radio.  You hear radio but radio not here.  Is over there.  You have to follow wiring.

She carried on talking about computers and radios and cars and other shit I wasn’t listening too.  I wasn’t listening to her because 1). She’s using her hands to point at the invisible computers/radios/cars, and 2).  I can hear the ticking of the clock and every tick is another minute I’m paying for while Vanna White is NOT fixing my problem!

The next appointment I said my face was feeling well enough for me to feel the lump on the back of my neck stabbing into my brain.  She shook her head at me and said….”Not neck.  You feel pain in neck but neck is not problem.  Your neck like computer screen that not working.  Not screen problem.  Software problem.  Blah.  Blah.  Blah.  Blah.  Blah.”

And she tortured my face some more.

Next appointment – my face is still hurting and now I can’t even touch it because she’s bruised every muscle on my entire head!  AND my neck is really hurting from the big lump.  I take her hand and push her finger on the lump.  Right there!

She smiles and nods.  “Lay down face up.  Neck not problem.  Like radio.  You hear radio here…….”  Blah, blah, blah, blah BLAH!  And she tortured my face in between her Vanna White impressions.  I go for 4 appointments with her not listening to me.  She would torture my face for a little bit, but then she decided to torture my left leg because I have nerve damage and walk with a limp!  What. The. Fuck?!  That’s the furthest place from my neck that she could possibly be and I’m almost certain my damned leg isn’t making my face/head/neck hurt!!

Two can play at this game, you know!!

The next appointment I said my face feels wonderful!  No pain.  It’s very good now.  She showed me a demonstration of how my jaw joint works.  She asked where the pain is and I said….”I have a terrible headache.  It is the back of my head all the way over my skull to my forehead.

She smiles and nods.  “Lay down face up.  Forehead not the problem.  Forehead like computer screen.  You think forehead is problem but it not the problem.  No.  You have hardware or software problem.”

And she finally worked on my neck like I wanted in the first place!!  Gawd!!

And then there’s The Damned Viking!  He only listens to the first 3 words in my sentence, decides what I’m about to say and then starts hollering, like he’s a fucking Clairvoyant!  I stop talking and make the universal sign of WTF by turning my palms face up in front of me with a confused face.

Me:  So, I was thinking that I should get……


Me:  I was thinking that I should get busy doing the…..


Me (sighing heavily):  I was thinking that I should get busy doing the laundry.  Your dirty clothes corner is almost touching the ceiling.

The Viking:  I’m almost out of underwear.

And then there are the cats.  They don’t fucking listen either, unless I’m shaking the treat container and then they are listening so hard I’m tripping on them.

I don’t think I’m asking too much for people to fucking listen when I’m talking!  I’m becoming more and more convinced all the time that cranky old people are only cranky because no one would fucking listen to them and they’ve had enough!

I don’t need my cane to walk anymore but I’m thinking of taking it with me anyway, just so I can poke those non-listening fuckers!  And maybe I’ll sharpen the end into a point.  A nice sharp point.


The Viking Invasion


Erik and Annette arrived in Edmonton smiling but exhausted while The Viking and I were almost jumping up and down with excitement.  Almost.  Because it’s unbecoming for Double D boobs to start flapping around in crowds – someone, other than myself, could get hurt and The Viking’s little jiggles would offer little distraction from my epic display.  So we waited impatiently without jumping.

Then, through the sliding doors, behind a fussy little guy with a mountain of luggage, I caught a glimpse of Erik.  “THERE THEY ARE!!!”  The Viking pushed me out of the way so he could verify the sighting – like they were Yeti’s and I couldn’t be trusted with visuals.

We spent the night in a hotel near the airport then drove back to Calgary.  The following day would begin the ‘Victoria or Bust’ Vacation/Honeymoon Tour.  My legs were shaved, exfoliated and smeared with the best lotion available in the hopes that British Columbia sunshine would give them even the faintest of tans.  My legs are tan-resistant, always glowing in the dark like they belong to a damned Vampire.  Oddly, my feet tan just fine.  I’m pretty sure I know why though.

“Yea, though I walk in the shadow of my boobs, my legs shall fear no sunburn: for the great boobies protect them from UV rays.  Bugs will bite and thorns will scratch but no burn will afflict mine legs.  Surely their whiteness shall beam for all the days of my life.”

Um…… where was I?  Oh yes – travelling.  It didn’t take us more than an hour and a half to completely corrupt Annette with Canadian food – Tim Hortons to be exact.  A breakfast sandwich, a large double/double coffee and Tim Bits ruined her for life.  And we didn’t do it just once either; we shoved that shit down her throat for a week before The Viking and Erik decided we had to stop with the Tim Bits.  The breakfast sandwiches were still okay in their opinion but Annette and I would be starved of the doughnutty deliciousness until further notice.  It was only on the final leg back to Calgary that the Doughnut Police finally decided we could have Tim Bits again.

“What. The fuck. Is that?!” Annette and I wanted to know when they showed up with coffee and a teeny, tiny, miniscule little box of Tim Bits – like they were for Ken and Barbie or something.  The Viking was beaming like he was offering us gold bars while Erik nodded his participation in the offering.

The Viking:  We thought that since this was the last day of our road trip we would treat you with Tim Bits.

Me:  Did you do the math on this?

The Viking:  The math?

Me:  Yes.  The math.  There are 4 people in the vehicle and 20 Tim Bits.  That means we only get 5 each!

The Viking:  That’s enough, isn’t it?

Me:  Oh, it most definitely isn’t enough!  It might be months before I get Tim Bits again and you’re rationing us?  What is this?  War time or something?  What if I put you on a licorice diet?  Only allowed you 5 pieces of licorice once a day?

The Viking:  That’s not the same thing at all!

Me:  Yes it is!  Erik and Annette brought you 83 pounds of candy from Denmark and that might have to last you for 2 years.  It’s totally the same.

The Viking wouldn’t cave but Erik decided to watch his man-ly figure and generously donated his share of the Bits.  Annette and I split them between us because The Viking didn’t deserve any more.  I then proceeded to give him the stink eye all the way home.

We graced Vancouver Island with our presence for 3 days then we headed to Pentiction where we would tour Wineries and lay on the beach.  That was our intention, but it didn’t actually work out that way.  We hit one Winery, only stayed at the beach for an hour and a half before it clouded over, took a ride on an old historic train and got drunk a lot instead.

We did play Mini-Golf but Erik was like some sort of Pool Shark except with golf balls.  Sure, he was humble while we were playing but when he announced that he beat all of us by a minimum of 6 strokes he couldn’t hide the Victory Grin.

I asked, “Is anyone else suspicious that the guy who kept score is also the one that won the game?”  The last laugh was ours the next morning though when Erik developed painful Golfer’s Wrist; we had to find a splint to immobilize it.  What cost the price of Victory?

After Mini Golf we went to a Chinese Buffet and the true difference between how the Danes treat Buffets and how Canadians (at least this Canadian) treat Buffets were glaring.  Annette, The Viking and Erik carefully perused the food and picked out Fishy Stuff.  I perused the food and picked out the stuff I liked and put it on my plate.  Back at the table, my plate was full while their plates held only a few things.  They all finished their first course and returned to the Buffet for their next.

I sat nibbling on my chicken balls, watching the progress of my companions.  It took a moment for what I was seeing to sink into my brain.  The Viking was first, Annette was second and Erik was bringing up the rear.  Their movements were perfectly synchronized!  They all took one step to the right in precise unison.  They all put something on their plate (the hand movements were immaculately synced) and took another flawless step to the right.  They repeated this amazing show the whole way around the Buffet!!  This performance would have captured them a Gold Medal if it was an Olympic Event (we should make this an Olympic Event).  No swim team could have matched the precision.  They returned to the table, in-step, with a military precision Korean soldiers would envy.

“Um….I don’t know if you know this but that was an incredible display of The Buffet Shuffle.”  I said.  “I was completely entertained.  Well done!”

Apparently they had never heard of The Buffet Shuffle so I had to explain the intricate steps and movements involved.  I’ve been to a lot of Buffets in my life – my father is a huge fan – but I’ve never seen the Shuffle done so well.  Unfortunately, I didn’t think to get my phone out and record it until it was too late.  Equally unfortunate was the fact that when I went up to get another dumpling the only person I had to Shuffle with was a very tall, very skinny guy and he was more interested in the Ginger Beef than Shuffling.  I did try though, but had to stop when he caught me trying to match his movements.

We gazed at mountains and glaciers, tramped through a forest, Erik watched whales and the rest of us communed with nature at The Butchart Gardens.  We toasted bikers, toured a Miniature Land and browsed 317 gift shops.  We saw the Hope Slide, the Enchanted Forest, Fisherman’s Wharf and a Water Fall that used to be free but now isn’t.  Erik and The Viking drank Beer with Clamato Juice and Ceasars with abandon and then had the trots.  They didn’t believe me when I told them it was the Clamato Juice so they had the trots for much longer than they needed too.  Annette and I polished off two bottles of Lemon Gin and didn’t get the trots at all.

Most importantly, we had HYGGE.  In abundance!  We just spent time together and laughed and talked and were a family.  It was one of the best times of my life.  You know how sometimes you spend time with people but after a few days you want to shoot them in the face?  Well, this wasn’t one of those things.  It was bliss instead.

We arrived home to two very love-y cats who refused to let any of us out of their sight for two days.  That was fine because we had only a day and a half to prepare for my Wedding.  Thank goodness Annette is a brilliant Hair Stylist.  Also thankfully, she is a calm and serene island in the middle of my Stress Mess.

…..Stay tuned for My Completely Viking Wedding.

Boom, Baby!

It’s harder to get married than I thought.  It should have been easier given that I’ve been on that particular Merry-Go-Round before.  Maybe it wasn’t as complicated back then.  Or maybe expectations were lower at 19 than they are at 53.  Or maybe it’s because I only had 10 days to pull it off this time.  Or, most likely, life has kicked my ass a few times and now I’m a neurotic, stressed out, menopausal woman with a Perfection Complex.

As I was maniacally making notes and lists and finding out what was available and what wasn’t available, The Viking walked past and made an explosion sound that puffed his cheeks out.  I whipped my head around and said, “What is that supposed to mean?!  Is that the sound of all my hopes and dreams exploding in my face?!  Because I don’t need the sound effects!”

For a moment his face was slack with confusion but then he started to laugh.  “Relax, babe.  It will be just fine.  I can help you as soon as I’m done in the garage.”

It didn’t work, but I appreciated the attempt to soothe my fraying nerves.  Mim and I brainstormed over a wedding cake and came up with this:

Unfortunately, Crave Cupcakes had the temerity to accept other orders before mine. Boom, Baby!

Everything else was coming together though.  I had dishes, tablecloth, napkins, napkin rings, serving platters, flowers ordered, food order put in at the Danish store and a Commissioner of Marriage – Judy.  She explained what I needed to know and what the most important thing I needed since I had been married before – the Judgement of my Divorce.

I found it almost immediately, surprising myself with my organization and filing skills.  It said ‘Judgement of Divorce’ on it and there were several official stamps and dates.  Two days before Erik & Annette (The Viking’s brother and beautiful Partner) arrived, The Viking and I went to the Registry to get our Marriage License.

We waited patiently in line then handed over our Identification and my Judgement of Divorce.

“Sorry.  I need a Certificate of Divorce, not the Judgement.” The little girl behind the counter said firmly.

I said, “What?!  The Commissioner said ‘Judgement of Divorce’.”

“You need a Certificate of Divorce.”  She said slowly and more audibly.

“Are you saying I’m not Divorced?”

“Oh, you’re divorced for sure.”

“So why can’t I have a marriage license?”

“Because you need a C..E..R..T..I..F..I..C..A..T..E of Divorce.”

“What is a C..E..R..T..I..F..I..C..A..T..E of Divorce going to tell you that the actual Judgement doesn’t?”

“Nothing.  But the law requires it.”  Well, there’s no arguing with that, is there?  I hate Smarty-Pants young people who pull facts and rules out when it’s most inconvenient.

“So where do I go to get this damned Certificate?!”

“Downtown at the Court of Queens Bench.”  Boom, Baby!

“DOWNTOWN?!”  I hate Downtown!  It requires waiting for buses and then walking whole blocks and then waiting in lines, and then waiting for buses and walking whole blocks again.

Smarty-Pants nodded cheerfully and handed me my fucking useless Judgement of Divorce.  The Viking had remained quiet throughout the whole ordeal but chose this moment to share his wisdom.

“So, you’ll just have to go downtown and get the Certificate.”

I had the brilliant idea of calling Stanley because he was already re-married so he must have had a Certificate and he was a whole lot closer than fucking Downtown.  Except some asshole Home Invader broke into his and his wife’s house and stole THE FUCKING CERTIFICATE OF DIVORCE!!  Who does that?!  Sure, they took a lot of other stuff that was much more valuable, both monetary and sentimental, but a Certificate of Divorce?!  I have a lot of sympathy for the horribleness of someone invading their house and privacy and safety and I don’t mean to be glib about their losses and emotional devastation but……I NEEDED THAT DOCUMENT!!  You asshole!  Boom, Baby!

So I went Downtown.  And I got my damned Certificate.  And we took it to Smarty-Pants at the Registry and got our Marriage License.

Pop Quiz:  Did you know that if the smallest, tiniest, puniest thing, like a wrinkle or a stain, happens to that License, it’s null and void?  Yes, it’s true.  Had I known that, I would have insisted we take separate vehicles so The Viking could be in sole custody of the License where I would have no access to it.  The drive home was like transporting Nitroglycerin.  It lay across my lap and my hands were placed firmly on the dash.

But then I had an itch on the end of my nose.  I tried to ignore it but it just kept getting worse and worse and finally I carefully took one hand from the dash, extended a finger and started moving it toward the itch.

The Viking:  What are you doing?!

Me:  I have an itch!

The Viking:  Put your hand back on the dash!  Right now!

Me:  But it itches!

The Viking:  It won’t kill you so, put. the. hand. back. on. the. dash!

I had to wait in the car when we got back home so he could retrieve the License from my lap and whisk it away to our safe.

And that was the end of planning time.  It took quite a while for me to just accept that I did my best and it would have to do.  We had the most important things in place and I would have one day after our Honeymoon to get ready for the actual Wedding Day.

Oh!  I probably didn’t tell you…..we are taking our Honeymoon before the Wedding because we were taking Erik and Annette to Victoria for 10 days.  All the last minute shit required for the Wedding would have to be accomplished in one day when we got back home.

On July 15th we were waiting at the Edmonton International Airport to meet our guests.  I was at the mercy of the Gawds.  Boom, Baby!

Stay tuned for the next installment of the Completely Viking Wedding.


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Competitive Sleeping

Hey!  Nice to see you again.  I missed last weekend’s Coffee Share because I was busy watching The Viking electrocute himself.  Happily, despite fiddling with wires that should have been full of electricity, he is still alive and grumbling.

But enough of that.  How are you doing?  Is life treating you good?  Help yourself to coffee and tiny Pecan Tarts that were made for Dwarfs, or maybe Elves or possibly Leprechauns.  I’m just guessing but I think they were meant to be ‘Bite Sized’ but they aren’t.  They are, at a bare minimum, two bites but are actually an awkward three bites where the last bite crumbles in your hand and you end up having to suck the crumbs out of your palm like a Hoover.  It’s not elegant but it is amusing to watch guests try to be polite.

My week was fairly dull, and by dull I mean boring.  Nothing much happened.  Until this morning.  And then it happened before I even got out of bed.

No.  Not that.

We stayed up too late last night so this morning when the Cat Alarm went off at 8:30 I was completely unprepared to get up.  So I shouted “IZZIE!!  SHUT UP!” which seemed to work for about two and a half minutes.  There were several more shouted threats and curses and a giggle from The Viking who apparently found all this amusing.

There was the inevitable tipping point though.  That moment when I didn’t immediately fall back to sleep immediately after threatening death and dismemberment.  And that’s the moment when Competitive Sleeping happened.

Me:  I should get up and make the coffee.

Me:  He’s awake.  He’ll get up any moment.

Me:  He was up later than I was.

Me:  That’s not my fault.  He made his choice.

Me:  Actually, I think he was trying to fix something with the Kodi Box.

Me:  He loves doing that.  It’s like play time for him.

Me:  I’m pretty sure he wasn’t enjoying himself.

Me:  How would you know?  You were asleep.  He might have been Naked Break Dancing for all you know.

Me:  Come on, now.  He would never do that.  He was trying to fix it so tomorrow I wouldn’t have to wait while he tried finding an available stream for a half hour.  That’s how he shows his love.

Me:  Pfft!  He was probably watching porn.

Me:  He doesn’t need to watch porn!  Geez!  Where do you come up with this shit?!

Me:  I’m just saying.

Me:  Don’t.  Just don’t.  I’ll get up and let him sleep in.

Me:  WAIT!  He’s moving!  Maybe he is getting up and will make the coffee.  Wouldn’t that be awesome? 

Me:  Yes, that would be awesome but he’s not moving anymore.  He went back to sleep.

Me:  So wiggle around a little bit!  Snore!  Then he’ll think you’re sleeping.

Me:  But I’m not sleeping anymore.

Me:  He doesn’t know that for sure!  A little snore would convince him he’s more awake than you are.

Me:  Do you even remember last weekend when he got up early and went out to buy fresh buns and cheese and doughnuts?  Getting up and making coffee is the least I could do.

Me:  Well, if you’re going to bring up every obsolete act of kindness every time you want to be selfish, I can’t see any point of me even being here.

Me:  That might be construed as a good thing, you know.

Me:  So you want to get up?    

Me:  No!  Of course not!  But someone has to make coffee and I’m the first one awake.

Me:  He’s awake – probably more awake than you are!  Do you hear any snoring?  Then he isn’t sleeping and if you’d just make a few sleeping noises, he’ll go make the coffee!

Me:  I’m getting up!  I need coffee if I have to keep arguing with you!

Me:  Well, you’ll have to do the dishes too because you didn’t do them last night.  Still want to get out of bed first?

Me:  Bah!  I forgot about that.  There’s every chance that he’ll just make the coffee and I’ll have to do the dishes myself anyway.

Me:  But!  You’ll have coffee ready for you.

Me:  I’ll just do the dishes while I’m waiting for the coffee to brew.

Me:  You are such a pussy!  I want to stay in bed!  Gawd! 

Me:  Stop being so melodramatic.  You’re just getting out of bed, not inventing the wheel you know.

Me:  You’re not going to wear that are you?  It makes you look fat.

Me:  You’re just cranky because I won’t stay in bed.  You loved this shirt last week.

Me:   Well, I had more sleep last week.

I consoled myself by committing to a nap this afternoon.  I love Saturday afternoon naps when I can curl up in my happy place and spend time with just me.  Sure, it’s a weird place sometimes but that’s okay, nobody needs to know.

Thanks, as always, to Nerd in the Brain for hosting Weekend Coffee Share and Part-Time Monster for inventing it.

Why Aren’t You Electrocuted?!

Over the weekend, The Viking and I – mostly The Viking – had to replace our Garage Door Opener because it inconveniently and selfishly died.

We took down the dead and useless Door Opener and then began assembling the new unit.  It was all very straight forward, no big surprises, until The Viking went rogue.  He threw the instruction manual into the corner and began fiddling with electrical wires.

Me:  Why aren’t you electrocuted?!

The Viking:  What?  There’s no power to these lines.

Me:  The wires are coming right out of the ceiling, the breaker hasn’t been flipped, so why aren’t you electrocuted?!

The Viking:  These wires get their power from the garage door opener brains, not from the building’s power supply.

Me:  Stop talking in Sorcery!  The brains are plugged in!  I can see the power cord plugged into the power plug!

The Viking:  Relax!  Take it easy.  I know what I’m doing.

Me:  …….

Me:  …….

Me:  …….

Me:  I will never understand electricity.  It’s terrifying.

He carried on with his Warlockery and I watched him.

Me:  I can’t believe I’ve lived for this long without understanding electricity.  I stuck a knife in an electrical socket once because my mother told me to never do that.  Ever.

The Viking:  And so you did.

Me:  Of course I did.  You can’t just tell me not to do something without telling me why.

The Viking:  Well, you obviously didn’t die.

Me:  Exactly.  It hurt, but I didn’t die, and my curiosity was gone.  My parents could have spared me that.

Me:  I also stuck my head in a plastic Drycleaning bag because there was a warning on it that said to never do that.  Again, they never said why.

The Viking:  Seriously?

Me:  Yes.  And I didn’t suffocate.  Now that I think about it though, I think the warning did mention ‘Suffocation’ but I was like 6 years old and didn’t have a clue what that meant.

The Viking:  …..

Me:  My best friend found a box of wooden matches once.  They looked harmless but apparently they were ‘extremely dangerous’ and children should never play with them.

The Viking:  Let me guess….

Me:  See?!  You know already what needed to be done!  We tried to light the wooden fence on fire but it wouldn’t burn.  We tried to set the grass on fire too, but that wouldn’t work either.  The only thing that actually did work was burning our fingers.  And then I got a spanking, like having burned fingers weren’t punishment enough, because Darcy apparently didn’t know how to lie.  I couldn’t be friends with him after that.

The Viking:  Hahaha!

Me:  And pull cords on blinds.

The Viking:  You didn’t!

Me:  Actually, yes.  I did.

The Viking stopped what he was fiddling with and looked at me with an odd expression on his face.  “You sound like your daughter.”

Me:  That’s impossible because I made certain that I explained things to her.  Don’t put a knife in an electrical outlet because electricity, through sorcery, will enter the knife, travel through your arm and straight upward because of gravity or something and blow your head completely off your body.  And guess what?  She never stuck a knife in an electrical outlet.

The Viking:  That’s not how electricity works.

Me:  Does it really matter?  The point is that she never electrocuted herself because she listened to me.  Unlike you who will die at some point this afternoon because you keep touching electrical wires.

The Viking:  I’m not going to die today.

Me:  I feel like a kid when my Dad took me to work with him and I had to sit around doing absolutely nothing for hours because there might be bears around.

The Viking:  …..

Me:  There were only so many times I could be interested in what was in the glove compartment.  And without the truck running fiddling with the radio buttons was less than satisfying.

The Viking:  …..

Me:  I did find a magazine full of naked women behind the seat.  Dad took it away from me and then made another worker take me home.  He said he had an emergency to deal with but I didn’t buy it.

The Viking:  …..

Me:  He did explain the perils of playing with the gear shifter when the truck was running but he never left it running.  He must not have trusted my judgement.

The Viking:  …..

Me:  There were old pallets at Dad’s job and he wanted to take them apart and use them for something else.  He gave me a hammer and told me to get all the nails out but I accidentally stepped on a nail as I was pulling a nail from another piece of wood.  I didn’t even get a tetanus shot.  Oh!  And one time I had a really, really sore throat so he painted my tonsils with MercuroChrome.  It’s toxic to the environment but not tonsils I guess.  I’m lucky to even be alive!

The Viking:  …..

Me:  Hey!  Did I ever tell you that I know how to pick a lock on an interior door?  So if you were to lock the bathroom door and then accidentally faint I would be able to pick the lock and save you.

The Viking:  I never lock the bathroom door.

Me:  I’ve just noticed that when I get bored my mind has a tendency to wander a bit.

The Viking:  You think?

Me:  I’m seriously bored.  I didn’t think it would take this amount of time to replace a door opener.  I would have brought booze and a book if I had known.  Maybe a pillow for a nap.  And a fuzzy blanket.  Or binoculars.  That might have amused me for a little while.

You’re not even listening to me anymore.

Me And My Demon

Oh.  Hey.  Welcome to Coffee.

Yes, I am a little depressed.

Because I’m the worst Villain in recorded history, that’s why.

Well, it was my birthday on the second of April and The Viking and I celebrated it like we usually do – getting drunk and telling each other our inner most feelings.  We then further celebrate for two more days by lying around the house with hang overs.  It isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but it works for us.  No, that’s not why I’m depressed.

I’m depressed because I noticed something.  Maybe it was because I was kind of drunk or maybe it was one of those random things that suddenly occur to me.  Whatever the reason, I realized it when I was dishing up the Birthday Cheesecake.

I have a Demon.  And it’s evil.  But such a sissy evil that it may as well not be evil at all!

You see, the tip of the first piece stuck to the tip of the second piece and that second piece was my piece!

I made that determination before I ever began dishing it up.  I would serve The Viking the first piece and I would take the second piece, because I’m generous like that.  There was no way I could have foreseen this eventuality.  But now his piece had a jagged, square tip instead of the nice point and my tip had a bite-sized raggedy knob jutting off to the right.

I should carefully and surgically remove the extra tip from my piece and stick it back on his piece.  That’s the proper thing to do.  My angelic side voted for this immediately.

But wait!  Let’s not be hasty here.  The Viking isn’t even paying attention.  He would be none the wiser if I pinched the end of his piece into a tip.  I could still remove the extra bit from my piece but then eat it quick so he wouldn’t notice the discrepancy.  He’s drunk.  I’m drunk.  I think I could pull it off.  He wouldn’t see that my piece was bigger than his piece, especially if I tilt my plate a little bit to obscure his view.  The Demon voted for this option before I was even done thinking it.

The Angel disagreed.  No.  Put the tip back on his piece.

But it’s CheesecakeStrawberry Swirl Cheesecake!

Under the rules of the Jungle possession is 9/10th of the law, you snooze you lose, what happens on the counter stays on the counter, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, waste not want not.

On the other hand…..do unto others as you would have them do unto you, once a thief always a thief and what would Christopher Walken do?  Hmm….maybe he’s not a good subject because I have a feeling that Chris would eat the entire Birthday Cheesecake and leave without saying a word.

But I gave The Viking the bigger pieces of fish the other night because I know he loves fish more than I love fish even though I was just as hungry as he was!  And I let him take more potatoes last week!  I always give him the bigger share and I’m happy to do it!   That should buy me a little bit of Karma.   I even let him drive my car.  Unsupervised!  All the time!

However, maybe Karma gave me the tip of The Viking’s Cheesecake because I always try to do the right thing.  Maybe it’s a reward and if I give it back it could be misconstrued.  I think there is a rule out there, somewhere, that to ignore a gift from Karma is insulting and she may never give me a gift again.

I might have given in to the Demon at that point except the Angel brought my attention to a recent event that wasn’t my most shining moment.


A few weeks ago I split my Easter Bunny Poo with The Viking and there was an odd number of Poo Pieces so someone had to take that last one.  He was so busy watching TV he didn’t notice that I took the last one.  I felt guilty about it, but it’s not like it was licorice!  I would have given him the last licorice because I know how much he loves it.

What if I used all my stored-up Karma by eating that extra Poo and this is a Karma-y test?  That would be just like Karma!  Use Easter Bunny Poo against me.  That’s the problem with these ephemeral concepts – you never know what is going to come back and bite you in the ass.

“Do you need a hand, Babe?”  Said The Viking.  Apparently my ruminations were taking more time than I thought.

“No.  I was just thinking.”

He knows better than to wade into that trap.  In the end, I took the extra tip off my piece and put it back on his piece and served it before I could change my mind.  So my Demon is such a wuss it couldn’t even win me an extra bite of Cheesecake!  And that’s fucking depressing.

But who knows?  Maybe this one little thing will let me win the Lottery?

Thanks as always to Part-Time Monster and Nerd in the Brain for hosting Weekend Coffee Share.  You guys rock.

Sex Hair

If you are faint of heart, you may want to stop reading now.  Hmmm….maybe I shouldn’t have said that because there is a real possibility that you might be ‘faint of heart’ but also have a cat’s curiosity, so now you can’t stop reading.  If that’s the case, please accept my advanced apologies in case you won’t be in any state to accept the apologies at the end.

The Viking and I have sex every Sexday because…well….because.  The point isn’t about the sex itself but what comes after the sex, so rest assured we won’t be getting too specific about that.

Except that one time, with the English Tween Author, who I thought was just going to give me a New Year’s Kiss but 4.6 seconds in I was on the floor wedged between the coffee table and the sofa hollering “Geezuz Cripes!!”  22 seconds later he was sitting on the sofa smoking a cigarette and asking if I’d like a glass of wine.  He was like a Sex Ninja or something and I wasn’t entirely certain whether I had actually participated or not.  I suppose I should have been flattered at his apparent enthusiasm but to be honest I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to appreciate it.  All the way home I kept thinking “It’s not the size of the army, it’s the speed of the attack” and then laughing so hard I was snorting.

I digress.  What I really wanted to talk about was my hair.  Specifically, my hair and what happens to it during sex.

Not that hair!  The hair on my head!  Geez!  I’m trying to be delicate here!

I’ve always been extremely talented at Sex Hair but it wasn’t until this past Sexday that I truly understood the vast artistry of my ability.  As I wandered past a mirror on my way to the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of myself.

Me:  Viking!  Come here!  You have to see this!

The Viking:  Ooooooo…..that’s impressive!

Me (twirling around):  I know!  I think it’s my best one yet – it’s sort of reminiscent of a Turkey’s Ass.

The Viking:  Yes.  Now that you mention it, it does look a lot like a Turkey’s Ass.

Me:  I should get an award for this.

The Viking:  I’m not sure this is your best one though.  I kind of liked the Llama Long Hair.

Me:  That one was truly terrible, wasn’t it?

The Viking:  Yes.  And don’t forget the Holy Hell Monkey one either.

Me (laughing):  I still can’t believe that my baby-fine hair could stick up like that!

Sometimes I can guess what motion caused the hair – like the head tossing from side to side while hollering ‘Yes!’ over and over again.  Other times I haven’t got a clue what I was doing that could possibly create the end product on my head.

Did a hurricane sweep through the bedroom without us noticing?

Maybe a bat got in and I was too distracted to be freaked out?

I tried keeping a picture diary of my Sex Hair Creations but my talent is, obviously, not taking pictures.  Instead I trolled the internet to find comparable animal facsimiles.  Surprisingly, some animals are pretty good at Sex Hair.

If I had a choice, I probably wouldn’t have choosen Sex Hair as my major talent.  I would have picked something like painting or rally car driving or tap dancing but I wasn’t given the choice.  I’m not sure who I should complain to either.  My parents?  How would that conversation go?

“Why is my only talent Sex Hair?”

“You should have stayed in band.  I hear Clarinet players can make decent money nowadays.”

So, there it is in a nutshell.  I have a talent but only The Viking gets to admire my work and I haven’t figured out how to make any money doing it.  Unless I can convince Kate Middleton to ditch the hats and go for better hairdos.

I’ll send her a letter.