Tag: relationships

A Clowder of Cats and a Birthday Cake

I have a Clowder of Cats this week.

According to the Oxford English Dictionaries, the standard collective noun used to refer to a group of domestic cats is a ‘clowder,’ as in ‘a clowder of house cats.’ – from reference.com

I have Teddy and Izzie, but then I have Mim’s cats, Dexter and Lucy. So, it’s like…..

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once in a while this……

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and this…..

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Lucy is particularly good at this….

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and a bit of this…..

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and sometimes……

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They’ve hammered out a Peace Treaty now.  The negotiations were a touch hair-raising from time to time but they got there in the end.  Except for Lucy.  She doesn’t want anything to do with the Treaty because the rest of the delegates wouldn’t give her sole custody of the spare room.  Border hostilities are tense from time to time but I’m hoping she will eventually agree to the terms.

Moving on……

It was The Viking’s Birthday on Saturday. We invited friends over for a nice meal and a few drinks.

I ordered a Birthday Cake for him from the Bakery. It’s difficult to decide what a 58 year old guy would like to see on his Birthday Cake.  Mim and I discussed it and this is what we came up with….

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Because who doesn’t want a very weird picture of the person who ordered the cake on the actual cake.  Right?

Unfortunately, I hadn’t thought of the consequences of such a great cake. The Viking was extremely reluctant to cut it.  It took me a few minutes to catch on and then it was…..”OH!  You don’t want to cut up my face?”

Well shit!  I never even thought about that!  It seemed like such a great idea!  

So, he compromised.

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And now we’re down to this…..

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It gets creepier and creepier all the time, doesn’t it?  I can actually see the fear in my eyes!  It’s like Quentin Tarantino planned the whole thing.  Queue the music to Pyscho.

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I’m going to have to get a neighbor to come over and scrape that damned picture off.  This is right up there on my list of Complete Misses.

Doughnuts and Death Stares

Coffee is on! Come and get it! We all have to share one Doughnut because I ate the others. I didn’t intend to eat all the others, it just happened. You can’t leave fresh doughnuts lying around and not expect me to eat them. The odds are only slightly better than leaving Toffifee unattended around here.

And I have an excuse for eating all the doughnuts – it’s because I’m an idiot.

You know when you think you are fixing one problem but it turns out you’ve only made another problem and the other problem turns out to be a monumentally stupid fuck-up? Yeah? Well, I did that.

The Viking probably wasn’t listening to me when I convinced him to go along with the scheme. He does that quite often – not listening to me – and it’s something he should work on immediately because shit happens when he isn’t paying attention. He stares at his computer screen while I discuss the current problem and he nods and says “uh huh” and then I wrap up my case and he says “uh huh” so I carry out the plan.

Unfortunately, he hasn’t got a bloody clue what ride he’s just agree to and by the time he actually realizes what the ride is he’s halfway across the Grand Canyon on a zip line yelling “WTF?!!”

On this particular occasion, it’s the cats. I see you aren’t shocked that I am having cat problems. You must know me better than I know me and if you had been paying attention you might have saved me from myself. That’s why you only get 1/16th of a doughnut with your coffee – you’ve let me down.

 So, here’s what happened. Izzie hasn’t been the most welcoming of cats to her new playmate. For the most part she has adopted an “I hate you but I’m fascinated” stance and slapping happens frequently. We were coming to the realization that she may never be a socialized, normal cat.

But then she deeked us out last night. Teddy was sleeping on one side of my leg as we watched a movie and she came over, lie down on the other side of my leg and put a paw on Teddy’s leg. They slept like that for over an hour! I was over-the-moon happy! Until he woke up and she beat the crap out of him, again. The aggression was particularly bad after that, almost like “I may have slept on you but I still hate you.” Sigh.

I was worried leaving him on his own overnight. You see, we close our bedroom door at night so they have a chance to interact without us being the cause of jealousy. So, we decided to put Teddy in a room where he was safe for the night. But that didn’t seem fair. Why should he be locked up when it’s Izzie being the beast? And here’s where I went wrong.

You already know what I suggested, don’t you? I can hear the collective moans of disgust.

The Viking “uh huh-ed” his way into this arrangement and we moved Teddy’s litter box into our room, brought a water bowl and a food bowl in and supplied him with a couple of toys.

This morning, all hell broke loose. For two hours. By the time I got out of bed, The Viking was wide-eyed and slightly twitchy. “We never should have kept him in the room with us! Izzie is going nuts!”

Well, hell! Realization dawned quite quickly. Crap! I was so busy trying to save Teddy’s bacon that I didn’t think about how Izzie would feel about this betrayal. But, here’s the weird thing. Teddy somehow found a backbone no one was using during the night. And after the first couple of slapping blizzards, Izzie settled down and they are actually playing. Playing!

Have I managed to stumble us all to the base of some turning point? As far as I can tell, I haven’t managed to do a single thing right but Izzie just greeted Teddy with a nose touch and not a single slap. It was so casual, like they were old friends meeting at a pub. I’m not accustomed to such clear successes. My finished products are usual in the line of “We Can Live With It Even Though It Isn’t Perfect” or “Better Luck Next Time”.

Yet, I think I see a light at the end of the long, dark tunnel. Or….it could be Izzie’s Death Stare reflecting in the dark. Who knows?

Thanks to Part-Time Monster…..

Updates, Profanity & Apricot Brandy

I received an email the other day regarding my Simply Accounting software. Usually when I get these I delete them without a second look, but this time, for some reason, I scanned the message quickly until my eyes found the words ‘database corruption’ and then I fainted. When I woke up I read it more carefully. Here are the highlights of the email:

Good Afternoon Lori,

 I am your Account Manager at Sage 50 Canada.

 I am emailing you as a courtesy as our records indicate your version of Sage 50 is obsolete and no longer supported.

Some updates on your Windows operating system may be incompatible with your actual version of Sage 50/Simply Accounting which may generate, in some situations, a database corruption.

C…

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 Long story short, I gave him my Mastercard and he sent me an email with instructions. Evidently, my software was so obsolete I had to download a 2015.3 file before I could download the 2017 Edition. I asked him if a monkey could follow the instructions he was sending me and he assured me that even a monkey could perform the required skills.

Once my software was updated and working properly, I sent C. an email.

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Hey C,

It worked! I only had one small hitch.

The 2015.3 Download asked me a question about activation keys and in a blind panic I started stabbing the Serial Number and Activation Key into the spaces and it got all irritated and said it didn’t know me well enough for that kind of intimacy and I said that it shouldn’t be asking me any questions then, and it said I was annoying, so I yelled “You started it!” and then it said that it didn’t like my tone, and I said I didn’t like it’s tone when it said it didn’t like my tone, and then it said “You’re Activation Number is WRONG!” so I said ‘FINE! I’M LEAVING!’ and decided to ignore it completely and move on to the 2017 Download and the 2015.3 yelled ‘GOOD RIDDANCE!’

You may get a complaint. In my defense, I am 3 years into Menopause, the batteries in my mouse just died and I wasn’t expecting any questions from that Download. There is a slight possibility I may have over-reacted. I always expect the worst of updates and upgrades; baggage from a failed upgrade to the original Star Craft, I suppose. It’s a fault I should work on but probably won’t.

The 2017 Download took several long moments to berate me for my obsolete Sage 50 Edition. Apparently it barely recognized the files involved. I tried to explain that I liked my Edition – there were no surprises, I knew exactly how to do everything, we were friends! 2017 wasn’t impressed and I suspect it actually rolled its eyes at me.

When it finally finished desecrating my files and opened the new dashboard….well……there was a little bit of profanity. From me, not 2017. It looks terrible! It’s all modern and font-y and dull! It’s like the décor in the Space Shuttle! I like a little color, a few wrinkles, some fraying around the edges…..some personality! My old man is gone and some sort of Accountant-y guy showed up. It’s horrible!  Hideous!

But then I opened up a new invoice and…….there he was!!! He’s not gone! Someone put a really ugly suit on him but his underwear is exactly the same! Happy, happy, happy!

Overall, this process was less painful than I thought it would be. Good work! The only way it could have been better is if you sent someone directly to my house to help me with deep breathing techniques while the upgrade had its way with my files. I realize this might be unnecessary for most people so maybe you could just offer it to women well into Menopause. And a bottle of Apricot Brandy would go a long way in getting me to keep my software up-to-date.

Wait. Are you in charge of all obsolete Sage customers? Am I your worst? Maybe I was your only project! Did Sage create an entire department to talk me into upgrading?! If that’s the case, sending me Apricot Brandy might put you out of a job. So, how about you give me Apricot Brandy and I promise not to upgrade for another 5 years.

 Sincerely,

C. didn’t strike me as a guy with a good sense of humour though. He might not appreciate my thoughts at all but that wasn’t the point of writing the email. The point was – he pried my Mastercard number out of my extremely reluctant hands while holding my files hostage and that sort of thing requires a lengthy response. Especially when it costs me the kind of money Sage wants for their Accounting program.

3 hours later…..

Huh! Apparently, I was completely wrong about C:

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Hahaha, that made for some very good post-lunch reading material! 

Apricot Brandy is a good start, I’d prefer a nice 18-year single malt, but hey a drink is a drink. Hope everything is working out well for you, let me know if you need anything else, and I’ll definitely get it sorted.

Thanks Lori!

Waaaaait a minute……

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I think you are confused, C. I wasn’t going to send you Apricot Brandy. You were supposed to send me Apricot Brandy. It’s nice to know that you like 18 Year Single Malt though, in case I need to bribe you or something. I would definitely send you 18 Year Single Malt for a software related favour in a distant future.

 Wait. Are your emails monitored? Maybe I shouldn’t be throwing around words like ‘bribe’ and ‘favour’. If you get in trouble, let me know, I’m sure I can fix it.

 PS: Everything is working perfectly.

I was trying to save the guy’s job and he suddenly thinks I should send him whatever the hell 18 Year Single Malt is? And who considers any old drink as good as another old drink? I’m talking Apricot Brandy here – there is no equivalent. If someone handed me a glass of Sambuca and told me it’s as good as Apricot Brandy….well, there would be profanity and then a lesson on the finer points of drinking spirits.

Excellent happy to hear that.

Yes, I’m sure bribe and favor would be frowned upon haha.

No worries Lori

Take care

 I bet he never sends me Apricot Brandy.

Kent Isn’t Superman. Apparently.

Hello! Come on in. I’ve got fresh coffee but no Toffifees or any other delectable treats because I’m on the wagon. My sugar intake was getting out of hand and steps had to be taken. However, if you have smuggled something, I’m completely ready to fall off the wagon for a few minutes while no one’s looking. Because I’m weak.

We have to sit in my bedroom because I have a problem. And it’s getting bigger by the day. And it’s all of my own devising. We should be safe here though.

Never let it be said that I always make good decisions. If someone were keeping track, I’m probably only batting 40%. It’s not that I don’t think everything through because I do, and if you asked anyone who knows me, they would add ‘ad nauseam’ to the statement. I think my problems begin when I start thinking that everyone thinks like me despite the mounting evidence to the contrary.

What I would do in any given situation, it turns out, isn’t what most normal people would do.

Don’t ask me why. I think I’m perfectly logical and can critically think my way out of most wet paper bags when necessary.

My newest problem involves an old problem that I thought I found a solution for, but it turns out that I’ve only made the problem bigger. And louder. And more painful.

You see, the adorable, sweet Izzie isn’t actually adorable and sweet. Think Queen of Mean and you’re not far off. One moment she’s lovey and the next she’s got a claw at your Jugular Vein.

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We believe it’s because she’s frustrated that we don’t play with her as much as she wants us to play with her – which is every damned waking moment. We play an average of 3 to 4 hours a day with her but that’s not enough because she won’t play by herself. At all. We have all the lastest in Cat Entertainment plus all the Golden Oldies toys and nothing engages her. She needs a playmate. To be certain that was the issue, we tried it out with Mim’s cats and she played wonderfully.

So, on Thursday, The Viking and I went to the Humane Society and adopted another cat. Yes. That’s what we did. And the regrets are piling up. I searched through every SPCA within an hour’s drive of Calgary and finally found an adorable, 10–12 month old cat that had experience with other cats and was calm and chill. We went out to meet him – Kent – and WOW! This little guy came right over to us and climbed on The Viking for loves immediately. We talked to the staff and they all adored him. He was the perfect!

So we brought him home.

And Izzie lost her damned mind!

She couldn’t hiss and spit fast enough, loud enough or long enough to fully articulate her feelings. Honestly, the X-Rated curses and name-calling was enough to curl my hair and my hair is firmly and determinedly straight – just ask my hairdresser. Her future playmate fainted and he’s lived on the streets for several months.

We put poor Kent in the spare room with a litter box, 9156 toys that Izzie won’t play with, food and water and reinforced the door with 6 inches of solid steel.

Imprisoning Kent calmed Izzie slightly but when I went to sit and love her a bit she slapped me 4 times in quick succession. I think it was Morse Code for either

You! Cheated! On! Me!

Or

What! Is! That! Thing?!

Or

Make! It! Go! Away!!

Or

You! Will! Die! Slowly!!

And every single time I touch Kent, I get slapped by Izzie. Hard! I’m not talking ‘love taps’, I’m talking ‘bitch slaps’!

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I am only thankful that she isn’t using her claws which indicates that there is a small portion of her soul that hasn’t fully gone to the dark side.

So, there you have it. Kent isn’t sticking up for himself so The Viking and I are rotating cats through seclusions using the spare bedroom and our only bathroom. We communicate via walkie-talkies:

Me: I have The Evil One contained in a sack in the kitchen. It’s a rodeo so you should hurry.

The Viking: Roger! I have The Sweet One and moving to the family room.

Me: Roger…..Wilco….I think. Transferring The Evil One to the Bathroom in 5….4….3….2….1!

The Viking: Has the package been delivered?

Me: The Package is secure.

……..

Me: I probably should have gone pee before we put The Evil One in here. If I’m not out in 4 minutes send help. They should wear armour.

The Viking: For Fucksake!

There isn’t much change today except Izzie only slapped me twice. And Kent isn’t Superman. Apparently. Because he just cowers when she growls. Perhaps he’s too nice. That should never be a problem but when you are dealing with The Queen of Mean you have to stand your ground.

I hope I don’t have to get a third cat to save the second cat from the first cat.

PS:  We aren’t sure about Kent’s name.  He came in with two other cats – a female and a male – and the staff at the SPCA named them Lois, Clark and Kent.  Witty, but I’m not sure I like the name Kent.  Kent.  Kent.  Kent.  When The Viking, with his accent, is calling him….it sounds so close to….well, you understand.  On the other hand Clark Kent was a bit of a wuss until he became Superman.  And it will take Superman to tame Izzie, I’m afraid.  But Izzie’s name is Isolde so we thought Tristan was a great name.  Maybe I’ll go and make The Viking yell ‘Kent’ over and over to make sure it doesn’t turn ugly…….

Thanks for stopping by. Hopefully we can sit in the kitchen for coffee next time you come.

 

Thanks, as always, to Part Time Monster for hosting Weekend Coffee Share.

A Fart in the Wind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Love, Laughter and Embarrassing Moments

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

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

Blah, blah, blah.

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

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year

Glædelig Jul og Godt Nytår

 

 

 

 

A scab! On my nipple!

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

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

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

It had been going so well….

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

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

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

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

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

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.

The Apple Didn’t Fall Far From the Tree

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

Nothing. Nada. Ingen ting.

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

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

Today – nothing.

And then…..

DING!

A message from Mim. It was two pictures.

mims-hand    mims-hand-4

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

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

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

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

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

…….

…….

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

A Ladder, a Tablet and My Daughter

If we were having coffee I would have to tell you that I’m UNHAPPY. And maybe a little depressed. Mostly UNHAPPY. And it’s all Mim’s fault.

Mim lives in a teeny-weeny town northeast of Edmonton and I like it not! I didn’t think it would bother me since it’s only a 4 hour drive – 3 hours the way The Viking drives – but I’m totally bothered. We talk on the phone but it’s not the same as in person because many of our conversations include body language, head waggles, weird faces and arm swinging as punctuation and emphasis. Now, we’re confined to GIFs and photos and we have to use our words way more than we did when she lived just down the street.

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Anyway…….she’s refusing to move back to Calgary for my convenience. When she was a kid she was determined to move to the other side of the planet and never, ever see me again. Ever! I said it was impossible to never see me again because I would hunt her down like a dog. I would buy the house next door and become the Village Eccentric who always wears pajama pants, rubber boots and T-Shirts that say “I’m Mim’s Mom!” under a picture of her adorable face.

I’m only explaining all of this because Mim sent me two pictures this morning on Facebook. Both showed a large red spot on her forehead.

Her: I ran into a ladder. A ladder! And the mark is still here after an hour!

Me: OUCH! Nielsy dropped his Surface on my head when we were cuddled up reading. He fell asleep and the tablet fell on my head. Corner first. And that tablet weighs 903 pounds!

Me: Did you run into the ladder because you couldn’t make a decision fast enough whether to go under it or around it?

Her: Haha!! Maaaaayybeeee. Dirty Viking! He should watch where he falls asleep.

Me: LOL! Last night he held the tablet AWAY from my head.

Me: And at least half of my accidents are caused by too many options for one action. I definitely would have run into the ladder, too. I would be like:

Oh look! There’s a ladder between me and the exit.

I’ll just go around.

Wait! It’s shorter if I go underneath.

Yes. I’m going underneath.

Wait! Isn’t that bad luck?

Do I even believe in those old wives’ tales?

No, I don’t, but it never hurts to be on the safe side.

Why are my legs still moving?

I should probably stop moving until I’ve reviewed all my options and my beliefs regarding them.

That would be The Viking’s advice.

Fuck that!  I’m not a child.  I’m perfectly capable of making a decision in the 2 seconds before I hit the ladder. 

I can just imagine what The Viking would say if I hit it.  He’d probably roll his eyes at me.

He’d probably also put ladders in the same category as Flame Throwers, Fire Extinguishers and Skill Saws – not to be trusted in my hands.

I’m getting awfully close.

Hurry! Make up your mind!

Around or under?! Superstition and shorter or longer and around?!

Too many choices!

Go right!  Go right! 

No!! Left!  Definitely left!

FUCK! I hit the ladder! It was the only obstacle in the entire room!

Her:

 steamroller

See what I mean? So many words when we could have just leaned a ladder against the house and did re-enactments. We’d have to change our underwear, of course, because we laugh at ourselves so hard that we get into ‘Pee-my-pants’ territory.

I miss her! And I can’t believe SHE WON’T MOVE BACK TO CALGARY LIKE A GOOD DAUGHTER SHOULD!!

Anyway, thanks for stopping by. I definitely needed someone to talk to today.

Until next weekend, then.

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

I’ve been coddled! And it was Horrible!

One minute everything was fine and then suddenly it wasn’t. My left hand just had a meltdown. I don’t know why. I didn’t do anything to the left hand that I didn’t do to the right hand so it seems suspicious that only my left hand decided to be UN-fine.

Whatever the reasons, Leftie started to get sore last week. Knowing how important my hands are, I began massaging the fleshy part of Leftie at the base of the thumb. But that almost seemed to make matters worse. As the night wore on, the pain increased. By the time I went to bed it was bordering on intolerable.

By 2:00am, I couldn’t stand it another minute and decided that I should curse at it and then immobilize it until morning when I could figure out what the fuck was wrong with it.

But here’s an interesting fact: Of all the First Aid Kits that The Viking has strategically placed around the house….not one has a fucking Tension Bandage!

Here’s a partial list of what our First Aid Kits do contain:

  • abdominal cavity wound dressings
  • sucking lung injury dressings
  • splints for every broken bone in the body
  • enough cheap-band aides to cover a large vehicle
  • grease for wheel chairs
  • collapsible crutches
  • fungicide
  • enough gauze to make 9 mummies
  • brain surgery tools
  • 1,498 antiseptic wipes
  • 4 tubes of Triple Antibiotic Ointment
  • One large bottle of Crown Royal and 4 shot glasses
  • 14 slings
  • a saw to remove limbs
  • two hammocks
  • a portable surgery table
  • a big stick with bite marks
  • enough plastic gloves to supply a good sized African village
  • booster cables
  • an Imperial to Metric measurement conversion chart
  • an Ambulance Owner’s Guide
  • Candy for Diabetics with low blood sugar
  • 972 surgical masks with a big, black, droopy moustache on each one
  • And 2 copies of ‘How to Perform an Occipital Lobe Lobotomy for Dummies’

But no fucking Tension Bandage!

So I wrapped a sling around the thumb and hand and finished it off with cotton gauze for good measure. Then…..because it was the middle of the night and because I felt the need to point out the glaring absence of Tension Bandages to The Viking, I left the contents of two Kits spread out all over the table.  Willy-Nilly.

When I wandered into the kitchen the next morning, the exploded First Aid Kits had been reassembled and were sitting neatly on the counter. I slapped both of them – with my right hand, but carefully because the last thing I needed was another fucked up hand – as I went for the coffee pot.

The Viking said, “Oh! Hey babe! Why did you wrap up your hand?”

“BECAUSE IT FUCKING HURTS!” I replied sweetly.

Trying to get dressed was ridiculous! I finally stomped shuffled out of the bedroom with my pants and underwear around my ankles, one boob in the bra and the other dangling helplessly, and my shirt scrunched around my neck. The Viking helped me pull up my pants, tucked the other boob in the bra and pulled my shirt down while I stood there scowling. I have to give him credit for not laughing, or even smiling, and he only flicked one nipple once, proving his restraint.

Then, things got strange. He came in from the garage and filled up my coffee – just the way I like it. When I came home from the bank, he trotted out to see if there was anything that needed to be taken into the house. He came in the house 4 times to help me pull up my pants after I peed. He helped make supper. He filled our water glasses when we were watching TV that evening. He brought out snacks and then put the bowls in the dishwasher.

Me: “Are you leaving me?!”

Him: “What the fuck?! No! Of course not! Why would you even ask that?!”

Me: “Are you dying?!”

Him: “NO! At least I don’t think so.”

Me: Am I dying?! Did my Doctor call and tell you I’m dying and now you are trying to make my last few hours on earth as pleasant as possible?!”

Him: “No.”

Me: “Then what the fuck are you doing?!”

Him: “What do you mean?”

Me: “You’re being all nice and doing things for me and you’ve never done that stuff before.”

Him: “Maybe I’m trying to be less of a Grumpy Asshole.”

Me: “Why? I’m accustomed to the Grumpy Asshole.”

Him: …..

Me: “Oh my gawd!! You’re coddling me!!”

Him: “I am not!”

Me: “Yes you are!”

Him: “No. I’m. Not!”

Me: “Yes you are!”

Him: “Shut up and watch the show!”

The Viking coddled me the entire weekend. Even when I said that Leftie was starting to feel better. It was wonderful and I loved it!  Who wouldn’t? But, you know when something is so good that you start wondering how you got so lucky? And then you think there must be a downside? Like if chocolate were calorie free but it gave you Diarrhea?

Me: “Are you having an affair?! What’s her name?”

Him: “I’m not having an affair, for fucksakes! When would I have time?”

Me: “You went to Barney’s last night! Or maybe you didn’t go to Barney’s! Is he covering for you?!”

Him: “He’s not covering for me because I’m not having a fucking affair!

Me: “Then why are you being so damned nice?!

Him: “Maybe because I love you and I’m usually such a Grumpy Bastard but now I’m trying to be better!!”

Me: ……….

Him: ………

Me: “Well, STOP IT! YOU’RE DRIVING ME CRAZY!!”

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