Category: Epic Failures

It Could Happen to Anyone!

Sigh. I don’t usually screw up this bad. I’ve honed a combination of anxiety, chronic over-planning, and self-doubt to such an advanced level that it’s rare that I forget something of such importance. Sure, the occasional toothbrush or deodorant gets missed, but they aren’t really important in the grand scheme of vacations.

In my defense, we were leaving for vacation a day earlier than the original plan because The Viking decided, and that condensed my preparations from two days into one day. That’s important because my usual pre-vacation check, check, triple check, self-doubt, check, check, second self-doubt, and a final check was cut off after just two checks, and I only had one day to run all errands and chores. Also, The Viking usually fuels up the bike the day before we leave so we just get on the bike and go first thing in the morning, but this time he decided he should mess with our scientifically proven process of vacationing and would fuel up on the way out of the city. In other words, we were throwing all caution to the wind and recklessly hoping the Vacation Gods were in our favour. They weren’t.

The first sign of the colossal clusterfuckery headed my way happened at the gas station before we ever left the city. The Viking opened his wallet to pull out the credit card to stick into the pump….

“Where the fuck is the credit card?!!!”

During one of those errands the day before, I needed the credit card, so I just stuck the card in my wallet. Had I returned the card to his wallet immediately, he would have been none the wiser, but I hadn’t and that one little thing was nothing short of a sin of biblical proportions and, trust me on this, The Viking is extremely good at pinpointing sins of biblical proportions and exactly who is to blame for those sins of biblical proportions. And, since I didn’t need my wallet on the first day, it was buried in the depths of Jolene’s over-stuffed side bags. At that point, we both decided that it was easier to just pay with cash than scatter our belongings all over the parking lot of the gas station to find my wallet. We should have known better. This is what happens when we fly by the seat of our pants, with no method to our madness. And, had The Viking fueled up Jolene the day before, he would have caught my clusterfuck. But, he didn’t. Our fate was inescapable at that point.

So, we drove four and a half hours, blissfully ignorant. We pulled into the parking lot of our pre-booked hotel and dug out my wallet.

Time.

Stopped.

Blink. Blink.

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My wallet did not contain the credit card.

The Viking grabbed my wallet out of my hands and looked for himself. No credit card. He pulled his wallet out again and nope, no credit card.

Shit.

The Viking started a curse-y stream of mutterances of doom and the ending of all our hopes and dreams forever more, while I prepared for the biblical consequences of my clusterfuck. How could I have lost the credit card?! If it wasn’t in either wallet, then it had to be in my coat pocket or still sitting on the counter at the parts store.

The Vacation Gods must have decided to give us a small bit of luck though when the hotel desk person didn’t ask to see the credit card. We had booked and paid for the room on Expedia, but usually, we are asked for the card anyway. This time they didn’t, so at least we had a bed for the night.

Six o’clock the next morning, we loaded Jolene up again and drove four and a half hours back to Calgary in sub-arctic temperatures which The Viking had tried to avoid by leaving a day early!

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I ran for my coat and…no credit card!

I ran to the car and frisked it thoroughly…no credit card!!

I must have left it on the counter at the parts store. My head was ready to explode. I don’t lose things! How could I have lost THE CREDIT CARD of all things?! The Viking was pacing.

I reached for the phone to call the parts store, and there, on the top of The Viking’s computer tower, was the credit card. I almost cried. It took me only a second to realize that I must have been sidetracked on my way to put the credit card in The Viking’s wallet. A phone call? A customer? With the panic of changed plans and the parts run and talking with the house sitter and getting more cat food and finishing laundry and customers coming at the last minute…it could happen to anyone.

So, 8 hours of driving just to get back to where we started, and then another 8 hours to go where we wanted to go and where we had a hotel room waiting for us. A 12-hour driving day. And it was fucking cold until we got back to where we started that morning.

In a post-apocalyptic clusterfuck de-brief we decided that getting a second card for me to keep in my wallet at all times would protect his card from being pinched from his wallet and the $100.00 for that second card was more than worth it.

A Viking Cat-Ass-trophe

I’ve rubbed off on The Viking.  It happened slowly at first so I didn’t really give it much thought, but with the latest incident, I can’t ignore the evidence any longer.  He’s a Viking Klutz.

In the past few years, he’s had a couple of war wounds.  He banged his leg on a sharp something in the shop, left it to fester for a week, and then presented me with a Sweet-Baby-Jesus(!) oozing wound that required intensive pampering to heal.  He sliced his finger, again in the shop, that sent us to Emergency to have it stitched up before he bled to death.  And other less spectacular injuries that I don’t have time to list.

However, no previous incident can compare with his latest mishap.  It comes with a Red Alert Warning, too.

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Turn back now if you are squeamish about Bums.  Asses.  Derrieres.  Cracks-of-Dawns, or any other euphemism that applies to the muscles upon which you sit.

The day was the same as any other day around here.  The Viking went out to the shop, as per usual, and I was doing my own somethings in the house, as per usual.  From time to time, there were shouts and cursing seeping into the house from the shop, but I don’t even notice them anymore.  The Viking excels at verbalizing his frustrations, very often and at very high decibels, and I’ve developed almost total deafness for sounds coming from the shop.

There came a moment though, that got a tiny piece of my attention for a tiny amount of time.  It was just a second, a blip, a staccato peep, that I dismissed almost immediately even though the sound was not usually part of The Viking’s repertoire.  In my defense, I just thought he was extraordinarily annoyed with a something that required an extraordinary curse.  It was only later that I realized the significance of that blip.

Two hours later, I had reason to visit the shop and found a quiet Viking leaning to the left in his office chair.  “I really wrecked myself this time, babe.”

“Oh?  What happened?”

He lurched out of his chair to recreate the events that ‘wrecked’ him, just stopping short of actually suffering the injury again.  Apparently, he tripped over a trailer hitch and fell backwards.  The lock part of the hitch was sticking straight up and that’s what he landed on.  On his ass.  His right ass cheek, to be exact.  A centimeter (half inch give or take) to the left and he would have completely lost his virginity.*  He whipped his pants down so I could get a look, and it wasn’t pretty.  The offended spot had a shallow cut and the area around it was already turning black and purple and was becoming hard as a rock.

“Holy shit!!  Does it hurt?”  Well, of course it hurt!  He wouldn’t have bothered mentioning it if it didn’t.

Within an hour, half of his bum was purple.  Two hours later his entire right bum cheek was purple and spreading to the left cheek.

I couldn’t look away.  It was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen!  I really wanted him to just stand in the kitchen, naked from the waist down so I could observe the exponential expansion of Bruise Willis and poke it often for ripeness.

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It was so wildly unbelievable that I had to share it.  I sent a picture to his brother in Denmark which got an immediate response of “What the fuck happened?!”  I sent a picture to my daughter which got a quick response of….

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Which made me go…..

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I’m not totally without a heart though.  It was obvious – from my close scrutiny and poking of Bruise Willis – that The Viking was going to need some way to sit down.  So, we jury-rigged a pillow and an ice pack.  The following day it was no better and probably even worse.  The whole thing was so massive I started to get a bit concerned.  Can you get a blood clot in your bum that could travel to your brain/lungs/heart?

“Maybe we should go to a medical clinic.” The Viking thought it was unnecessary but on the third day without any improvement, I forced the issue.

The Doctor was a young guy in his late twenties or early thirties and after a brief explanation from us, he told The Viking to drop his pants.  I think the guy thought we were over-reacting to a minor bruise, but he was thoroughly impressed.

“OH!  WOW!  How did you do that?”

Long story short: The Viking will live to fall another day, we shouldn’t be concerned about blood clots, and here’s a prescription for the pain.  However, Bruise Willis earned The Viking some pampering and a couple sick days off work.

And this brings us to the title of who is the biggest Klutz in the house.  I received two points – one for an infected tooth and another for my spectacular skid across the industrial carpet at the back door.  I also received a bonus point for doing it in front of a customer.  The Viking received three points – one for the oozing leg wound, one for the nearly amputated finger, and one point for Bruise Willis.  He also received two bonus points for style.

With 5 points for presentation and creativity, The Viking is now the Champion Klutz.  Long live the Klutz!

*I didn’t say that right then though because that I thought it might be too soon.

We Need A Permanent Paramedic Team Just For Me, Apparently!

I know I’m a Klutz.  I also know why I’m a klutz.  It’s mostly because I’m not paying attention to what I’m doing – a problem I assume most Over-Thinkers are familiar with.  I walk forward while looking backward, trip over threads, bread crumbs, dandelion fluff, or forget I’m carrying something in my right hand when I pick something up with my left hand.  The carnage is usually contained to spilled liquids or broken glass, but occasionally I do manage minor body injuries.  Having said that, I admit that what happened two days ago was monumental, even for me.  And I wasn’t even distracted.

I was finishing off the final touches to my year-end books when there was a knock at the door.  Usually, I just bellow for whoever it is to come in but I was feeling good for accomplishing the “Worst Task In The Modern World” and thought I would actually go open the door.  I twirled my office chair around in a sassy/breezy move and stood up enthusiastically with a welcoming smile already on my face.

My industrial, 3-meter long Door Mat* said, “Not today, Lady!  Ha HA!!” and lifted its edge just enough for my slipper to catch.

Time…slowed…down.

No way.  You aren’t doing this now, are you?  I thought we talked about being aware of your surroundings, taking that extra little second to lift your feet?  Have you forgotten already?

No, I haven’t forgotten exactly.  I was just so happy!  What’s the harm in a little sassiness and breeziness?  People do that all the time!  It’s not like I was tap dancing.

‘People’ can do sassiness and breeziness.  You cannot.  Ever.  And, just so you don’t forget, here is a little pain to make the lesson stick.

Again?!  Why are you always using Pain as your main Teaching Tool?  We aren’t cavemen anymore, you know.  And would it kill you to get my arms to take up some sort of defensive position so my face doesn’t take the brunt of your abuse?

No.  Your arms are stupid.  The best I can do is get your knees between your industrial Door Mat and your face.

My arms aren’t stupid.  They are traitorous bastards that only think of themselves and this isn’t the first time they have betrayed me.  And if my knees are the best you can do, I suppose I’m at your mercy, but I will be lodging a complaint about your incompetence.  Just so you know.

Oh!  You should also know that your centre of gravity is such that your knees can’t completely save you.  Your shoulder is going to ram into that shoe rack and your face is going to smear itself across the bottom third of the door.

Seriously?!  It’s 3 meters from here to the door.  I’m going to skid, aren’t I?

At least once.  Maybe more.  It depends on your knees, really.

I don’t suppose you would reconsider, would you?

Nope.

Fuck.

I started shouting with annoyance before I actually came to a complete stop and the second syllable was slightly incomprehensible because half of my face was squished against the door.

GEEZUS!!!

Before I could assess the damage, a small voice on the other side of the door said…..

“Um….are you okay?!”

“Yes!!  I’m fine!  Geezus!”  I had forgotten all about this guy in the 2 seconds it took me to crash – deafeningly I assume – into the door.

“Are you sure?  Do you want me to get someone?”

“NO!  I’m fine!  What do you even need?”

“Umm…I’m here to look at my sled.  Your husband is working on it.  He called me to come and look at what he found.”

Grunt.  “Go through that white door behind you.  He’s in there!”

“Okay.  You’re sure you don’t need any help?”

“NO!”  Why won’t he just leave already?  Gawd!

I pushed myself into a sitting position and took stock.  The shoulder took a good hit, as did my face – not a bruising kind of hit, just an annoying kind of hit – but the winner in this encounter was my left knee.  I pulled up my pant leg and saw the skin peeled off in two places.  Because of the skidding, I suppose.

Oooo…that looks painful.

It is.  And I’m not talking to you right now.

When The Viking came in the house an hour or so later I asked if the customer mentioned anything.  He said, no, why?  I pulled up my pant leg.

The slight scraping off of skin had, by now, turned into two huge, bloody scrapes that were irritated by my pants which was just as well because I was irritated, too.  I was slightly gratified that the amount of pain was equal to the wound itself because most of the time that doesn’t happen – it just hurts like hell but doesn’t even show a mark for a small amount of pity.

Typically, The Viking said, “What the fuck did you do?”

I pointed at the irrational Door Mat and then stomped on it for good measure.  “This Door Mat has to go!  It’s a death trap!”

To prove that I was definitely not a Sissy, I plastered a couple of band-aides on the scrapes and called it a day.

Fast forward to last night.  Those damned scrapes were killing me so I decided to take off the band-aides and have a look-see.

GEEZUS!!

They were actually getting infected and the band-aides were stuck to the scrapes so I ended up pulling even more skin off!

In case any of you are wondering…..The Viking is a TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE nurse!  He started rubbing the scrapes with a vigor reminiscent of cleaning soap scum off a tub with a cotton pad only slightly moistened with peroxide.  I howled, he told me to clench my teeth, I turned gray and considered passing out, he called me a baby, I called him a dirty, miserable rat bastard, he grunted, I grabbed the bottle of peroxide and just poured it on the scrape which started foaming like crazy and he howled at the waste of perfectly good peroxide.

Fast forward to tonight.

I’m going to survive.  It was touch and go there for a while but apparently, The Viking’s cruel and unusual bedside treatments were as successful as they were painful.  Don’t tell him that though – he’ll become insufferable.

 

 

*It saves my floors from customers’ shoes.

 

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.

 

Broken Moms and Dads

So, I’ve been wrestling with this post for days already and it’s driving me nuts.  I would just drop the whole thing and find something else to write about but there is an article that I want to share.  It came in my email and punched me in the face.  Hard.  And I’m pretty sure there are a lot of Moms and Dads that need to be punched in the face, too.

I don’t want to write a novel on why the article has impacted me, so pay attention because it’s going to be fast and dirty.

I married a child when I was 19 and then gave birth to two more children.  The marriage was shitty, the children weren’t, and as time went on the marriage became shittier and shittier until I almost killed my shitty self.  The only reason I didn’t was because I couldn’t leave my children alone in a shitty situation.  And then every time a shitty thing happened I ‘over-reacted’, ‘needed to take more pills’ or ‘needed to see a therapist again’.  I didn’t understand that the shitty-ness that led to my self-killing would become the shitty weapon that would be used against me forevermore.  I also didn’t know that all that shitty-ness could be passed on to the children like a virus until they became shitty, too.  I was staying in the shitshow for the children because how would I ever be able to support them without the shitshow, but what I actually did was enroll them in Shitty Bootcamp with one-on-one shitty tutoring.  And as the children grew into adults with superior shitty-ness skills, shitty drama happened more and more frequently with higher and higher shitty-ness levels until finally, during Christmas 2018, the shitty threshold was epic-ally breached and shitty-ness exploded and killed me.  The shitty event took only 15 shitty minutes and even I – by now an expert on shitty-ness – was awed by the level of shitty-ness one person can contain and willingly fling.

And that’s the shitty short version of the whole shitshow.  And, as you might imagine, I don’t do shitshows anymore because it killed me and made me want to literally self-kill again.

Thankfully, there’s a Viking for that…..

…..and he gave me several very good reasons why I shouldn’t self-kill and should stay with him forevermore because he’s not shitty.

And this brings me to the Elephant Journal.  I found it when I was still up to my neck in shitty-ness, trying to understand how my life turned into a complete shittery despite my best efforts.  If you have shitty-ness in your life, check out Elephant Journal where they will give you shit-free articles to make you feel better.

It was one of those shit-free articles that punched me in the face: To the Broken Mom who finds Strength for her Kids by Tiffany Timm.

Go ahead and read it.  I’ll wait.  It’s very short but full of love……

Ms. Timm understands shitty-ness, no?  And I’m here to share my shitty shitshow so you know that you aren’t alone in your shitshow.  I can’t trust my judgement anymore because, well, it was shitty, and never ask me advice about parenting because it’s total shit, too.  However, I am willing to dive into the shitty deep-end with you and wallow in shitty self-pity.  And then I’ll help you out of the shit and tell you that you’re awesome despite all the shit people say.  All the best people have survived shit and escaped all sorts of shitteries.  Including you.  And me.

So.  I see you, too.

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.

Apocalypse Now?

I just got home from the grocery store and I have to say….it was a very civil experience.  I wasn’t expecting that.  I was expecting to be cursing and crying and desperately howling at the Gods to deliver me from the madness!  I thought I would be walking into a dystopian landscape of sirens and smoke and empty, blood-smeared shelves and SWAT Teams patrolling the hazy aisles.  I imagined traumatized families huddled in corners defending the last can of Ravioli with limp English Cucumbers and 4-day-old raisin scones*.

To be honest, I was a little disappointed in The Viking for letting me walk into such a horrific situation on my own.  Given what I was expecting I thought I was being brave as hell for suggesting that I should leave the safety of our house to find food.  Surely he wouldn’t let me face the apocalypse alone.  He’s a damned Viking!  Born and bred through 1200 years of natural selection in preparation for Ragnarök which, can be argued, has maybe just arrived.

But that’s exactly what he did – despite watching hundreds of videos online of people almost eating each other to get their hands on the last roll of toilet paper!  Maybe he thought I was just Bad Ass enough to handle it on my own but how he could arrive at that conclusion is a little baffling given that he won’t let me have a Flame Thrower for “safety reasons” but if ever I needed a Flame Thrower it would definitely be right now.

I lingered at the door for a moment.  “Okay…..well…..I’m leaving now.”  He waved a distracted hand at me without turning from the computer screen.  He was probably watching one of those bloody videos!

“Alone.”

“Uh huh.”

“Who knows what I’ll find out there.”

“Yup.”

“So……I don’t know if I’ll make it home……”

“Take your time.”

“No matter what happens……I’ll always love you.”  Heavy sigh.

“Okay.”  Waves again.

So, fine!  I went alone.  I thought the parking lot would be chaos, with cars idling willy-nilly, doors open, crying infants in car seats.  Horns honking and fists waving.  Maybe a handgun or a machete.  But, nope!  There was even a Handicap space for me!  Once inside, everything was business as usual!

There wasn’t a single white/red potato anywhere though – lucky I like Yams.  Plenty of bottled sparkling water – I can let the Brita gather dust for a while longer.  Meat department was well stocked – thank Gawd!  I thought I might have to look at a legume.

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There were tons of eggs.  The fridge display was full of dairy.  Of course, there was no toilet paper, but I’ve got enough for quite a while anyway.

There was one anomaly though – Men.  And there were two distinct groups of men.

  1. Young-ish men who have been in training for the past decade for the imminent Zombie Apocalypse. These guys were mostly alone so I can only guess that they were sent by their wives/girlfriends for a fun couple of hours of zombie-killing-adventure in which they would find, retrieve and bring home food.
  2. Old-ish men who accompanied every middle-aged/elderly woman, except me of course. Apparently, I wasn’t alone in my expectations of mayhem.  I’m pretty sure all these women were expecting to need some muscle for elbowing their way through a press of sweaty, angry people who may or may not want to rip your arm off for the last can of evaporated milk because the local news has been televising shocking videos.

I’m not sure how much help these old guys were going to provide because they certainly weren’t Vikings.** At least I didn’t think they were Vikings, they definitely weren’t very impressive, but who knows?  Maybe they were all old, retired Vikings hoping to intimidate with glares and gnarly teeth rather than resorting to throwing axes.  And it was very obvious that not a single one of them were in the store by choice.

On a side note:  My Ex was a perfectly healthy, robust male in his early 30s with lots of energy and stamina……until we walked into a store……any store that didn’t involve aircraft and all related items.  As soon as we walked in, his arches suddenly collapsed, and his back started to spasm and he felt nauseous and light-headed and thought he might faint at any moment.  He got heart palpitations and clawed at his shirt while he hyperventilated.  Pink Eye developed in both eyes.  Simultaneously.  He broke out in Hives and a fever.  He kept asking fellow shoppers if they smelled burnt toast and if that was a sign of an imminent stroke?  He clung to the side of the cart with white knuckles like he was about to fall off the 18th floor of Airplanes ‘R’ Us, forming the words ‘Help Me!’ to every other man he saw, extending a blistered arm in supplication for rescue.   The longer I took to acquire the things I needed, the closer he got to death.

I mention this now because many, many of the men in Safeway were exhibiting some of the same ailments the Ex complained about.  One even brought his own Oxygen tank!

Anyhoo, my point here is that people are a little jittery.  Uncertain.  Well, not The Viking, obviously, because he’ll send me out to face the hounds of hell on my own, but most people in the grocery store opted to face the suspected challenges in pairs, probably believing that two would stand a better chance of scoring a can of corn than one.

Of course, it was completely unnecessary as it turned out because everyone was wonderful and kind and thoughtful.  There wasn’t a single example of wrestling and cursing in either the parking lot or store.  I was kind of proud of my fellow Calgarians.  We seem to be at our best when the times are the worst.

And even though The Viking’s presence wasn’t technically needed, he didn’t know that for sure when I was leaving the house.  For all he knew, I could be walking into the Zombie Apocalypse without a Flame Thrower.  So……huge disappointment…………..and he may have to answer some hard questions when he shows up at the gates of Valhalla because I am totally telling on him.

 

*the only thing left in the bakery department because raisins are an under-appreciated food

**Unlike my husband who couldn’t be bothered to show up for Ragnarök, sending his wife instead which, I believe, is a serious violation of some kind of Valhalla Code or something isn’t it?

The Rumblings of Viking Discontent

I don’t really like cooking all that much anymore.  Once was a time when I would chef the hell out of my kitchen, but after 35 years of slinging food, I’ve lost my enthusiasm.  That doesn’t mean I’m not still slinging food, it just means that I’m cranky while I do it.  When The Viking finds me laying on the kitchen floor begging for death to take me now so I don’t have to figure out what the hell to make for dinner for the 5th day this week, he doesn’t need to ask questions.

As luck would have it though, he loves cooking!  Give him a bottle of red wine and a Danish radio station and he’s the happiest damned Viking on the planet.  So, on Saturdays, if he doesn’t have to work in the garage, he makes me dinner.  And he goes shopping for the ingredients, too!

via GIPHY

Unfortunately, last Saturday there was an issue.  It all began when I lost my Airmiles card a couple of weeks ago.  A cashier at Safeway must have forgotten to hand it back to me when I bought groceries and I was, undoubtedly, cranky because I would now have to cook all the crap I just bought and that’s my excuse for failing to reacquire the card.  It wasn’t until my next trip to buy food that I realized it was missing because that’s about the only place I use it.

Anyhoo, I took The Viking’s card to use until my new one arrived.  And that brings us right up to Saturday when he went shopping for the big feast he was making for me.  I happily sat at the computer listening to a documentary and playing solitaire while he was gone.  At one point I thought I heard thunder in the distance but that was impossible because it’s winter.

And then The Viking arrived home.

“Where the fuck is my Airmiles card?!!”

Me:  Oh, I have it because I lost mine somewhere but I’ve ordered a new one.

Him:  Well that’s fucking great!  I stood there looking like a stupid, dumb Fuck, going through my entire wallet searching for my fucking card while 3000 people were waiting behind me!

Me:  Ummm……sorry?

Him:  I was going through the whole store, picking up deals that would give me extra Airmiles!!

Me:  ……

Him:  The cashier was getting all pissed off!  What am I supposed to do?!!  I felt like a fucking dumb fuck!

Me:  ……

Him:  I almost walked away and left it all right there!  I’m so pissed off right now!  I have all these stupid, fucking groceries and NO AIRMILES!!

Me:  ……

He stomped out to bring more stuff into the house, muttering.

Him:  ….so bad if you at least told me you had my card!!  You should have put it back in my wallet when you were finished with it.

Me:  To be fair, I use the card more often than you do and it seemed the better use of the Airmiles card for me to…..

Him:  I MISSED OUT ON 14 MILLION AIRMILES!

Me:  Okaaay.  Since we’re talking about such a tremendous number of miles, it’s clear I made a huge mistake…..

He stomped out again to bring the remainder of his shopping treasures.

Him:  If I had known you were going to fuck me over I never would have bought you these fucking flowers because you certainly don’t deserve them!

Me:  Awwww….you bought me flowers!

Him:  YOU DON’T DESERVE THEM!

via GIPHY

And then I couldn’t help myself.  I started to laugh.  And I couldn’t stop!  He was just so indignant that I “fucked him over” by pinching his Airmiles card.  Tears in my eyes, laughing so hard.  And then I understood that the thunder I thought I heard wasn’t thunder at all but most likely the rumblings of Viking discontent from 4 kilometers away.

In the 12 ½ years I’ve known The Viking, I have never not deserved flowers.  Who knew that pinching his Airmiles card was the hard-line in floral deservedness?

    • I accidentally bleached most of his laundry so he had to wear ridiculous clothes for 3 years until they wore out.
    • I mashed the potatoes when we were serving a Danish Pork Roast to my parents, totally destroying the entire meal.
    • I drove his truck across wet paint when highway workers were painting the centre lines.
    • I smashed his Seadoo onto a big pile of rocks.
    • I forgot to buy his Lottery tickets and we probably would have won a Billion dollars in that draw.
    • ETC.

The list of my sins is lengthy and yet I’ve always deserved flowers.  Until last Saturday.  The good news is that The Viking doesn’t hold grudges against me.  Don’t get me wrong, he’ll hold grudges against anyone else on the planet, just not me.  Because I’m special.

And as impressive as him losing his shit is, it’s not quite as epic as me losing my shit when he forgot to buy Fresca 2 years ago and he laughed his Danishy ass off, right in my face.

So, there is that.

Corpse Legs

First and foremost, I want to send a huge Shout Out to all the people who sent hugs and luvs and support when my Father passed away last month.*   You all have my deepest gratitude.  Thank you.

The two weeks surrounding Dad’s passing were the most stressful of my entire life and it goes without saying that when I get stressed I do Stupid things and the greater the stress the greater the Stupid.

Two days before the funeral, I ripped through my closet looking for something to wear only to find that nothing fit (thank you Diabetic Medication).  I went shopping and found a dress, then stood in front of the two colors of pantyhose the store had in stock.  And I definitely needed pantyhose to disguise my poor un-tanned legs (thank you, shitty summer).  Light or dark.  Light or dark.  The dark ones were stupidly dark but the light ones were close to the actual colour of my legs, so those were the ones I grabbed.

And now…..a quick word on Anxiety.  There are going to be people at this funeral.  Even worse, Family people.  Family people who know every stupid thing I’ve ever done, have heard all the stories, have re-told all the stories and watched me humiliate myself in spectacular fashion on numerous occasions.  They aren’t terrible people; they just have knowledge I would rather they not have.  And the effort to avoid more humiliation in front of them fuels ever more anxiety.  To be honest, I’d rather stand in a crowd of strangers because those people have no point of reference to compare – they take me as I am, right at that moment, totally unaware that I’m a train wreck waiting to happen.  They’ll be just as surprised as I am when shit happens and it’s easier to avoid strangers than it is to live down the reputation that precedes me at family events.

Anyway, the morning of the funeral, I made myself a promise to just let it happen.  Take what comes with dignity and grace and hope for the best.  Deep breaths.

And it worked.  Until I was getting dressed and realized that those fucking pantyhose were too light!  So light, in fact, that my legs resembled something from The Walking Dead.  I would have tossed them and went au naturel except I hadn’t shaved my legs because I had Pantyhose!  That’s a terrifying choice to make on the day of your Father’s funeral – corpse legs or hairy legs.  I feel another ‘Typical Lori’ story coming.

Just forget about it, Lori.  There’s nothing you can do about it now so stop beating yourself up. 

And that worked brilliantly until I got in the car and saw my legs stretched out in front of me.

Geezus!

via GIPHY

I almost chickened out completely at the Funeral Home, but I put my chin up and wiggled my way through the crowd.  I found the Funeral Director in the middle of the foyer and asked where Mom was – in the Family Room, of course.    I was relieved for exactly 23 seconds until I realized the Family Room was filled with Family.  White spots started dancing at the edge of my vision and my chest tightened.  Fuck me!  I immediately looked for the Sister I was most comfortable with and headed in that direction before I passed out.  Everyone was looking.  Probably without judgement but that would end as soon as they saw myfuckinglegs!

I sat down on a sofa behind my Sister and said, “Look at my legs!  They look like CORPSE legs!”  She turned around, most likely to tell me to keep my voice down when discussing corpses at this particular moment but before she could say anything, I lifted a leg and made point-y/stabby motions at it.  “CORPSE LEGS!”

And then my mind froze, and my vision darkened.  Did I just say the word “Corpse” at a Funeral?  My Dad’s funeral?  Christ!  Not only did I say it, but I shouted it, didn’t I?  Everyone in the entire building heard me compare my legs to a corpse.  In a building built specifically for corpses.  Sweet Jesus!

via GIPHY

At the Luncheon in the Seniors Centre, I hoped to get a cup of coffee and a dark corner.  That wasn’t to be, though.  What followed was a wonderful/terrifying hour of hugging and exchanging pleasantries.  People who were friends of Mom and Dad, came to introduce themselves and they were so kind and sweet.  One of them had been wanting to meet me because my Dad always talked about me.  Oh Gawd!  Really?  What stories do you know?!  A teacher from 6th grade came over.  “Mrs. Venables?!”  She had been hoping to see me, too.  Oh Gawd!   Please don’t tell an embarrassing story from 6th grade.  I hoped I wasn’t the only person in the family she was hoping to see.  My favorite cousins were there, and it was so wonderful to see them again, too.  There were many others and, joy of joys, no one told a humiliating story about me even once.

That I heard, anyway, but I’m willing to accept that as a win.

So, I lived through it.  None of my worst nightmares happened.  I was worried for no reason at all and I should learn from this experience.  Besides, no one will remember my Corpse Legs by next week anyway.  Or will they?

Pre-booking my next Anxiety Attack now.

* Especially you, Catherine – the card was perfect!  Cherie did excellent!  Give him a hug for us.

Where’s A Coyote When You Really Need One?

I like birds – they’re pretty and sing-song-y and generally don’t get in my way – meaning, I haven’t tripped over one.  Yet.  There’s still plenty of life in me so there’s a reasonable probability that at some point in the future I will trip over one or two and I can only hope the birds in question don’t hold grudges and/or can’t run very fast.

Anyway, I like birds, but to be honest, I’ve never spent a good deal of time minutely examining my thoughts and feelings about them.  Until this morning, that is.  At 6:30am I was given the perfect opportunity to delve deeply into my opinions and emotions about birds and come up with a definite conclusion:  I like birds – except Magpies.  I fucking hate Magpies!

The specific Magpie who became the object of my early-morning cursing was the one sitting under our bedroom window squawking and chatting with one of the cats.  It was, most likely, Teddy because he seems to have some kind of dysfunctional relationship with it that may or may not include racial slurs, name-calling and cursing.  It follows Teddy around, shrieking at him, then Teddy answers it in Cat and it shrieks again and Teddy answers again.  We’re quite surprised because Teddy….

isn’t the cat around here that’s famous for shouting and swearing – that honour goes to Izzie, The Queen of Mean herself.

Teddy is a sweet, chill guy who channels Joey Tribiani.

via GIPHY

I suppose I could be wrong about the content of their conversations.  Maybe it’s a weird friendship between a Low Talker and a Shouter.  Maybe they are conversing over the state of the local economy and how the influence of weather patterns could disrupt the flow of goods and services to the most vulnerable in society.  Maybe they are plotting and planning a coup in the Squirrel Community.  Maybe that bloody bird has a miserable sibling, too.  Maybe they are comparing notes and strategies for coping.  Who the fuck knows and, at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter.

These two-way conversations go on several times a day for such a ridiculously long time that even the neighbours are starting to notice.  I’ve tried on several occasions to capture this phenomenon but that damned Magpie is as shifty as it is loud, and Teddy has the innocent act down pat.

At 6:30 this morning, I was having visions of pulling every single feather out of that gawd-damned bird until it was naked as the day it was hatched.  I had a lengthy intervention with Teddy, explaining that he needs to find a friend that doesn’t drive me to the serious contemplation of murder.  He listened very carefully, then went outside and found that bird again!  Probably to tattle on me for racism or something.  Will my car be covered in Magpie Poop now?

Under normal circumstances, I would never try to dictate who a person has as a friend because friendship comes in many different forms.  Cat and bird friendships should be encouraged in the hope of interspecies peace.  But a Magpie?  Really?  Teddy couldn’t find any other bird in the neighbourhood to befriend?  One that was less offensive and less loud?  A Finch?  A Sparrow?  How about a Hummingbird?  Hummingbirds are nothing short of awesome!  Nope!  It had to be a damned Magpie!  I would suspect passive/aggressive behavior if it were Izzie because she would totally do that, but Teddy has neither the smarts nor the personality to pull it off.

Since I apparently have little influence on Teddy’s choice of companions, I’ll just have to come up with a name for my nemesis.  A little help would be greatly appreciated, people.

In the meantime, it’s my kind of luck that someone will write a children’s book about this, ending it with the sweet cat and the pretty bird living happily ever after and I’ll look like the asshole.

Where is a coyote when you desperately need one?