Well, it’s nearly here. It’s the calm before the storm. The gifts are bought and trimmed, the turkey is in the fridge thawing out, the groceries are ready and I’m taking a moment for a few deep breaths. We leave for Mim’s tomorrow at noon.
I’ve kissed The Viking and patted his head. I’ll enjoy these last hours before all hell breaks loose in the morning. There will be yelling, cursing, tears, threats and perhaps projectiles. It’s always the same with us. We can’t go get groceries together without a damned dust-up. Do you have my wallet? No. Why would I have your wallet? I have my wallet. Did you remember the Airmiles coupons? FUCK! Turn around. Yes! I know it’s my fault, you don’t need to rub it in. Okay. Let’s go. Again. Do you have the list? What?! I thought you had the list! FUUUUCK! Turn around!
Blah, blah, blah.
The good thing is that we are accustomed to it now. It’s water off a duck’s back for us. The neighbours still take it hard, though. I’ll take them cookies when we get home and apologize. The neighbours to the west have two children now and I’m expecting a sheepish visit one of these days to ask us not to curse so much and so loud. We’ll have to give them advanced notice of our departure times so they can hurry the kids in the house and put headphones on them.
Mim is very excited to host her first ever Family Feast. I’ll show her how to do the turkey and she is doing the rest. The Viking and I can sit back and relax, maybe have a nap on the sofa. Mim says we aren’t allowed to have sex but she didn’t say we couldn’t get lovey on the couch. We’ll do our level best to disgust the kids. I have every intention to be one of those Grandparents that you have to warn the kids about. Smile.
I’m taking cards and poker chips and dominoes so we can play a few games. Add some booze and we should have a great time.
As much as I will love being with Mim, MimMan and Junior, the BIG DEAL is The Viking’s Christmas Present. We aren’t taking it to Mim’s because it’s just really, really big, so I have to wait to give it to him when we get home on Christmas Day. I can hardly stand it!! Gawd!!
I’m sending my best wishes to everyone for a wonderful Christmas filled with love and laughter and embarrassing moments – because everyone should have at least one every Christmas. May the food be great, may the gifts bring joy and may we all end this year with fireworks.
By now you probably know that I have been extra-ly blessed in the boob department. I don’t want to be ungrateful but they can be a total nuisance from time to time. Therefore, it shouldn’t come as too great a shock to know that I’ve had another Boob Incident.
I was making up gift baskets for our best customers; I make all sorts of homemade goodies and put them in lovely baskets and deliver them just before Christmas. And it was during the execution of baking the goodies that I suffered a terrible injury to my right nipple.
All the baking went well. Everything indicated a successful completion of 3 gift baskets and I was already starting to congratulate myself. All that remained to do was decorate the Gingerbread. I had it in the bag. This was easy, easy stuff. First, I needed to clean up the mixer tools so I could get the icing made, and that’s where the whole affair came off the rails.
It had been going so well….
I had managed to keep the amount of cookie dough in my bra to a minimum.
I hadn’t had a major spill of any sort.
I hadn’t severed a digit.
I didn’t break any glass.
Nothing was burned.
I hadn’t forgotten any ingredients – everything tasted perfect.
Nobody ate it all, behind my back.
I only had to make an extra trip to the store once.
So I was confident! Once everything was clean and dry, I started assembling the KitchenAid again. The batter tool snicked easily into place, but then……
The bowl wouldn’t turn, to lock in place. Why do they have to make these things so tight? Geezus! I grabbed the machine with my left arm so it wouldn’t turn when I tried to turn the bowl but it’s awkward and wouldn’t cooperate. Every attempt failed; the base, heavy as it is, would turn with the bowl. So I started cursing. Surprisingly, it didn’t help.
Then I put the base on the table, which is lower, so I could get my arm around it better. Nope. Fail. Obviously, two arms aren’t enough. Why is it being such an asshole? It’s been very good until now. Why. Won’t. It. Lock?! Fucker! I just want to make some damned icing!
So I put it on the floor between my feet but then I couldn’t get a good grip on the bowl. So I sat on the floor, wrapped my legs around the base, except to get a good grip on the bowl handle I needed to sort of lean over the machine. One boob went to the left of the top of the machine and one boob went to the right.
Fail.
Okay, you sonofabitch!! I got up on my knees and wedged the base between my thighs. I anchored my left arm around the top of the machine and gripped the bowl with my right hand. My cheek was squished against the side of the base. With a colossal effort I tried to twist it into submission but then my right hand slipped and the bowl snapped against the base…….and my RIGHT NIPPLE GOT PINCHED INBETWEEN! Mother#$%@er!! Sonofabitch! Shitface asshole bastard pisshead!!!
I flipped my shirt up and gingerly extracted my right boob from the bra. It was bleeding! My nipple was bleeding!!
The Viking walked through the door and stopped short. The KitchenAid was still wedged between my knees, the bowl cockeyed now. I had straightened my torso so I could see my injury; my shirt was up and my boob was out. Bleeding. I looked up at him – surprised. And if I’m honest, I probably looked like I was sitting on the mixer with a boob out, and some people may have misconstrued the entire situation. The Viking knows me well enough though……
Him: What the fuck are you doing?!
Me: Look!My nipple is bleeding!! I gestured with the boob.
Him: How in the fuck did you manage that?!
Me: This stupid, fucking, asshole, douchebag KitchenAid pinched my nipple off!
Him: Why do you have it on the floor?
Me: Because I couldn’t get the stupid, fucking, asshole, douchebag bowl to lock into place on the counter or on the table so I was wrestling with it on the floor where I could get a better grip on it!
Him: Why didn’t you bring it to me?
Me: And admit I can’t get a mixing bowl to lock into place on its base? Are you crazy?! Besides, it’s been working just fine until now!
Him: Give it to me.
So he picks the bowl and the mixer base up and puts it on the counter. I knew what was coming. I pursed my lips and nasty smeared across my face. And just like I knew it would be, The Viking, with the tip of his stupid, fucking, asshole, douchebag pinkie finger, flicked the bowl into the locked position then turned to look at me.
Me: You’re an asshole.
Him: Why? I was just trying to help.
Me: You could have tried helping before my nipple had to bleed.
Him: How could I possibly know that you were in a wrestling death match with the KitchenAid?
Me: I don’t know but you certainly know when to come in and catch me in the most compromising of positions.
Him: Do you need any help getting your boob back in the bra?
Me: This is not the time for you to be playing with my boob. Can’t you see it’s dying?
Him: I’ll be gentle.
Me: No! But you can help me off the floor.
By the next day there was a scab on my nipple. A scab!On my nipple! I considered writing KitchenAid a letter of complaint but then thought better of it. There just isn’t any way of explaining it without a loss of dignity.
The cookies turned out brilliantly. They were slightly soft with exactly the right amount of icing to make them completely delicious. My right nipple didn’t like them though and the KitchenAid is on the naughty list. Indefinitely.
Then one of the Lesser Internet Gawds said it was all Jetpack’s fault. So I fired off a frantic, Primal Scream on their Support Form who then said I would have to wait for 24 to 48 hours before someone could look at my problem. Wait?!
Apparently my Primal Scream was a little less rational than I had hoped. And then it turned out not to matter because the Internet Gawd that was fucking with me got bored and returned my website to me. Yeah! Right? Wrong! I had to ‘fess up to Paul at Jetpack Support that I may have over-reacted so I wrote an eloquent apology to him.
AND HE REPLIED!!
Here is the apology with Paul’s response in italics:
Lori,
SIGH! So the next day I thought I would take a chance and the stupid site loaded without any problems at all! This is like taking my car to the mechanic because it makes a horrible squealing sound and then it won’t make the sound for the mechanic but as soon as I leave the shop it starts squealing again. Gawd! Of course, I have The Viking now so this is no longer an issue but still……. The truth is that I panicked, because I have no idea how all this stuff works together. The Internet Gawd pointed the finger at Jetpack and like a panicky beast with the Dumb I fired off a primal scream on your Support Form.
I believe you! I know how this feels, so no worries. It happens to all of us every once in a while.
However, we’ve both learned something in the past couple of days. I’ve learned that there is actually someone on the other end of the Jetpack Support Form. Too many online Support Forms are there only to give the illusion that someone gives a shit if you have a problem. Jetpack has Happiness Engineers though! That must be the best fucking job on the planet! Wait. You do get paid, don’t you? Because I’m a Happiness Engineer too except they call me a Wife or a Mother and I get nothing for wages. Or vacation. Or sick days. You probably aren’t paid enough either though, are you? Because Engineering happiness is hard work.
You’re too funny! Yes, we do care and we are taken care of. We hope you’re appreciated, too.
You’ve learned that Menopausal Women who don’t understand how this shit works can panic in glitchy situations. We’ve survived child birth and shopping trips with 3 children under the age of 4 and our husband getting a vasectomy and horrible in-laws and a whole slew of other crap but when our blog goes down for a day we lose our shit. You might want to put a button on the Support Form for ‘Menopausal Women Who Don’t Understand How This Shit Works’. And the automated reply saying you’ve received our Primal Scream could say things like “It’s okay, have some booze.” OR “We understand this is the last fucking thing you need today so we will hurry to help you.” OR “You’re not stupid. Just confused. Here’s a hug.”
We will look into implementing some of your suggestions, but we can’t make any promises 😉
Anyway, please accept my apologies for bothering you. I can send you Brownies as a consolation/apology gift if you’d like. I make amazing Brownies. Oh! Or Maple Brown Sugar Drop Cookies! They are delicious! Please ask for these so I have an excuse to make a double batch and eat half of them myself.
Sorry again. Thanks for your help. Have a great day.
This was the greatest response I’ve ever received, and I’ve been doing this for a while! You made my day, and we’re glad that your site is back on track.
I was expecting no acknowledgement at all. Or at best, maybe a turd emoji or a ‘Whatever!’ The Viking didn’t think I’d actually sent the apology so he was as surprised as I was. At the end of the whole mess, I guess Paul C. won’t send me a turd emoji if I need help in the future. Which is a relief because I hate getting turd emojis.
AND….just as I was about to publish this post I received an email from Jetpack wanting me to rate my experience. I said it was GREAT! They said:
Thanks for your feedback!
We love to hear what we can do to improve our support. Would you mind taking a moment to tell us what could have gone better?
So I said:
I guess there’s a moral to this story somewhere. I’m not sure what but I imagine you guys will come up with a few.
Bless me Coffee Gawd, it’s been a month since my last visit. In my defence I’ve been busy. First there was the holiday to Arizona and then there was the fallout of said holiday.
What is it about a vacation that makes you more tired when you get home than you were before you left? Are the Vacation Gawds assholes? Shouldn’t we be leaping out of bed on our first day back at work, excited to see what the day has to offer? Shouldn’t the ringing phone be a pleasant sound instead of a deafening siren of impending doom? I thought the whole purpose of vacations was to revitalize and re-energize, but I have about the same amount of vitality and energy as a damned Bassett Hound.
We’ve been home for six days and our Overnight Bag hasn’t unpacked itself yet. I’m tired too, but that’s no excuse to make me search the bag repeatedly every day looking for another toiletry. And the laundry hasn’t sorted itself either! It’s only one bag and it only takes a minute to start the washing machine. What is it waiting for? It hasn’t been on vacation! There’s a bra in there that I need!
I dragged my ass to the grocery store so we at least had some coffee and a sandwich. The fridge is behaving as though it has all the time in the world to restock. Where are the salads and cheeses?! This is the perfect weather to make a nice beef roast with mashed potatoes and gravy and maybe some sesame carrots. The stove is just waiting to get going. You’re holding up the proceedings, Fridge!
Izzie seems to be the only person happy to be home again. She’s running and leaping and jumping and whatever the fuck else she does in the middle of the night. “Yes, I know you want to play but can’t you see that I’m in no shape to be moving from my computer chair? And the lacerations and bitings are nothelping your case! And we aren’t in the truck anymore so find somewhere else to sleep that isn’t my shoulder!
The Viking comes into the house and plops in his computer chair. “Is there anymore coffee?” He’s so tired his lips barely move, combined with the Danish accent it comes out more like “Z en mo kuf e”. I mumble back, “S” while I jerk myself back to a vertical position and my eyes snap open. Where the fuck is Daylight Savings Time when you need it?! NOVEMBER 6th?! I can’t wait that long! I need that hour now!
It didn’t help that we must have eaten something on our way home that didn’t entirely agree with our intestinal tracts. That’s the problem with driving 2300 kilometers (1430 miles) in a day and a half – you are at the mercy of the Fast Food Industry. The Fridge didn’t help matters by being empty; it’s not like it didn’t know when we would be home. I specifically told it so we wouldn’t be shocked and surprised if it had a date over.
Anyway, that’s why I haven’t been by for a visit, Coffee Gawd. If you think about it, it’s probably for the best that I didn’t come sooner. I wouldn’t wish myself on anyone in this condition. It’s Saturday though. Maybe The Viking won’t notice that I’m not getting out of bed. If the fucking Fridge and Stove would cooperate and put something hot on the table for him at dinner time I could conceivably stay in bed until Monday morning at 8:58am. I need time to dress and commute to my computer chair. Apparently the phones won’t answer themselves.
It can be no surprise that a woman born and raised in Canada and a man raised in Denmark may have a few culture clashes. Sometimes they are just little discussions and other times they are nothing less than Shield Walls, Throwing Axes and shouted Curses. And, as you may suspect, The Viking is better at shouting curses than I am. He’s also the one who taught me every single thing I know about the Danes.
Here is a list of things that are affected by our cultural differences:
Food
Especially pork because Canadians have absolutely no idea how to cut up a pig, apparently. Also Pickled Herring, Thin brown cardboard called Rye Bread, Red Cabbage, Licorice Liqueur/Shooters/Candy and anything Cheese.
Me: What do you mean we don’t eat Turkey?! Everybody eats Turkey!
The Viking: I fucking hate Turkey. In Denmark we eat Pork Roast, Duck, Caramel Potatoes, Plain Potato chips and a side of Pickled Red Cabbage.
Me: Caramel Potatoes? That sounds horrible! You are supposed to eat Mashed Potatoes with Pork Roast! Duh!
The Viking: That’s bullshit. You never, ever, ever, ever serve Mashed Potatoes with Pork Roast. They are merely boiled – not Mashed. It’s fucking tradition!
Me: So when do I get Turkey and Stuffing and Mashed Potatoes and Corn Casserole and Sweet Potatoes and Pumpkin Pie?!
TheVikingtotally ignoring me: On New’s Year Eve we will have a Julefrokost.
Me: Not Turkey again?! Fuck!! Easter? What do Danes eat for Easter? Let me guess…..Pork Roast again? Ham? Thanksgiving? Nevermind, I’ll just guess.
Gifts
They don’t give gifts to each other, I guess. Gifts are a symptom of over-commercialization and spoils the true meaning of Christmas which is to watch Nisseman (Elves) on TV and then feed them a bowl of rice, boiled to a stew-like state with one almond in it; the first Nisseman that chokes to death on the almond wins a small toy. At least that’s what I think it’s all about. I find it all confusing.
Me: What?! No gifts? Where’s the fun in that?!
The Viking: It’s bullshit! You spend all your money buying junk for people who don’t even appreciate it and then you spend the next six months trying to pay it off.
Me: Not everyone does that. I’ll admit that some people do that but I don’t.
The Viking: If you want something go buy it yourself! I bought you a Dryer last month and that’s your Christmas gift!
Me: But I want to give you gifts. I would rather give one than receive one anyway.
The Viking: Not good for the fucking wallet, now is it!
Me: Sigh.
Walls
They must be painted white. Always white. Actually, everything has to be white. Kitchen cabinets, tables & chairs, carpets, dishes and flooring. Except the ceiling which is wood that has been white-washed.
Me: Why is everything so white?
The Viking: Because it’s usually overcast through the winters in Denmark and white brightens things up.
Me: What about the summer? Don’t they get blinded by the glare when it’s sunny? Don’t they lose all depth perception like people with snow blindness?
The Viking: It looks neat and clean.
Me: A lovely caramel color on the walls would look bright and neat and clean, too.
The Viking: Caramel is for Potatoes.
Me: Sigh.
Beds
They don’t share bedding. Ever. Each person has their own Duvet which they wrap themselves in to sleep. When they get up in the morning, they fold their Duvet lengthwise and lay it on the mattress.
Me: But that’s UGLY!
The Viking: Who’s going to see it?
Me: Someone might see it if they walk all the way down the hallway.
The Viking: …..
Me: Well, I would see it! It should be a beautiful room not something that would look comfortable as a University dorm room! It should be a place that exudes love!
The Viking: I don’t need a fucking room to remind me that I love you!
Me: Ack!! It’s not about that! Well it is about that but it’s also about an intimate and inviting environment, Dammit! Nothing ruins the mood for me faster than Frat Boy Décor!
The Viking: Fuck’s sake! It doesn’t look that bad!
Me: YES IT DOES! It looks awful! I want to stop and admire what a beautiful bedroom we have instead of looking away from the ugliness, shielding my eyes with my hands so I don’t get an accidental freak peek. I have to walk into the room backwards so I don’t have to look at the horribleness! Gawd!!!
Christmas Decorating
They cut out paper Nisseman and paste them all over the house. The tree is decorated with crafty woven paper heart-shaped pockets and filled with candy…..licorice, no doubt. The tree skirt is burlap. Yes, you read that right, burlap. They put real candles on the tree, light them up and then dance around it singing Christmas Carols.
Me: Wait. I can’t put all the decorations I’ve been carefully collecting for the past 25 years on the tree?
The Viking: Your decorations aren’t even Christmasy. You can put a couple on but then we should put traditional Christmas Balls and paper heart pockets on it. Mostly paper heart pockets.
Me: So I have to make these things?
The Viking: You can buy little kits with pre-cut paper at the Danish Store.
Me: So I have to make these things?
The Viking: I can help you.
Me: Do I have to fill it with Licorice or can I put something delicious in them?
The Viking: You can put whatever the fuck you want in them.
Me: I have to cut out all these Nissemen? What if I cut myself? I’ve never had to do arts and crafts that could kill me for Christmas before. Why can’t they be perforated or something to make it less Arthritis-y?
The Viking: I can help you.
Me: Somehow I doubt that. And I have to put a crudely stamped, burlap tree skirt around the tree instead of my beautiful iridescent, gold-beaded skirt?
The Viking: What does your skirt have to do with Christmas?
Me: It is embroidered with golden Christmas Trees! What makes your Burlap skirt Christmasy aside from the stamped Candle on it?!
The Viking: It’s TRADITIONAL!! Fucksakes!!
Me: There is no way our arms will reach around this tree so we can dance around it singing carols. And, by the way, that’s probably a dangerous thing for me to do. One slip of the foot and the whole house could burn down.
The Viking: We can skip that part. But we should have candles.
Me: Isn’t that a fire hazard? A passing Fireman could look in the window and see the live candles burning next to the tinder dry branches! He might think he needs to save us so breaks the window and starts throwing snow on the tree! Wait! What if it’s a brown Christmas like last year?! He might have to PEE on the TREE! I’m not cleaning that up!
The Viking: For fucksakes! We only light the candles while we are singing carols and then we blow them out!
Me: Fair warning: I only know the dirty version of the Twelve Days of Christmas.
The Viking: Sigh.
Hans Island
Thankfully, The Viking and I are reasonable people and I’m pretty sure I can convince him to let me have Turkey, Stuffing, Mashed Potatoes, Corn Casserole, Sweet Potatoes and Pumpkin Pie sometime in the next 5 years. After all, if the Danes and the Canadians can leave each other whiskey on a deserted but contested island for over 30 years, I should be able to have turkey.
I caused a debacle today. Completely unintentionally, but it was a total fiasco nonetheless. It all started with needing coffee cream and a loaf of bread and rather than going all the way down to Safeway, I decided to just pop into The Bownesian. It is a little boutique-type store where local businesses can sell their products, organic produce and antibiotic-free meat are preferred, and it has an amazing deli section considering the miniscule size of the store.
I grabbed a basket when I went through the doors and went directly to the dairy section, swung through the bread section and headed to the check out. Except…..there, on the end cap of an aisle, was…..BANANA MARSHMELLOWS!! Oh. My. God! Banana Marshmellows! I got a craving for them about 4 years ago, couldn’t find them in all that time and now they were sitting right in front of me!
Mission: Make Potato Salad to serve tonight when the kids come for dinner.
Me: I watched a video on YouTube on how to peel potatoes really easy. You just boil them first, squeeze the potato gently and the peel comes right off!
Viking: I think that only works on new potatoes.
Me: They look kind of like new potatoes. The skins are very thin. It should work fine.
I had to buy groceries today. And in an effort to get myself a little more organized so I don’t waste most of my time every damned day, I got my shit together and ended up at the store earlier than I usually do. And, well……there were issues.
There was a surprisingly large percentage of older men there today. Guys like my father, who lived during the great years when the wife could stay at home and raise the kids and the men came home to a hot meal without knowing for certain how that magic happened. And there were Laundry Fairies and Leprechauns that dusted and cleaned and vacuumed in that world where he slept each night.
I was in the grocery store the other day, cruising around the produce department hoping something would jump off the displays and into my cart with an inspiration for an amazing dinner dish…….that would cook itself and do up the dishes afterwards. I watched other shoppers who seemed so sure, like they already knew what they were making for supper. They are probably spawns of Martha Stewart who have a month of meal plans posted on some artsy-fartsy push pin board decorated with cute sewing projects that look like vegetables. Damn them!
