I never wanted to be a valkyrie. Growing up as a girl in America, we’re encouraged to be cute and little. Like Tinkerbell.

I never had a chance. I was a humongous baby. My first sentence was, “Kathy Eat Now.”

Let’s just skip childhood and head straight for the Canary Islands. I am 24. It’s my lost year. It was probably the beer goggles, but I felt waiflike among my willowy Latina girlfriends as we danced the nights away then nursed our hangovers on sunny beaches. On my 25th birthday, I awoke with a jolt to find myself face down on a dormant volcano with sand covering my little silk dress. I realized that if I was going to do anything with my life, it was now or never. My Uruguayan friend, Majo, gave me a necklace at my going away party. It was a rune with the symbol for warrior on it. Because, she said, I was her Amazon warrior friend. And I had totally thought I was being a nymph.

Back in the US, I got a job at the Exploratorium, the great science and art museum in San Francisco. One night, we were having a big art event. It was my job to set up the audio and video for guest artists. The turnout was huge. Thousands of people were milling about. One of the artists was late and the director of the arts program told them to find me for help with his audio setup. He asked how to locate me among the throngs of people on the museum floor. She told him to look for the woman who looks like she should be wearing braids and carrying a sword. He made a beeline to me. I was even wearing a girly dress at the time.

Sometimes I let my inner Viking shine. For example, I greatly enjoy belting out a lusty rendition of Happy Birthday in Norwegian for my friends’ birthdays. Once, when a friend turned 30, I wanted to do something special for her. I built a big hollow birthday cake and hid it in the backroom of the venue. I suck at small talk in social settings and that year I was focused on improving this skill. Before the performance, I was rummaging around inside the head of a South Bay accountant in a desperate attempt to find a common point of interest. I thought it was going pretty well as he didn’t have that look as if I were mentally raping him. Then it was time. I excused myself, went to the back room, got naked, painted myself gold, put on a loincloth and a horned helmet, grabbed my sword, climbed into the cake, lit the candles and got wheeled out. Then I burst out of the cake and busted out the Norwegian birthday song. My friend loved it. After my performance I returned to the accountant to pick up our conversation where it had been left off.

“Sorry about that, you were saying that the Costco Premium membership really is worth paying the extra $29?” Except now I was bare breasted, gold, and draped in animal skins. He was looking at me like I was a psychotic clown and I realized that we would probably never be friends. A big hairy old man kept coming up and telling me I was spectacular but all of the normal sized men around my age maintained a safe distance. The women at the party wanted to dance with me and pose for pictures like I was a Disney character. I went home.

I try my best at everything that I do. That cake jump wasn’t perfect and it niggled at me. I could have done better. When another friend begged me to jump out of a cake for her, I agreed. The trouble was, I had just started dating someone. He wasn’t Viking sized and he didn’t have an outsized personality. I outweighed him by 50 lbs. But he liked me! He really, really liked me! We were quite new and fresh. This time, Ride of the Valkyries was blaring as I was wheeled in. The cake was fancier. The candles were fierier. My sword was shinier and my helmet had real horns. Instead of sticking around after the song, I stepped out of the cake and swooped off into the night. Luckily a bus was coming by at that moment. I jumped on board. No fare, no shirt, no shoes. But who was going to deny service to a sword wielding valkyrie? I hopped off a mile up the road at a friend’s place where I showered off the gold body paint and got back into my civvies. To no avail. My new boyfriend was looking at me like I was a big overbearing cartoon character. He dumped me a month later. He said that I should find a crazy artist to be with. I was too much for a normal guy.

Being a big woman does have its advantages. While I know in my heart that I’m a lover, not a fighter, I also know that I could take most men in a fight if push came to shove. I am always left alone in clubs to dance while my delicate looking girlfriends are continuously harassed by drunken louts. The poor things leave their spots on the dance floor to huddle like a bunch of bunnies at the bar while the wolves surround them, leaving the floor to me and the gay boys.

I am blessed and cursed with a superabundance of energy and a lot of physical strength, for a girl. When I was a commercial fisherwoman in Alaska, I celebrated my power every day. I loved working myself down to the dregs ripping and tearing fish out of nets, throwing 10,000 lbs of fish from point a to point b, and manhandling all of those big heavy ropes. I felt like I was born for it and I knew a small girl would have had a hard time with that job.

A few years ago, I moved to Portland, Oregon. It had been years since I’d even been kissed. I took the plunge and posted a personals ad on Craigslist. My strategy was to just tell them everything and show them a picture, so that they would know what they were getting into and not be disappointed or scared off when we met. I titled the ad, “Reluctant Valkyrie Ready for Love”. I got more than 1000 responses. Portland loved my vikingness. I felt like a rock star! I sifted through the e-mails and chose Joseph, who loves all of me with all of his heart. I can’t believe I found him.

It makes a huge difference, having one person in the world who believes in you and loves you completely. Maybe its because I’m getting older and probably in large part because of Joseph, but I’m down with being a Viking now, although Planet Tinkerbell continues to rub me the wrong way.

A month ago, my friend Kristina sent me a tantalizing proposition.

Kristina is my dream collaborator. I secretly think we could be the next Spielberg and Lucas. Unlike me, Kristina does not dive into every opportunity that comes her way, torpedoes be damned. She weighs and plans, dons a swim cap and goggles and executes a perfect swan dive into the water, once it has been deemed safe by the proper authorities. I really wanted to make a movie with Kristina, and this thing, it was meant to be.
 
The ad read:
Vikings Wanted: Tahoe Ski Resort Seeks Tall, Ruthless Scandinavians For Ad Campaign.

The ad instructed applicants to send in a video. It should be 60-90 seconds long and demonstrate why we should be chosen as the resort’s Viking representative.

Joseph and I flew down to the Bay Area to make the movie with Kristina. I rented a Viking get up and Joseph got to see me for the first time in the outfit I look most natural in. He did not look at me like a panda on the loose. He looked proud and kind of horny. The three of us spent the day rampaging College Avenue, storming Oliveto’s restaurant, pillaging Bionovo’s corporate headquarters and trashing Kristina’s apartment. I got to eat a whole chicken with my bare hands, drive like a maniac and scare passersby. I was so happy.

The video was due today.

Now, the ski resort owners will look at all of the competitors’ videos. They’ll select the top ten. The ten finalists will go to the resort to meet them in person. They’ll narrow it down to three final finalists and choose two winners on the spot. The third viking will be audience choice.

This thing was made for me.

And now my delusions of grandeur have already run away with me. I want to be a YouTube sensation. I want to be a special guest on the Ellen Show and David Letterman. I want to be the crazy Viking lady.

Here is the audition video:

Here's Part II: The Audition