Category: Fun

Wild Sabretooth Burros and Burritos

The first time The Viking brought me to Lake Havasu there was a big, greyish plywood sign immediately after we left I-40 onto Highway 95 south.  The sign said CAUTION in big, hand-painted letters in yellow and below that WILD BURROS in red and below that DRIVE WITH CAUTION in red as well.

I peered through the darkness hoping to catch a glimpse of these exotic Wild Burros.  I didn’t even know there was such a thing as Wild Burros.  What would they look like? Would they be bigger than normal burros or smaller?  If someone put a Wild Burro beside a Tame Burro would we be able to tell them apart?  I wanted answers.

Sadly, I didn’t see one.  Not on that trip and not on the trips of the next two years.  And then the Government of Arizona must have decided they should make a small effort to protect these wild beasts because they put up an actual, real sign.

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Holy Mother of Gawd!!  These Wild Burros are nothing short of Sabretooth Burros!!  Look at that open mouth!

“The doors on the truck are locked, right?”  I asked The Viking as we drove past the sign.  I was suddenly glad I hadn’t seen one yet!  I think a person needs to prepare themselves for an event like actually witnessing Sabretooth Burros in the wild.  Would we be safe inside the truck or would a person need a Brinks Truck?  Or an Army issue Humvee thing with little openings to stick gun barrels through?  Would regular guns be enough?  Maybe we would need a Rocket Launcher or a Bazooka?

Me:  Why are you driving so slow?!
The Viking:  The speed limit is 65 mph.
Me:  What?!  That’s waaaay too slow!  One of those things could catch us!
The Viking:  I don’t think Wild Burros can run 65 mph.
Me:  Maybe not Wild Burros, but we’re not talking about regular Wild Burros, are we?  We’re talking about Sabretooth Burros!  Maybe those bastards can run 80 mph!
The Viking (sighing):  That’s impossible.
Me:  No wonder this area has such a small population.
The Viking:  ….
Me:  What if the speed limit is set so slow so the Sabretooth Burros can catch us?  Maybe we are a feeding program sanctioned by the government?!
The Viking:  For fuck’s sake.
Me:  Think about it!  They put up a dam to make a beautiful lake which lures boating enthusiasts but then they force them to drive so slow that Sabretooths can hunt them down and catch them!
The Viking:  That would never happen.  How do you even think these things up?
Me:  I’m just surprised they warned us about it with the sign!

It would be another year before we screwed up our courage to actually go looking for them.  Okay, it was only me that had to screw up my courage.  For some reason The Viking didn’t seem concerned at all!  But on October 16th, 2010 I posted this on Facebook:

Disregarding our own safety, we embarked on a determined search to locate the shy, elusive Wild (Sabretooth) Burro. Yesterday, we finally found a small herd of the beasts in the middle of the desert. Contrary to the image captured on the official, government sign, these beasts appeared to be herbivores and NOT carnivores. In fact, they looked identical to TAME burros, except their mane and hair was not nearly as tidy as Tame (non-Sabretooth) Burros.

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pregnant-burro

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So it was a bit of a disappointment.  I had talked myself into being excited about carnivorous burros that may or may not be able to run faster than 65 mph.  I was sure that Tina the Truck could easily keep us from being Burritos (see what I did there?) for Wild Sabretooth Burros unless they can run faster than 100 mph which is where the damned governor kicks in.  At that point we would probably be swarmed and killed and turned into Burritos.

I bring this all up because yesterday we went for a drive to see the new bridge over the Hoover Dam – amazing! – and then toodled through Historical Oatman on the way home.  We love the drive through the rocky hills but wouldn’t want to do it without air conditioning – it’s smoking hot!  If you haven’t read The Grapes of Wrath you should, it’s a kick in the gut and you won’t soon forget it.  It also gives you a new perspective of Route 66.

As for Oatman, it’s an old mining town turned tourist stop and it’s over-run with Wild Burros.  Contrary to my first thought, no one was eaten by the Wild Sabretooth Burros here.  I asked.  The gold ran out, that’s why it’s turned Tourist, so if you visit this wonderful place you don’t need to worry about becoming a Burrito.  Buy carrots though.

Anyway, Oatman has a lot of Wild Burros…..and there are babies!  Several babies!  And Wild Burro Babies are about the cutest things ever.

baby-wild-burrosAnd the best way to end a lovely drive.

I Barely Survived the Ultimate Seadoo Owner’s Ride

There’s a reason we go to Arizona every October.  We time our arrival to coincide with the International Jet Sport Boat Association’s (IJSBA) World Finals because The Viking’s friend Mike Klippenstein is one of the world’s best.  During the week-long event, BRP holds an Ultimate Seadoo Owner’s Ride from Lake Havasu City, through London Bridge Canal and down the river to The Pirate’s Cove where lunch is provided and prizes given away.  This year there were 71 Seadoos on the ride, including The Viking and I.  It’s a very nice event and BRP pulls out all the stops to appreciate their customers.
To be honest though, I am no Water Enthusiast.  The Viking, having grown up in Denmark, is a Water Baby and I spend a good deal of my life trying to convince him that we shouldn’t have anything to do with water that doesn’t come out of a tap.  It’s a losing battle, I’m afraid.  And before we even leave home he’s already talking about the Owner’s Ride and how much fun it’s going to be.  Frankly, I’m groaning on the inside while smiling on the outside.  He throws water words around willy-nilly, like swimming pool and lake and river.  I think he just likes to see me flinch.
Until I met him, I hadn’t even been in a boat.  I’m a Mountain/Forest/Prairie Girl!  I may have waded through a stream once or twice, most likely by accident, but that’s the end of my desire to flirt with bodies of water.  I watch the Discovery Channel and I know what’s hiding in lakes and oceans and it’s not comforting.  But, because I’m a supportive and loving partner, I endure the water.  Honestly, I’m a ‘Fair Weather PWC Enthusiast’; ‘Fair Weather’ being the key words.  And, I have one less spinal disc than most other people so when the water gets rough, I pay the price in agony.
Which brings me to the Seadoo Owner’s Ride this year.  It was my second time showing my support and love to The Viking by participating in the Ride; there would be a lot of Seadoos, and a lot of Seadoos make a lot of waves and cross waves and water sprays and cross water sprays.  The riders that go in a straight line are fine because you can ride in their wake but there’s always at least one Yahoo that likes to slalom and create nightmares for me – this year there were definitely 3 and maybe more.
In the beginning it was lovely.  Except for the fact that Ron (my Seadoo) began wailing because the battery had a low charge.  When I say ‘wail’, what I really mean is a piercing, brain dissolving, eye squinching beep that can be heard 13.6 miles away.  And it didn’t happen when we were going at speed, only when we were idling so everyone could hear it.  I was already out of my comfort zone and Ron was announcing my presence in the most annoying manner possible.  Just great!  The Viking was laughing and said “It’s perfect for your blog!”  That doesn’t help, Viking!!
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We idled, and Ron shrieked, our way through the London Bridge Channel.  The organizers wanted us to make a Seadoo Chain across the channel for a photo-op but that sounded exactly like the makings of chaos to me.  I have a tendency to panic and curse when I have to get my boat too close to someone else’s boat and there were children participating who shouldn’t be subjected to that.  So we hovered behind the Seadoo Chain in our own brand of Anti-Social, where we weren’t doing what we were supposed to be doing but at least everyone was safe and no Seadoos were damaged in the making of the photo-ops.
Once we cleared the channel, 71 Seadoos roared to life and blistered across the lake toward the river entrance.  The Viking started to go with the rest of them; the feeling of being one with the roaring, snorting, whining mass of Seadoos was music to his soul.  Unfortunately, he was saddled with me.  I tried to go, I really did, to be one of the crazies, to hit the throttle and soar over the waves, but I was caught in the cross waves and spray of all the other boats.  I tried standing up but that only worked for a short time because my back ached even more while my ass was being spared.
So I did what any other sane person would do:  I started shouting curses as I held onto the handle bar for dear life.  I cursed six ducks and 3 fishing boats and threatened a goose.  F-bombs were peppered throughout my sentences for a brief amount of time until I ran out of real words and just started shouting F-bombs in a never-ending loop.  The harder I squeezed the throttle, the more hair-raising my curses became.  Thankfully no one heard me over the sound of the Seadoos or I may have had to apologize to people and animals alike.
And then I hit a big wake and Ron’s nose drove into the wave and water drenched me from head to toe.  My glasses were useless and WATER GOT IN MY MOUTH!  I had to pause the cursing while I spat out the fish poo/algae/pee.  I wiped it off my glasses and my face.  I vowed to never go on this ride again!  I bellowed at Gawd for even allowing Seadoos to be invented!  I cursed The Viking and the day I met him.  I cursed Ron for slapping my ass with his seat and jerking my arms out of their sockets and making my right hand numb from vibration.  I cursed the guy with the drone and the driver of the Seadoo boat and I especially cursed the guy with the pimped out boat who cut me off and nearly dislodged me from Ron.
And then The Viking was close enough to yell at me “Go wide where it’s smoother!”  He had a smile a mile wide and I hated him.
I said, “F-Bomb, F-Bomb, F-Bomb, weeds, F-Bomb, you’ll pay for this!  F-Bomb, F-Bomb, F-Bomb!  Never again!  F-Bomb!”  And then I realized that every time I opened my mouth more fish poo/algae/pee got in so I shut up and just endured, focused on surviving this ordeal.
The smile never left The Viking’s face.  He loves this shit!  I plotted a slow and painful death for him.  My shoulders ached, my hand was numb and my ass was taking a beating.  I just don’t understand why people love this so much and I gave everyone around me the Stink Eye.  Either they didn’t notice or didn’t care, I’m sure which.
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I had to admit that all these Seadoos running together down the river was probably an amazing sight and everyone, aside from me, was loving the hurricane-sized waves.  It’s beautiful going through Copper Canyon and stopping for a rest at the Sand Bar.  The ‘no wake’ zones protect bird habitats and riders have the time to appreciate the scenery.  I can’t think of another place that could be more lovely.
Maybe if I was 25 years old again I would be more adventurous with water sports.  On second thought….no.  I just can’t unlearn the things in lakes, rivers and oceans.
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Finally, we arrived at The Pirate’s Cove.  I love this place.  The food is great, the view is wonderful and there is booze.  Lots and lots of booze.  It took us a few minutes to find parking spaces because 71 Seadoos take up alot of beaching space.  The organizers reserved an area of beaching and docking for us so it wasn’t long before we joined the rest of the riders.  The staff at The Pirate’s Cove were wonderful.  Despite the number of hungry people arriving all at the same time, we didn’t wait long for our food and it was as good as usual.  There were really nice gifts given away to people that were not us.  Unfortunately.  A T-Shirt would have been nice.
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We were all on our own for the ride back to Havasu, which was good because I wouldn’t have to deal with such messy water.  Or at least that’s what I thought.  It was still quite early in the day though, only about 2:30, so there was quite a bit of traffic on the river.  At one point a deceptively small fishing boat went past, leaving a huge wake behind it.  I hit that wake at about 70 kph.  I stood up in anticipation but it was bigger than I thought.  My feet left the foot wells, my shoulders took the full force of my upward flight and abruptly reversed my direction back down.  My mouth opened involuntarily and filled with fish poo/algae/pee.  My left boob hit the handle bar, my chin hit the crossbar, clacking my teeth together and my ass hit the seat.  My hand was jarred off the throttle and for a moment there was a distinct possibility that I may end up in the water/fishpoo/algae/pee!
“F-BOMB!  F-BOMB! F-BOMB!”
When we got back to the marina I reported my close call to The Viking but he didn’t seem to care at all!  Instead he showed me the huge cut on his right leg.  Apparently it happened when he was loading Ron onto the trailer.  Shit.
“Are you saying your cut trumps my bruised boob?  It’s not a competition, you know!”
I suppose I’ll have to let it go, though.  He wins this one because it really is a big cut.  But he’s not allowed to touch the left boob for at least 3 days.

Coffee, Wedgies and Nipple Flicking

Come in! Coffee is ready.

OH! Watch the kitten…..she bites! I know she’s absolutely adorable but she’s like a rose with extra thorns. And it’s probably not a good idea to sit on that particular chair because she uses it as a launch pad to get to the window or as an aid to change directions in a flat out race. You’ll feel like you’ve been molested by the time you leave.

Okay. You’ve been warned.  :o)

So, I decided that I just don’t get enough fun time during an ordinary day. I haven’t pulled The Viking’s pants down in the garage for eons or given him a Wedgie either. I think it’s because he doesn’t react; he just stands there putting that carburetor together without missing a beat while his pants are around his ankles. Honestly, I’ve gotten bored with his lack of reaction and gone in the house. I did wonder once if I should just pull his pants up again for him but then I thought “No way! What little fun I did get out of Pantsing him would be obliterated!” I think he’s being Passive Aggressive or something. One time he cooked a whole pound of bacon and fried 4 eggs with his pants around his ankles.

No. I’m not kidding you. I stood beside the table the entire time and he never pulled up his pants. I think I even asked, “Aren’t you going to pull up your pants?” and he said, “What the fuck for? You’ll just pull them down again.” Which was probably true.

The one time I actually did get a reaction was when I started flapping his left nipple when we were reading in bed. I kept reading but my finger was flicking the nipple at approximately 6 flicks per second. He didn’t do anything! So I moved it up to about 8 flicks per second. Still nothing! Finally, at about 15 flicks per second he said, “What the fuck are you doing?” I’m not sure what kind of reaction I was hoping for but that wasn’t even close! Maybe mutual nipple flicking? I don’t know but after a while I got bored and stopped flicking it.

Exactly! That would have been a load of fun! There would be laughing and giggling and finger flicking…..it would have been awesome! Instead, it’s a bloody shame.  Sometimes, when I’m walking past him, I’ll give one of his nipples a half-hearted flick but I’m beyond expecting a reaction anymore.

And then, night before last, we had a conversation:

I said to The Viking: You know what we’ve never done? Wrestle. We should wrestle.

He said: No.

Me: Why not?

Him: I don’t want to hurt you.

Me: What kind of wrestling do you think I’m talking about? Optimus Prime vs. Megatron?

Him: Someone always gets hurt wrestling.

Me: Not always! When it’s love-wrestling no one gets hurt and maybe it’ll end up in something else entirely.

Him: No.

Me: Come on! You’ve never chased me around the bed before either.

Him: Why would I chase you around the bed? That just wastes a lot of time and we don’t need that shit!

Me: Well….not a lot of time because the bedroom isn’t that big. And now that I’m thinking about, it we can’t run around the bed so we’d have to crawl over the bed. That would make it the slowest chase in recorded history – like getting run over by a steam roller. And there would be a significant risk of me getting a boob caught under my knee. Fine! You don’t have to chase me around the bed.

Him: Pfft!

Me: That doesn’t excuse the lack of love-wrestling going on in this house.

Him: I’m not fucking wrestling with you. You’ll get hurt!  I’m only trying to protect you!

Me: …..

Him: …..

Me: You’re one of those people who are ‘in it to win it’, aren’t you!

Him: …..

Me: You always have to win, don’t you?!

Him: Oh for fucksakes!

Me: You always have to have the last word too.

Him: I do not.

Me: Yes you do.

Him: I do not.

Me: See? The last word.

Him: FOR FUCKSAKES!! I’m going to read!

Me (calling after him as he stomps down the hallway): Last word!!

So, I guess wrestling is off the table. I’m down to prank phone calls now. When I go shopping and he’s all alone to answer the phones I’ll call and ask if Mike Hunt is there. He’ll probably recognize my voice though. Sigh.

OH! Let me get you a Bandaid. And some Peroxide. I told you she bites. I’ve been buying Bandaids in bulk since we got her.

I’m so glad you dropped by. I’ve missed you terribly. We have to get better at staying in touch.

Toilet Paper, a Swiss Army Knife and a Massacre

Saturday was Viking Days at the Danish Canadian Museum. The Viking and I were…..well, not giddy exactly….but pretty excited. We’ve never attended a Viking Massacre before.  Now that I think about it though, perhaps The Viking didn’t think this whole plan through because maybe I shouldn’t be trusted with knowledge involving massacre-ing Vikings. I’m only human, after all, and not always in a good mood. But…..too late now! It’s not like I can un-learn it.

We stuffed the Goldwing with a blanket, Swiss Army Knife, food, water, sandals, a sweater each, next of kin notification in a fire-proof box, driver’s licenses, bear spray, antacids, matches in a water proof/fire proof container, Tylenol, first aid kit, night vision goggles, extra earphones, a jerry can full of gas, a machete, compass, toilet paper, bug spray and The Viking’s contribution – an extra set of helmets (Don’t even ask because I can’t explain it).

I was in charge of what to pack while The Viking was in charge of complaining about what I wanted to pack.

I shouldn’t have to explain this every single time we want to go somewhere but apparently I do. Things happen when you leave home:

  • We could be hit by a car because the driver was texting 911 as he was having a heart attack.
  • An abnormally large insect could smash through the windshield of the bike, through the mask on his helmet and lodge itself in his left eye causing us to careen out of control, over an embankment and blow up in a fiery explosion. Admittedly, Polysporin probably wouldn’t be much help in this instance but maybe we would survive and then it would come in handy.
  • One of the Vikings could go rogue and we’d be forced to fight for our lives with our bare hands until we could steal a battle axe and then we would have to flee into the woods and maybe get lost and have to spend the night huddled together for warmth under a tree.
  • One of us could get heartburn from our picnic lunch.
  • There could be an earthquake and we might be cut off from civilization for whole minutes where my cell phone won’t work and we’ll have to make a fire to send smoke signals to the kids that we’re okay and that we will find them one day soon.
  • My earphones may stop working which would be a disaster because all I will be able to listen to is muffled wind or worse…..The Viking’s choice of music.  Shudder.
  • We could run out of gas on one of those range roads and suddenly the movie ‘Deliverance’ could happen and we’d have to slog our way through steamy swamps to escape.
  • One of us may need to pee/poo while we’re on one of those range roads and squatting in the ditch behind a shrub might become necessary and we’ll hope this doesn’t coincide with the scenario above because that would be really embarrassing.
  • We could be attacked by a bear while we are stopped for a drink so we have to stand and fight it to the death.   Or hit it with bear spray.
  • What if we’re motorcycle-jacked and have to track the culprits down and take our revenge?
  • What if your tipping maneuver going around corners does what physics says it should do and we slide and I’m spit out by centrifugal force to land in a stranger’s car? I should probably pack a box of chocolates or something to say thanks for the great catch.
  • What if we break down and have to catch a ride in the back of a truck hauling 3 pigs and a goat? I should pack a big jug of Febreez.

The possibilities for catastrophe are infinite! The Viking might swear and grouch but if something ever did happen he’d be like “You are the best woman ever! So smart! Thank Gawd I have you or I’d be fucked!  I’m so sorry for yelling at you.  Can you ever forgive me?” Or something like that.

So, loaded up and dressed in my best facsimile of Biker Gear, we headed out. We met Mim and Darb part way, who then proceeded to make The Viking and I feel stupid by pointing out that Mim has a GPS on her phone and doesn’t need the 18 pages of directions we printed at home. Fuck.

We had to take one gravel road which is never fun on a motorcycle and it’s even less fun when you are following a vehicle. By the time we hit pavement again we looked like those sand creatures from Star Wars. Why didn’t I think to bring our Shark Vacuum?! I should have known we might need to vacuum ourselves off!  Instead, we had to spend 5 minutes smacking the shit out of each other to get most of the dust out of our clothes.

The weather was beautiful at the Museum and crowds were already gathering for the big Massacre. We found a great vantage point on a grassy knoll and sat down to wait for blood and gore.

Soon, a big guy decked out in chainmail, helmet, shield and sword strode into the impromptu arena and started declaring himself the best warrior ever. And then another guy came out and declared the first guy was ‘Full of Shit’ and a fight ensued where the second guy died and the ‘full of shit’ guy proved he actually wasn’t ‘full of shit’. A woman came out and declared that she was a Shield Maiden and would kick his warrior ass but instead, promptly died. Booooooo! Boooooo!!

Another 4 guys came out trying to prove the first guy was ‘full of shit’ but they all died too which left no one for him to kill.  The crowd shouted ‘MEAD’! and all the dead people came back to life so the first guy could kill them all over again. By then he was just being a bully.

The violence ended when an army of children arrived, armed with short pool noodles and massacred every Viking on the field. The crowd shouted ‘MEADE’! again and all the dead people came back to life so they could be massacred all over again. The death and violence was awesome and it was great to see all the kids dressed up for massacre-ing with their little helmets and shields. Good wholesome fun! I wish my parents had taken me massacre-ing when I was young. I would probably be a much better Viking now.

There were some very good artisans set up and we enjoyed browsing. The Viking bought me a beautiful set of amber ear rings (I hope we don’t get robbed on our way back to the bike because I left the machete in the side bag) and we found out where we can buy free-range pigs. That in itself was worth the admission fee.

The trip home was uneventful except for the Iced Maple Cappuccino we stopped for in Olds, which turned out not to be an event but delicious anyway. So we didn’t need the machete for sure. Or the night vision goggles and the water proof matches.

I’m sure that the next time we want to go somewhere The Viking will cite this one trip as evidence that we don’t need such things as Machetes or Night Vision Goggles. But he’s not in charge of what we pack. I am. He’s only in charge of The Complaints Department and the Putting It All In The Vehicle Department.

Because that’s what he’s good at.

 

Wrestling, Depression and Pokémon Go!

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

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

Continue reading “Wrestling, Depression and Pokémon Go!”