Funny Thoughts

I Found It!!

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After twenty-seven years of marriage, I finally decided that being the ideal European wife (born in Canada) to my European counterpart husband (also born in Canada), was no longer a feasible option in my life. My role as the European stay at home wife / mother didn’t really apply since I HAVE A FULL TIME JOB. It was time for change and I was not backing down. Communication. Open and honest communication is what was needed. Right?

I will provide an instant replay of our conversation:

ME: I think you can start making dinner on days when you aren’t working. (We Europeans don’t call it supper).

HIM: Fine…fine…fine. I will quit my job and then I can make dinner every night.

ME: Uh…that’s not how it works. I have a full time job AND I make dinner every night.

HIM:

ME: You aren’t working tomorrow. I have a fantastic recipe here for beef ribs. They are slow cooked in the oven. Follow the recipe. Make a side of potatoes or rice or whatever else you feel like making.

HIM: Sure. No problem. I can do that. #snarky

ME: #doubtful

Fast forward to next day

(cell phone rings) It’s my husband. I look anxiously at my watch. I have my weekly group meeting at 10am and he is calling me at 9:52am? Do I have time to answer? #regret

ME: Hello?

HIM: Ok, I was going over the recipe you gave. I have to get these ribs in the oven by 10 o’clock a.m. so we have eight minutes.

ME: (loud and almost symphonic sound of “Carmina Burana”)

HIM: Hello?

ME: I have my meeting in 8 minutes. What’s up?

HIM: Ok, so the recipe says I need barbecue sauce.

ME: Ok.

HIM: Where is the barbecue sauce?

ME: It’s in the fridge. On the door. Right side. Round bottle. Black lid.

HIM: I don’t see it.

ME: It’s there. On the door. Bottom shelf or one shelf up.

HIM: I don’t see it. pause. Oh, wait. Nope, that says “pickles”.

ME: (hangs up. It is 9:54am. Makes FaceTime call.)

HIM: (answers FaceTime call) – Why did you hang up on me?

ME: I don’t have time for this! I have a meeting at 10am!

HIM: Don’t yell at me. I have to get these ribs…

ME: (Rudely interrupting him) Let me see the shelf!

HIM: What? (looking at me intently)

ME: Turn your phone around so I can see the fridge door!

HIM: How do I do that?

ME: Don’t worry about the flip part, just physically turn your phone around so I can see the fridge. Put your phone on speaker.

HIM: (put phone on speaker): Can you hear me?

ME: (time: 9:55) YES! Move the phone down.

HIM: (picks up a jar) – this has a black lid…

ME: Those are olives. It says olives!

HIM: Yeah. That’s not barbecue sauce.

ME: (eyes roll so loudly it sounds like bowling balls). MOVE YOUR PHONE DOWN!!

HIM: Don’t yell at me!

ME: THERE!!! Right there! That black lid!!!

HIM: That’s mayonnaise! (pointing to the super white squeeze bottle)

ME: NOOOOO! Right beside it!

HIM: (finally picks up the right bottle) That’s not barbecue sauce. It says Stubb’s….(pause). Oh…(more reading). Ah… there it is. Bar-B-Que sauce.

ME: deep breathing to restore calmness. Also observing my colleagues with fists in mouths and bent over laughing. Then I hear this whispered from the gang: “THIS SHOULD BE A TIK TOK VIDEO!” (Back to spouse): Ok, so you’re good?

HIM: Yes.

ME: (exhales)

HIM: No….wait. Recipe says we need smoked salt. We don’t have that.

ME: Yes we do. (#IDIOT! why did I tell the truth?). If you look in the pantry you will see a cylindrical container with a black lid. (oh noooooooooo…..black lid! Just like the barbecue sauce fiasco). It’s in the pantry that is to the left of the fridge. Second pull out drawer from the bottom or third one from the top. It’s stuck so don’t try to pull it out! There is an olive oil bottle and vegetable oil bottle in there and it should be behind those.

HIM: (Bends down [he is 6’4″ after all] and pulls out a cylindrical container with a black lid. (reading, slowly annunciating) Faaaaaaaaarm Boooooooy – Himaaaaaalaaaaayaaaaaan Piiiiiiink Salt.

ME: You’re close! It is the exact same container but the label will say “Smoked Salt”. (me looking at watch). It’s 9:58. I gotta go. Text me when you’ve found it. (disconnect)

Now that my phone conversation has dramatically ended, I can now focus on the raucous laughter that has been playing in the background of my ever-so-urgent conversation with my husband.

One minute until meeting time so we rush to share in this quasi-dysfunctional experience of my life.

RANDOM COMMENTS:

  • OMG! That is a Tik-Tok video. (raucous laughter)
  • You should have a podcast! That’s hilarious!
  • Does he do this all the time ?
  • Put him on speaker next time !

BING! 10:00am – meeting time

Earbuds in. Click on join meeting. Good to go.

I am 10 minutes into the meeting when I hear the PING or my personal phone. It’s a text message from my significant other. I quickly grab my cell phone worried about what new life dilemma has occurred only to find a photo of the ever elusive smoked salt and an upbeat comment of “found it”. Life goes on.

Please note that although this particular spice drawer is locked in place the items on it live in a drawer that is 2 feet by 2 feet. Not a lot of space that needs to covered, yet it took my humble hubby 12 minutes to discover the special container.

I am sure there are some who will believe that my glorious husband went above and beyond his call of duty to ensure that we had the most exotic and flavourful meal. He followed that recipe as if it was a treasure map and would not be dissuaded from finding all the necessary ingredients.

And I would like to thank Mark Bland and his Helpdesk for Men. This is what my day felt like. https://www.tiktok.com/@mark_bland/video/7261624424481393966?lang=en

@mark_bland

Wait time is currently 3 hours… #marriagehumor #marriedlife #marriagecomedy #married #wivesoftiktok #husbandsoftiktok

♬ original sound – Mark Bland

Whir Comfort

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The raging, ravaging Canadian winter weather is gone. The one week of rainy, mild spring is a mere memory. We are now in the throes of the hot, hazy, humid, hideousness of summer. Oh, there are those Canadians who live for summer! These brave, outdoorsy types, tackle the elements with the greatest bravado! Smear on that SPF 80 sunscreen! Bathe in mosquito repellant! Swim in Lake Ontario (very, very…brave). Nature calls! Then there is me…the Princess of Pampering! The Maiden of Mollycoddling! You get the idea. Now imagine this “Princess” returning to her humble abode after a long (air conditioned) day at work. Driving home in her (air conditioned) vehicle only to enter her humble abode and feel that crushing stank of humidness attacking her person. NO! It couldn’t be true, could it?

It happened. Our beloved new air conditioner was not even 4 years old and the extreme heat of the great outdoors had brought on its demise. My usual “Damsel in Distress” was not a viable option. This was war!

After a fitful, sweaty sleep, I called the service department of the company who had installed our air conditioning unit. Being a Friday, I already had a preconceived notion that I would hear, “I’m sorry, all of our technicians are booked today.” I was correct. I was informed that a technician (our saviour) would be arriving Saturday between 12pm and 4pm. Step one completed. I worked from home that day (hoping, praying, begging, bribing) that a service person would finish a job early and become available. One of those honest/dishonest wishes came true as their dispatch called Wiseguy (my beloved husband) to inform him that rescue was on the way.

Our saviour was an eager, troubleshooting, dynamo apprentice and his look of dismay said it all. Our thoughts were confirmed when he said, “Based on everything I have tested, it should be working.” Our diligent student called his Supervisor a couple of times and then came to us with the verdict: “Someone else will be back tomorrow.” The internal temperature of our homestead had now climbed to a standard rainforest temperature of 86 degrees F (36 C). Hubby and I went into survival mode.

Flashback to 2003: We purchased our home knowing that there was no working air conditioning. We had elderly people living with us who were very averse to this cooled down way of living. We survived two years on fans. We installed ceiling fans in every bedroom and purchased stand up fans to cool all other areas of the house. This was survival, after all.

Fast forward to 2024: Diagnosis: Air conditioning unit needs new compressor. The ancient 20 year old fans have been brought out of retirement and are gently blowing and helping keep internal temperature of home down to 80 degrees F. Survival mode includes: turning on all ceiling fans to keep air circulation at a premium; opening of all windows nightly to ensure cool night air flows breezily through living space. We were fine. We would be fine. Tomorrow a superior service technician would come out and professionally resolve our issue.

Saturday. The grandmother clock chimes noon. Tick tock. Tick tock. The previous night’s sleep evaded us until exhaustion set in. An inherited futon became a sleep raft as it lay underneath the whirling ceiling fan in the sitting room.

Saturday, at 12:45 pm, our doorbell rang. Hallelujah! Our guy Jimmy was here to save the day! Windows had been closed. Blinds were tightly shut. Fans were at full capacity. Internal temperature 86 degrees. Jimmy read the notes from the previous night and said we would be up and running in no time. Yay Jimmy! We were planning a parade for Jimmy! NO ONE was better than Jimmy! Then Jimmy said, “You need a new compressor.” Disappointment. Shock. Sadness. Sweaty home owners. “How long until the part comes in?” I inquired. Jimmy would ensure it got ordered on Monday so it would arrive either Tuesday or Wednesday. With our hopes dashed, Jimmy left with the promise of return.

So began the sleepless nights. The bed swapping. Cold showers. Creative ways to heat food. The kitchen was officially off limits after Monday. We had two nights of thunderous thunderstorms and hours of rainfall. The windows remained open. Who cares about a wet house? Not us! Keep that cool air coming!

Wednesday. Small reprieve. After two days of storms, The outdoor temperature was 68 F (20C). The internal temp was 77F (25 C).

Wednesday – 12:30 pm: JIMMY WAS BACK!

Jimmy informed us that he had called a colleague to assist him as he needed a specialized container to remove and store the freon from our A/C unit. The colleague was an apprentice and Jimmy, being a 12-year veteran, decided that showing the newby how to install a new compressor would be a viable educational moment. We agreed.

Apprentice Newby left after 3 hours and Jimmy continued the repair. At 3.5 hours Jimmy made an appearance in our hallway. Hubby and I were silently celebrating our new air conditioned life. Upon seeing Jimmy and asking if all was done, Jimmy sheepishly grinned and said, “I’m not going to lie…” Jimmy had been so avid in his instruction of the youthful apprentice that he had mistakenly installed the compressor and topped up the freon, bypassing the installation of an all important filter.

“What does that mean Jimmy?” It meant there would be no cooling of the domestic habitation. He would need to return the following day with another empty freon container to empty the now-topped up freon, thus enabling him to remove the compressor in order to perform the same repair, but which would now include the needed filter. Adios brother Jimmy. See you tomorrow.

Thursday morning – internal temperature – 75F. Perfect! 12:15 pm. Jimmy jogged to our front door! Today is the day! Jimmy got to work.

Jimmy: “Can you feel it?” he asked.

Yes. Yes I did.


And with that I sauntered happily through the overheated home, closing the windows to trap in that wonderful coldness. I caught myself trying to turn off the whirring fans, but was not quite confident that all was well. It had been a week of downs and downs after all. They could stay on for one more night.


Tonight, as I ready myself for sleep, there is a quietness. There is something lacking. And then I hear it, no… I don’t hear it. The freedom from the whir. All fans gone. Thank you Jimmy.

What’s For Supper?

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Remember me? I am the one who is constantly thinking of food. A trip to the grocery store is torturous for some, yet I relish in wandering the aisles and seeing what’s new on the food scene. This will eventually lead to me googling recipes that will include my new ingredient. This is my happy place. My world of wonder. That is, until my husband, Wiseguy, calls me at 10am at work and asks, “What’s for supper?” I am not sure what sort of trigger that phrase is for me, but my heart starts palpitating, my blood pressure goes up, and I feel like She Hulk ready to SMASH! I will try and explain.

We have been married for almost three decades (I could have said twenty-seven years, but decades definitely makes it sound longer). The first few years were filled with my desire to create a loving home with delicious home cooked meals. Growing up in a European household, with a stay at home mom, did not provide me with the fortuitous education of any culinary skills. Even when asked to assist my maternal unit, it was to circularly stir something in a pot and I, apparently, did it wrong every time. So, learning to cook for my new husband and stepchildren was at the top of the To Do list. It went so well! Kind of.

Wiseguy actually could cook. So imagine when, I meticulously imitated my mother’s way of making sunnyside up eggs. I poured an inch of oil into the pan, turned the heat on high, cracked the egg over the pan and was immediately assaulted with hot spits of oil upon my person. OUCH! My husband came over to assess the situation and asked two very good questions:

  1. Why did you pour all that oil in?
  2. You do know there is a dial on the stove so you can put the temperature higher or lower?

Hmmmm, lessons learned. For eggs I started using a pat of butter, and most of my cooking was now done on lower heat. That fixed the breakfast portion of my culinary life.

Supper. At my childhood home it was always called dinner. Apparently, the term dinner is for fancy meals. Regular, everyday persons, call it supper, but I digress. My first attempt at roast beef was extraordinary! It was sooooooo good! The pizza, that is. My beef was hard as a rock and you could easily shingle a roof with it. Lesson learned. I would not make roast beef again for another twenty years. Now that’s trauma for you.

Fast forward to today. The children are grown and living on their own. When special occasions occur, I will still go out of my way to make the most wonderful food and spoil my loved ones. With life encompassing just me and my Wiseguy, I have sort of become disinterested and fatigued in the daily need to create creative meals. It appears that after decades of blissful marriage, the only thing left to discuss is: “What’s for supper?” Everyday. And then you die. Right? Does anyone else feel that way?

Again, being brought up in the European standards, we don’t get the luxury of, say, having a bowl of cereal for dinner. That is not an option. The European ethos states: For all dinners (American translation: supper) thou shalt char meat, accompanied by a hot carbohydrate (potatoes / pasta) or rice. Thou shalt attempt to have vegetables of the green variety, cruciferous, if desired by your husband. If not skip the veg and enjoy your meal. Done. My favorite meal if my husband isn’t home? I grab a slice of salami, layer a slice of cheese upon it, and add a pickle. Roll it up. Eat it. Dinner done and there is no clean up! But noooooooo…we are recreating the lives of our ancestors on a nightly basis.

I believe that my creative juices for cooking have gone to the wayside. I have fried, boiled, broiled, grilled, baked for almost thirty years. Add to that working forty five hours a week and then coming home, not to relax after a long day, but to happily prepare a delicious meal in forty-five minutes. (Truth be told, it takes an hour. Still working on that ultimate time goal.) Saturdays used to be my happy-go-hunting day for exciting new foodstuff or newly introduced condiments, to be prepped and ready to surprise my Wiseguy with an exhilarating and adventurous new recipe. Now I prefer to step outside our front door and enjoy life outside the home which would include restaurant lunch dates where SOMEONE ELSE does the cooking for me. No planning. No cooking. No clean up.

Maybe, I’m just in a stagnant cooking funk. This might miraculously lift soon and I’ll be back to pouring over cook books and searching out new meal ideas and then BAM! Back to being gloriously excited about meal making again.

It’s 10:00am. My cell phone will be ringing soon. Oh, there it goes. Hubby is calling me. Wonder what he’s going to ask?

Battle For My Blood

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It all began quite innocently. It was a family fun vacation at an all inclusive resort: palm trees swaying in the wind, the sun gloriously shining above, the pool glistening invitingly, the ocean surf roaring in the background. Endless arrays of food and tropical drinks. It was perfect; divine even. That would have been the case had nighttime not arrived and THEY came out to hunt.

Day 1

After a glorious day of frolicking in the water and filling our gullets with wonderful food and delicious tropical beverages, it was time to go back to our rooms to rest and recuperate for tomorrow’s vacation fun. As my niece and I entered our room we noticed that there was a sort of cloud of insects around the light in the back corner of the room. Upon closer inspection, my suspicions were confirmed: mosquitos. I explained to my niece that she had nothing to fear as I had the sweetest blood in all the land and they would not dare bother her. For safety’s sake, I decided that we should leave the light on so that the blood suckers would stay in their corner. I chose correctly, for the following morning not a welt nor a bite was to be seen upon our tender appendages.

Day 2

Ahhhh…another great day of frolicking in the water and filling our gullets with wonderful food and delicious tropical beverages. Time to get to bed and recuperate for the next day’s relaxing adventure. However, upon arriving to our suite my niece had one request. “Could we turn off the light tonight?” I froze. Could my undying love for my niece conquer my colossal fear of mosquitos? “Sure,” I replied nonchalantly. I casually sauntered over to the dimly lit lamp, quickly calculated the number of insects in the flying fog, and prepared myself to be sacrificed.

You may think that my fear is childish and unjustified, however, what one might not know is that I had succumbed to the wonderful illness known as West Nile Virus. It resulted in my breaking out in a rash all over my body which then morphed into walking sideways, the following week, as the illness had transformed into vertigo. Fear mosquitos much Maryann? Now back to the bug-filled-suite at our sunny vacation destination.

I walked resolutely back to my bed, which was actually further away from the murderous bugs, and hoped that I might be spared from any vicious onslaught. It could happen, right? Forsooth, it was not to be.

It began during the witching hour. Shortly after midnight I heard the first bzzzzzzzzz fly by my left ear and then proceed past my right. My hand shot out in defense. Buzzing sounds came again and again from different angles. The battle was about to begin. In order not to wake my niece (who was sleeping quite comfortably and mosquito free, might I add) I turned on the flashlight on my cell phone (clever lady), then proceeded to gasp in horror at the site of the party of mosquitos all over my bedsheet, hovering by the wall, flying above my head under the canopy. There would be no sleep tonight.

I prepared myself for the onslaught. I expeditiously fished out a facial tissue from my purse and maneuvered myself toward my first enemy. She had gently landed just inches away from my left hand. With lightning speed I crushed my adversary. I would have called her my first victim, but alas, that victim was me. The amount of MY blood that came out of her tiny body was horrifying! I shuddered with revulsion and then looked around. So many of them buzzing around me! Ouch! I succumbed to the sting of a bite. That brought me back to reality. Time to wage war!

So the early morning continued with the relentless warfare: me slaying the enemy, leaving their carcasses in the midst of my red life juice, and they, happily biting and savoring my blood. My niece, God bless her, slept through the war cries and the slapping of body parts to ward off the tiny warriors.

Exhaustion hit me after 3 a.m. I removed myself from the blood spattered sheets and tiredly dragged myself to the couch. I lay there defeated. Bumps welling up all over my body. I cowered under the blanket, trying to breathe, but the C02 was overpowering my need for oxygen. Like a turtle, I popped my head out and let sleep wash over me.

When I awoke four hours later I surveyed the damage. I had mosquito bites all over my fingers and toes and arms and legs. Our routine of the glorious day of frolicking in the water and filling our gullets with wonderful food and delicious tropical beverages became a trip to the store to purchase lotions and potions and salves for my poor body. There was also a trip to the hotel’s guest services whereupon a staff member came to our suite with a large can of bug killing spray, leaving a cloud of poison in our room. He was also kind enough to leave the, now half empty, can of toxin for my future nighttime battles.

The rest of the vacation was more uneventful. However, instead of wearing sunscreen I wore bug repellant and bug bite salve. No happy coconut smell there. I was a Walkin’ Toxin. The new evening routine was gassing the room with the poisonous spray then heading out for supper.

I returned home from the family trip with many memories, a plethora of mosquito bites, and perhaps, nasally ingested poison in my lungs. The battle for my blood is one that I shall not soon forget. My niece, beautiful girl, had chosen the best roommate for this trip.

A Very Mervin Christmas

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It’s the month of October and as I wander through the mall I am asking myself: Why are there Christmas decorations already on the shelves? I was part miffed and part flabbergasted at these retail displays. This led me to think about Mervin and Melissa and I was wondering if they were still keeping the same tradition they had started over 35 years ago. Oh, it started off as a “devil may care” stunt by Merv, but it has become a legendary ritual full of joy and laughter as the tale is told and retold to family and friends.

Mervin is now in his sixties. Mervin is a mechanic. He began his career in the days when you chain smoked while you worked. Your restful, non-work hours were spent in the company of friends at the local watering hole (aka pub) after which you proceeded to drive home a little bit more inebriated than when you had entered. This was especially true in the month of December. Mervin would frequent the local shopping centre for the yearly chore of purchasing gifts for his beloved. The first two years he agonized over finding the perfect presents that would prove his undying love to his darling wife. In year three of their marriage, Mervin changed tack and thus was born a new tradition.

Circa 1982:

“Cheers Jim!” cried Merv jovially to his best friend as he raised his pint of ice cold beer. The two friends had been sitting at the pub for about two hours now and were becoming pleasantly relaxed and happy. “Time to get to the mall before it closes.”

“What are you getting Mel this year?” inquired Jim.

“I have a new game plan.” smiled Merv, conspiratorially. “You in?” he inquired of his drinking mate.

“Sure thing pal,” remarked Jim automatically, as that is what a best friend always says in return. Mervin and Jim had been best friends since they were twelve year’s old when Jim’s family had moved into the house two door’s down from Mervin’s family home.

Merv reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a set of dice. The little white cubes with the black dots were being displayed to Jim as Merv said, “Ok, so we roll the dice. First roll tells us which entrance to the mall we are going to take,” began Merv excitedly. Jim nodded.

“Then,” continued Merv, “we roll the dice again.” Merv leaned in closer to Jim. “THAT number will tell us how many stores we need to go into for gifts.”

Jim took another swig from his beer stein, wiped his mouth with the cuff of his sleeve, nodded and asked, “you rolling first or me?”

This was why Jim was his bosom buddy. Always on board with any cockamamie idea Merv had. Mervin handed him the dice.

“Cheers!” Merv hollered again. “You roll first.”

Jim folded his right hand around the dice and shook them a few times (about 12 times for good measure) then dropped them on the table. Both men leaned in. Jim had rolled a 3 on one die and and 2 on the other.

“Mmmmmhmmmm,” mumbled Merv. “We go in by the Food Court doors.” Then Merv scooped up the dice, shook them four times in his hand and dropped them on the beer stained table. Fortunately, Merv had rolled two 2s.

“Lucky us, Jim,” smirked Merv. “Only four stores to shop in.” The two men downed their last dregs of beer, paid their tab, and headed over to Mervin’s car. They drove ten minutes away to the, now-packed, shopping centre. It was December 24th after all.

After finding a parking spot, the two men headed to the Food Court entrance of the mall. As Jim was about to grab the door handle, Merv put his right hand gently on Jim’s arm and asked, “Do you have a coin on ya buddy?”

Jim checked his left front shirt pocket and then his right front shirt pocket. No coins. He dipped his right hand into his right trouser pocket, grinned a little, and pulled out a quarter. He handed it to Merv. Merv tossed the coin in the air and caught it on its way down, slapping it onto his left arm. He covered it with the palm of his right hand and said matter-of-factly: “Heads we go left. Tails we go right.” Jim nodded. Merv slowly lifted his hand for the great reveal: Tails.

Jim opened the door, bowed and gestured with his hand for Merv to go in and then merrily followed behind Merv to continue their Christmas eve adventure.

The first store on the right was a boutique full of ladies clothing. Merv picked a sweater off of the first rack he saw. He didn’t check the size. He didn’t care about the colour. He paid for it and smilingly headed out the door. One down, three to go.

Next door was a knife specialty store. Jim pointed out the very handsome Swiss Army knife in the glass cabinet. All its practical blades and tools were shiningly on display.

“Sold!” cried Mervin.

The store associate cheerily rang up the sale and the two friends were off again. Two down. Two to go.

The third store was a sporting goods store. Merv bought his beautiful wife a football in seconds flat and headed out of the store to finish off his shopping spree.

The fourth and final store was a small store full of men’s ties. Merv put his hand on Jim’s shoulder, pointed to the right hand side of the store. Jim nodded, acknowledging that he knew what his assigned task was. Merv went the left side of the store. The men met in the middle at the cash register each holding a tie. Jim’s was a sky blue with a green Christmas tree full of colourful lights and baubles on it. Merv’s was Navy with red stripes. Snazzy.

With the last of the gifts purchased, the two men were about to head back to the car when Jim noticed the sign “Gift Wrapping” above a table ahead of them. He tapped Merv on the shoulder and pointed at the sign. Merv grinned. They happily carried the gifts to the ladies at the table.

“My name is Merv and this is Jim,” said Merv, pointing his thumb at Jim. “Here is $10.00 for the wrapping. We’ll be back in an hour,” declared Merv putting a $10.00 bill on the table. With the awful gift wrapping delegated to those more qualified than he, Mervin led his best buddy to the closest pub for a celebratory drink.

************

Christmas day. Melissa is drinking her coffee and smiling at Mervin. There are beautifully wrapped packages under the Christmas tree. She is excited to see what gifts the love of her life has found for her.

Merv is grinning stupidly at Melissa. After finishing his coffee (with the wee dram of brandy in it) Merv points to the tree and tells her to go ahead and open her presents.

Merv almost became a single man that Christmas. After opening her festively wrapped presents, the words out of Melissa’s mouth were quite colourful. During her litany of profanity, Mervin had reached into his pant’s pocket and pulled out all the receipts for those Christmas presents. When Melissa paused to take a breath Merv took her hand and pushed the papers into it saying: “Return it all and get what you want for yourself.”

Melissa, still livid, stared at the receipts then looked back, dumbfounded, at her husband. The following week she did go back and return EVERYTHING her spouse had purchased. She spent the whole day wandering around the mall and buying exactly what she HAD wanted to receive as a Christmas gift.

It didn’t matter how upset she had been with him that Christmas day, Merv continued his new tradition every year. The next Christmas Melissa was enraged at seeing that Merv had done the same thing, knowing full well how furious she had been the previous year. The third year she realized this was never going to end. By year four, she fully accepted her fate and was now beginning to get intrigued before Christmas Day wondering what her beloved (idiot) husband would have her unwrap on December 25th.

A ladder, a power drill, shoe polish, men’s trousers, tap shoes, ice skates, lawn mower, pickled kippers, curtains, a pogo stick, and a plethora of other presents have been unwrapped by Melissa over the decades.

As I wander through the store I think about Merv and Jim. What will the dynamic duo discover this year for the unflappable Melissa? Over the years there have been some changes to the modus operandi. The pre-shopping pub visit has become a coffee shop and muffin meeting. The types of stores has changed dramatically. However, there are some things that have remained consistent. The dice are still expertly shaken. The coin is still tossed. The shopping is done on December 24th. I grin, knowing that no matter what, for Melissa, it will be a very Mervin Christmas.

Mask of Mortification

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I wasn’t going to say anything about it. I wasn’t going to talk about it. I wasn’t going to write about it. And yet, here we are. I am going to talk about *hard swallowing noise* – COVID! I know, I know, we are all “Covided out” (meaning: sick and tired of hearing about, talking about, listening about Covid!) However, the reason I am writing about Covid is not really about Covid itself, but the subsequent dangerous and destructive side effects of this disease. I am specifically referring to the wearing of the PPE (personal protective equipment) a.k.a. THE MASK.

THE MASK has become the latest accoutrement and, dare I say, fashion accessory of the year. I myself have a few viable variations of said facial gear.

There is the 3 ply disposable version found in your friendly neighbourhood hospitals. They have a thin metal strip on the inside to ensure you can fold the mask to fit the shape of your nose and the cotton strings that rip right out of the mask as you try to remove this illness barrier off your ears.

hospital mask – 3 ply

There is the 2 ply cotton version with the mesh coating. I have a lovely white one which makes me a wee bit squeemish as it reminds of a pair of children’s tighty-whitey underwear. It is a softer alternative to the paper hospital mask, however, the fine fibres usually end up being inhaled into my nasal cavity thus causing excessive nose twitching or, the more egregious offence of sneezing…in public. Let the Witch Hunt begin!

2 ply mask (tighty-whitey)

There is the 1 ply stretchy version with the stitch down the middle. No metal nose clamp and easily washable and dryable. Probably not nearly as safe at blocking out the Covid as the other two, but c’est la vie!

one ply mask

No matter which mask I prefer (am forced) to wear, there is something they all have in common. Not only do I find that my breathing is impeded, but my sight immediately degenerates as well. Mind you, this incident only occurs when I find the need to exhale. (Statistically speaking, this occurs every 2 seconds as the exhale dutifully follows every inhale). With the exhalation comes a foggy mist on my eyewear thus creating the sensation of walking through a cloud and no foggy idea what’s ahead of me.

Inhale. Exhale. The fog rolls in.

When the whole “mandatory mask wearing” thing was announced I did not realize how debilitating it would be for me. Here is what my first Masked Shopping experience was like.

Me: (fitting mask on face and walking into store)

Me: *gasp* (jump up startled) as someone was standing there to greet me. How did I not see them?

Me: (attempt not to breathe so much to ensure clearer vision. Start to see stars. Grab shopping trolley for support. Back to regular inhaling and exhaling and loss of sight.)

Me: Proceed to indecorously ram shopping cart into wall adjacent to the double sliding doors of entrance. Carbon monoxide vapour issuing from my PPE had once again clouded my sight. With a harrumph of exasperation I backed up my cart, lifted my glasses to gauge direction, realigned myself with the entrance and proceeded to drive the buggy into the store. SUCCESS!

The grocery store I had just entered is a bit more upscale. We regular folk like to jest that it’s the store for the Yoga Moms. You end up feeling pretty hoity-toity buying locally grown, organic produce and hormone free carnivorous delights. So there I was with my pretentious attitude, feeling like a quinoa / kale eating diva, ready to purchase healthful foods for my family. Alas, I had the Disastrous Demolition Derby Cart as my “modus transportationus”.

I drove slowly and cautiously through the bodega, raising my glasses occasionally to ensure I was on a safe path. I felt like a Yoga Mom until I maneuvered my trolley off the beaten path and down the fruit aisle. My shopping cart hit the metal post that housed the roll of plastic bags. CLANG! The post collided into the gorgeous display of green, Granny Smith apples. I held my breath and in doing so the mist on my glasses cleared, just in time for me to witness a row of sumptuous apples begin to cascade one by one from their comfortable perch onto the recently polished floor. I lunged forward in haste and staunched the impeding avalanche of apple suicide. Two of the succulent fruits managed to escape my grasp. Those I relegated to a different section of the fruit aisle in the hopes that someone would recognize the deformity and remove them from any future customer’s grasps. Although elated at my heroic save, I continued my trek, ashamed and wary.

I procured my cruciferous vegetables with nary a knock or a bump and my confidence increased. I boldly moved forward. Me and my trusty buggy full of Yoga Mom-worthy produce. I continued along to the seasonal fruit displays. I successfully wended around the watermelon section and was maneuvering between the strawberries and peaches when I felt a sudden jolt and twinge go up my arms. OMG! Glasses up! (Honestly, I was starting to feel like I was wearing a welding helmet.) A small basket of peaches that had been casually presiding on the corner of the table tipped over when I had unceremoniously rammed my metal Cart of Chaos into the corner of the table. It was a savage end to the stone fruit. I picked up each fuzzy peach and angrily situated them all back into the basket muttering my diatribe of, “stupid mask, can’t see anything, *mutter mutter mutter*”. At this point I was grateful that I was wearing the Mask Of Misery to ensure my secret shameful identity.

Now, you would think that after two such incidents I would book it for the checkout line and get the hell out of Dodge. Not I. I was in it to win it. Blueberries…last thing on my list. Having learned my lesson, I decided to remove my specs in order to reach my final destination and avoid any further fruit genocide. With my blurry vision I arrived at the final checkpoint and slipped my peepers back on to be able to pick a pack. I snatched up the little plastic case where the blueberries resided and, naturally, the clam shell box popped open and all the little blueberries went free-falling like little purple skydivers, landing and rolling around all over the floor. A voice: “It’s ok I’ll get that cleaned up.” Fog glasses raised, me smiling sheepishly inside Mask of Mortification (again, not be seen anyway). I muttered a thanks and walked away. I was not going to chance trying to pick up the sacrifices as I envisioned our heads bumping together as we both went down. Time to get out of Dodge.

I did not see the inside of that store again for 3 months. I also learned something very valuable during that time. If you push the mask up under your eyeglasses, the fogginess stays in the mask and not on your glasses. This is a public service announcement. You’re welcome.

Inauguration to Ikea

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Today was a day full of sweaty nervousness and penultimate fear. I was anxiously eyeing a plain cardboard box that I had deposited three weeks ago in my newly cleaned office. No, it wasn’t ticking, but its length of 4 feet and its width of 1 foot and its height of 3 inches was supremely intimidating. Why? I had opened it the first day I brought it home and pulled out the 10 page booklet of instructions on how to assemble my LOTE 3 drawer chest of drawers from IKEA. “Too many pieces” was my first and last thought so I left it there, lying dormant like a Jack-In-The-Box. Today I decided it was time. My very first IKEA assembly. I was ready.

NOT !!!

I know how they came up with the name of LOTE. LOT(s) of EXASPERATION = LOTE! I had hoped that my hubby, Wiseguy, would take pity on me and surprise me by doing that husbandly / manly thing of using a screwdriver to create the final masterpiece. It didn’t happen. So today I decided it was time for me to delve into the mysterious world of “building” something because it couldn’t really be that hard right?

The reason I held off for so long was that the first page showed me all the parts that had been hidden within the confines of that simple flat cardboard box. Here is the breakdown:

4 x screw # 144821

4 x screw # 105007

24 x screw # 108461

4 x screw # 107605

12 x screw # 144741

36 x ummmm…not a screw – maybe a bolt?

12 x uhhhh….hmmmm…plastic hole filler with a hole in it?

Then there were these plastic pretend edges for the drawers. A couple of metal pieces for the … frame? Sure, that’s what they were for. And so began my adventure into the vortex of humility, shame, anger, frustration, elation, exhaustion. Yes, IKEA – I Know Embarrassment Abounds.

I decided to approach this magnificent build by using my baking and cooking knowledge: Mise en place. I took out ALL the pieces and laid them out on the floor around me. I counted each screw and put them in their appropriate size grouping. The nervous tension rose as I worried it might be like a puzzle from my childhood with one piece missing. And breathe…all pieces were accounted for. Now….onto the diagrams!

The good thing about IKEA manuals is that there are no words. There are black and white pictures with arrows and an X through the screws that you aren’t supposed to use or an X to show you which way NOT to assemble the furniture. The bad news is that there are only black and white pictures with arrows and an X through the screws that you aren’t supposed to use or an X to show you which way NOT to assemble the furniture.

After the first 30 minutes I miraculously managed to build the frame. The first 10 minutes were used to uncover the magic X shaped screwdriver from the Tool Vault in Wiseguy’s workshop. No problemo after that. I planted my derriere on the floor and started the assembly process. Screw wouldn’t fit into bolt. Bolt flew out of my hands across the floor. Got a charley horse from sitting on floor. Screw flew out of my hands across the floor. Used my chin to hold frame in place while I put screw through hole. Used my thighs to hold everything together. Screw was not fitting into bolt. Bolt fell out, screw fell to floor. Screwdriver clanked to floor. This is what building IKEA items must be like.

Then my mind started to wander as it is wont to do when trying to acclimatize itself to a new and unyieldingly unsatisfying situation.

My brain: Forget the old days of making license plates while incarcerated. Inmates should be made to assemble IKEA furniture. That would create a significant decrease in crime.

EXAMPLE: Convicted serial killer. Judge passes sentencing: “Killer of multiple people, you have been tried by a jury of your peers and sentenced to life in prison without parole. You will be spending each day of your life assembling LOTE 3 drawer chests.

CSK: *cries of woe and sorrow* – NOOOOOOOOOOO!

(Somewhere in little Italy – Mafia meeting): Big Joe: “Dats right! Ya hurd me! No more murderin’! I ain’t goona hafta build no Aj-kija (translation IKEA) F-in furniture!”

My brain: *at Ikea University* – Professor to student: “Congratulations Sigge (means ‘one who is always victorious’) Bilderson (means ‘one who is son of a builder’…ok I made that up). I present you with your diploma for having successfully completed your Masters Degree in Frustration Free Assemblage and Visionary Building of Ikea Furniture. *loud cheers and raucous noise of approval*

My brain: what the F was I thinking! No wait…I can do this! I am a full grown smart adult woman with extensive life experience. I have created exotic meals in my wonderfully exotic kitchen full of Subzero Wolf appliances…you can do this!!!

My leg: Ow….cramp cramp cramp cramp! (yes, my leg has a voice … doesn’t yours?)

Time lapse: One hour and 32 minutes later

I DID IT! Yes I did! Whoot whoot whoot!!!

My pampered computer finger tips were swollen and throbbing from holding the bolt while I twisted all the screws in. My legs were numb from trying to find a comfortable position on the parquet floor. My brain was attempting to process the fact that I had, indeed, completed the designated task. All was well. A job well done.

It wasn’t until I put the drawers into their allocated positions that the red alert sounded in my brain. I had misinterpreted one of the simple black and white diagrams and had screwed the metal slider on the drawer incorrectly. Was I shocked? No. Was I disappointed. Absolutely! It’s like running a 10 km marathon and getting to 9.5 km thinking you won and realizing…nope….not done yet! Unscrew. Move piece. Rescrew (yup, that is now a word). AND…DONE!

I would’ve celebrated with a funky boo-yah type dance, but my left leg was numb and there was a weird twitch in my right ankle. I managed to erect myself without falling over and considered that a win. I pushed away from Frankenstein / Ikea 3-drawer pet project. No pride of ownership. No pat on the back for a job well done. It was more of an acknowledgement of defeat. IKEA…you have won…THIS TIME!

I will stick to amusing myself with children’s colouring books. I will prepare fancy meals for my family. I might even mow the lawn. With my white flag waving proudly in the wind, I solemnly swear that I will no longer attempt to purchase and/or assemble IKEA furniture. I will leave the screwdriver and hex key (yeah…hex…meaning ‘cast a spell’… see I knew IKEA had an evil streak) to the men and women and adventurous children who would love to spend hours playing with the puzzle pieces of adversity that is IKEA furniture.