Transmogrified, Evil Villain…

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Life is great!  I am happy!  Cough…Happy!  Cough cough!  What the heck is going on?  Hmmm, there is a wee tickle in my throat.  Ahem, ahem…cough cough.  HACK-COUGH!   My nose is itchy.  What is this?  There is leakage from my nasal passages.  Grab a facial tissue and blow my nose.  Blow again.  One more time!  Phew!  Think I got it all.  Great!  Wait a minute.  I can’t hear anymore.  What is going on?  I don’t have a fever or anything.  What new strain of evilness is this?  Yes, it appears I have a cold.  If it is so normal then why do I feel so AB-normal?

I have become a transmogrified evil villain!  I am usually the upbeat “Pollyanna” type rooting for everything good in the world!  “You can do this!”  I exclaim.  “Live in denial!” I yell to myself.  This self-lie usually works to trick my body into thinking that I am not ill.  It’s not real.  I can get past this.  Yet, here I am on day 9 (yes day 9) and I have managed to get hearing back in one ear.  The Super Cough has diminished to a mere whisper of its previous potency.  My bruised ribs have finally stopped screaming at me so I guess I actually did not crack any ribs in cough-a-lot episodes.  My sinuses…oh my…those beauties made my eyes look like fish eyes…all bulgy and watery.  Why am I describing my ailments?  I believe it is vitally important to share information that might make others feel better about their life situation, knowing that there are “others” like them.

To be honest, the reason I bring up my gross illness is because I have become a horrible human being.  I have become an uber, ugly, vindictive “reality show” type personality on the person I love.

When you get sick as a parent, you are not allowed to show weakness.   You are the doctor.  You are the nurse.  You are the most patient and understanding person in their lives.  When they say their teardrop hurts their cheek, it’s a reality you need to remedy to make them sleep.  However, when the children are out of the house and you become ill, you finally get to plead illness (and insanity).  Who gets the brunt of your illness woes?  Your bestie!  The person who will always be there for you through thick and thin.  It’s true right?

Think about it.  Wiseguy told me right from the beginning that one crucial element of a good relationship is:  COMMUNICATION!  For those of you who do not understand what that means, I shall simplify.  If there is something that is bothering you and you are holding it inside instead of talking about it, that means you are NOT communicating.  This would be a perfect example of my parent’s household.

In my parents house if you were upset, you held it in because there was no point in discussing issues.  Parents were always right.  Siblings?  No talk…more about actions and getting even (bwahaha!).  So, now I had to learn this “talk” thing.

For those of you who were taught manners and behaving properly and “be sure not to offend anyone” this was a difficult task.  After several years I got the hang of it.  It’s not about yelling and picking on each other, it’s actually discussing things, in adult words, no F-bombs.  It’s sharing thoughts, ideas, opinions.  It really does work.  Well, it works while you are both of sound mind.  When one gets sick, sense and sensibility gets thrown out and the evil “sick” monster takes over.

As previously mentioned, I have been the caretaker for many.  If I did get ill (i.e.”West Nile Virus), I still had my father-on-law come to me whilst I was lying on the couch and ask me: “What’s for dinner?”  Yes, it’s true.  When children get sick, parents don’t get timeouts.  It doesn’t matter how tired you are, the children are most important and one day you hope you will have time to sleep.  So, here I am, 20 years later, sick myself, and I am incorrigible.

I have been apologizing to Wiseguy on an almost hourly basis!  Why?  Because I am yelling at him for not speaking loudly enough for me to hear him.  My ears are plugged.  When my one ear canal finally opened up I complained that he was talking too loudly.  Even better… he now has whatever ailment I have and I am complaining when he can’t hear me!  I am agitated.  I am irritated!  I can’t hear properly.  I keep throwing verbal darts at Wiseguy.  He can do nothing right.  He made me a beautiful breakfast and I complained about the pan he used.  Cruel!?  For sure!

So, this little story is two-fold:

To Cold Sufferers:  You are not in your normal state of mind.  When you find that you are going crazy and verbally assaulting those you love, remember to apologize for being an intolerable pain.

To my hubby:  You are the best!  You should get hazard pay for dealing with my psycho-sicko mood swings.  I’m here for you.  (I hear you coughing right now.  Thanks for letting me share my unhealthy goodness with you!  Bwahaha!)

P.S.  Although I am of the elder-world, I find that many children’s books can simply explain life’s difficulties.  As adults we find “big words” to explain our life situations.  Over the past few days, in my whiny state of mind, I thought about how “horrible” I felt and recalled one of my all time favourite stories.  It made me laugh out loud (nowadays known as LOL):  Alexander and the Horrible, Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

Do you have a favourite storybook?  If so, what is so special about it?

 

The Chosen One…

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Today’s “it” word for mean people is:  bullying.  When we elders think of the term bully, we imagine the kid that used to prank us.  That prankster would grab your knapsack or hide your lunch bag or move your coat.  This led to endless laughter from classmates.  What did this bully teach us?  The one thing that I recall the most was thinking “I will never be like that person.” I think that is the greatest lesson learned.

In school we siblings were lucky to be the Chosen One for many of the bullies.  My parents were typical parents in some ways and yet extremely different in others.  Not fashion forward at all.  When puberty hit and there a growth spurt coming, there was no point in buying clothes that you were going to outgrow.  Hand me downs, or clothes that we had outgrown were fine.  Really?  Oh yes, really.  My parents grew up in a village where they were lucky to have shoes in the winter.  Yup,  those were my parents.  We didn’t invite kids from school to our house.  Our parents had us hang out with “our nationality” of people.  There was mass on Sundays (prayed in the “mother tongue”).  During the week we had choir practice (in the “homeland” language).  There were the musical instruments we learned to play (something that resembled a mandolin).  Dance group…yup, you got it:  the folk dancing of our ancestors.  These were all fantastic things to keep their heritage alive in another country.   In hindsight I am very grateful to have had such a wonderful upbringing.  As a child I wanted to break free.  I wanted to be like everyone else.  Why?  Here is the simple equation:

DIFFERENT = MISUNDERSTOOD = CHOSEN ONE

The Chosen One was NOT a good thing.  That meant you were prime target for being picked on.  Did we tell our parents about any of the verbal or physical abuse we received at school?  Heck no!  That would lead you to becoming a bigger outcast because then you were a snitch.  Equation:

SNITCH = UNRELIABLE = CHOSEN ONE

I wonder how my life would have been different if I had all the protection that is available nowadays.  Parents are told everything about what happens in school.  If there is a volatile child doing “bullying activities” they get sent to the principal’s office.  Why?  Due to past indiscretions of previous educators, teachers no longer have the right to say or do anything that will upset the bully.  The bully sits in the principal’s office.  The principal will tell them that what they are doing is wrong (which the bully already knows) and is told that if they reoffend it will lead to suspension or expulsion.  This should remedy the situation right?  In the majority of cases…no.

This system might work if parents would believe that their child is a bully.  However, the parent(s) will not believe any of this malarkey.  Here is how it plays out:

  • Meeting with principal
  • Parent(s) argues that their child is misunderstood and someone or something provoked their child
  • Principal stands firm
  • Parent(s) meets with Superintendent who then overturns the principal’s ruling
  • Game, set, match!
  • Bully returns to class
  • Cycle continues

I believe that what makes matters worse now is that everything is recorded and uploaded to be shared and viewed over and over and over again.  My generation didn’t have to deal with that.  If something happened, people would tell the story and laugh about it, but no one would be able to flash a phone at you and replay the indignation you had to deal with.

How do you get children to understand that their “joke” is not funny?  How can you teach them that it’s wrong to make people feel dumb or ugly when our “reality”  shows are demeaning people all the time.  Children learn by example.  What example is our society providing them with?  Which makes me think about how we survived in our day.

Friends.  I truly believe that whenever you feel down and lonely there will always be that one Chosen One who will be there for you.  You are not alone.  I find it interesting that in a world full of people, there are no human connections.  The connections are made through “text messages” and “likes” and “unlikes” and pictures.  We elders are the examples for our youth and we are constantly texting, e-mailing, talking on the phone and ignoring them, so why would they respect others when they get no respect themselves?  Are we really too busy to spend time with the youth of today?

I will agree that you need to love yourself first.  The reason is simple:  Equation:

LOVE YOURSELF = BARRIER TO BULLIES = HAPPY LIFE

If you can love yourself, then the mean people can’t bring you down.  If you live each day being grateful for something, then the little things won’t depress you.  If you take time to listen to your child and their day, oftentimes it helps you forget about any stress you have had in your day.  Why?  Their distress is usually something that we can resolve.  More often than not, your bit of advice will not only make them feel appreciated and loved, but it will make you feel like a genius!

This was a long one, but I am very passionate about this topic.  What can be done to get rid of the bully.  Are you going to the Chosen One (victim) or the Chosen One (friend)?  The choice is up to you.

Love…

Your friend (The Chosen One)

“Be the friend you always wanted to have.” – Maryann 

I am a Stoner…

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This definition might actually lead you to believe that I partake of cannabis.   I do not.  I am a unique type of stoner.  As you may well know I am a preparer of foods.  I LOVE to cook!  I could put a cot in this beloved kitchen of mine and just live here.  Obsessive?  You betcha.  What else am I totally infatuated with?  Pizza.  Any kind of pizza.  Thick, thin, Chicago style, New York style, hot, cold, etc.!  So, imagine my happy surprise when I received a pizza stone as a gift!  Yes!  I had heard about the benefits of baking up a pizza on this rock, but to actually have one added to my kitchen arsenal was a dream come true!  So, MY definition of a stoner is:  “a recipient and user of a pizza stone.”  Let me tell you about my profligate life using this wonderful wheel of fortune.

I cannot begin to tell you when my pizza obsession began, but I can recall being 8 years old and my mother presenting us with homemade pizza.  I loved the pizza sauce and the gooey mozzarella cheese.  Sometimes one bite would make the mozzarella slip off the beloved sauce and stick onto my lips causing many yelps of displeasure until I could remove it.  Still, each bite was like a fantasy.  Saturdays became a day of excited nervousness:  would it be tasty pizza for dinner or stinky cabbage soup.  As you can imagine the smell emanating from the kitchen was definitely different for each.  The smell of pizza is the best aroma in the world!

For bread lovers out there, I join you in adoring bread.  And really what is pizza but bread with happy food surprises on top!  Who would not or could not fall madly in love with pizza?  (Ok, there are some of you out there, but I still believe you are missing out on actually being able to “taste” joy.  Oh yes, I feel THAT strongly about it).

After Wiseguy and I moved in together I learned how to “order pizza”.  Yes, I could call the pizza place and tell them…nay…order them to make me my preferred pizza pie.  Sidebar:  I really disliked this job.  I disliked having to repeat myself.  Although I have a voice that could wake the dead, for some reason my on-phone ordering skills seemed to change the decibel level of my voice to a pitch only a dog could hear.  All in the line of duty if I wanted to have my pizza AND eat it too.

I first started experimenting and making my own pizzas when the kids were craving pizza and our wallet was craving obscurity.  Instead of ordering 4 or 5 pizzas of differing toppings, all I had to do was make two large rectangular ones (using cookie sheets).  I would account for several slices per person.  I would top with requested meats and/or veggies for personalized slices.  No fighting or whining about the pizza AND it saved us lots of dough.  (Ha!  Ha!  dough…as in slang for money, but dough as in pizza dough as well! I’m ingenious!)

All of a sudden, a pizza revolution occurred!  Forget about the franchise pizza places.  Suddenly there were restaurants opening with unique crunchy, bubbled pizza crusts and exotic toppings.  Some places even made their own mozzarella!  What sort of craziness was this?  Ah-ha!   Imported wood pizza ovens from Italy.  Mama mia!  I had to try one of these super glamorous dough-based spheres.  It appeared that at this time there weren’t many in my part of the globe and worse still, not even in my neighbourhood.  I had heard rumours of one place that had opened in the newly renovated area of our city:  The Bread Bar.  It was local.  It was a 15-minute drive from our place.  We arrived.  It was crowded.  We went in.  We ordered.  20 minutes later and 26.00 dollars lighter we hustled out with our hot little masterpiece.  Mmmmmmm.  More Mmmmmm.  Still more Mmmmm.  The crust, slightly charred with big air pockets.  Nice crunch.  Sauce was stupendous.  We had ordered a basic meat/cheese pizza.  I loved it!  I wasn’t too keen on the price though.  It was after this revelation that I decided it was time for me to start creating my own masterpieces.  How?

Plan A:  convince Wiseguy that we needed to import a wood burning stove from Italy.  (Yes, he still gets tears in his eyes from laughing so hard.)  Plan B:  procure a pizza stone.  As mentioned earlier…I got one!  To add to my new pizza-making pleasure I found a neat setting on my Sub-zero Wolf stove dial.  Check it out!

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The incredible stone setting! It allows me to preheat my oven to 550 degrees!

Other items for fantastic homemade pizza:

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Pizza Paddle:  to slide pizza onto pizza stone

 

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The PIZZA STONE:  Used bi-weekly

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The final result:

 

Ok, besides my creepy, half-drooling voice…is it not fantastic!

I believe Dean Martin said it best:  When the moon hits your eye / like a big pizza pie / That’s amore!  TRANSLATION:  Seeing a pizza the size of the moon means you love pizza.

P.S.  Feel free to become a Stoner like me and join me in a different kind of high!

 

Just One More Please…

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I am sure you will recall my story about my peculiar “crack” addiction.  Shopping at Sephora or The Crack Store as I refer to it.  Besides being addicted to beauty creams and magic lotions and colour palates for my face, there is one other thing that I just realized I can’t get enough of.  No, no it’s not kitchen appliances (though THAT would be a good guess and also a great story for another day).  As I was vacuuming today, I went room by room by room by room (you get the idea) and I noticed one of these in each room.  Whenever I saw one, I glowed with joy and happiness to see their cuddliness there…just waiting for me to snuggle in.  What was this resplendent item?  A baby blanket.

Now, you may be wondering, “What is so special about a baby blanket?”  You may also be wondering, “What is a baby blanket?”  I shall explain both.  I call my “throw” a baby blanket.  You see, blankets are larger and are used for covering such things as beds.  My “throw” is half the size of a blanket, but it is still soft and cuddly and has all the characteristics of a regular blanket.  Why are they called throws?  Well, I guess decor persons would “throw” them onto a chair for a pop of colour or to add chic-ness to a room. To me it sounds like someone is throwing away a comfort cloth.  So, logically,  I have decided to rename it a baby blanket.

There are electric blankets and there are wool blankets and there are cotton blankets.  What makes my baby blankets special?  They have that soft cashmere feel to them.  Your hand smooths over them and you can feel the tiny little fibres brush languidly against your palm and fingers.  It’s like the peace you get with yoga, but without the stretch.  No downward dogs here.

B-blankets are personal sized.  Room for one and no more.  Well, maybe one adult and a chihuahua.  Then again, two children could snuggle under one.  These are helpful at bedtime if one person doesn’t need many layers of warmth and you do.  Wiseguy and I have a King size bed (oh glory be!) and he doesn’t like being buried under mountains of blankets and comforters.  Solution?  My amazing new fake chinchilla wee blankie!  It is 100% fake chinchilla and also 100% polyester!  It is incredible how soft this man-made plastic throw is!  It feels like lamb’s wool on the one side…warm and knotty like a real wool blanket except no itch to it.  The other side is even more cool!  Literally…more cool.  That chinchilla soft fur feel, but it’s cool to the touch.  Incredible!  How do they make these!

Ok, besides the fact that my winter hands need a good manicure, observe the soft, cushy, cool blue layer.  Seriously…does it not look like blue-dyed fur?  Yet it is not!  Totally fake.  You can also see the fake lamb’s wool too!  Honestly, it’s incredible!  So why I am writing about fake fur blankets…ahem…baby blankets?

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As mentioned previously, I never really realized how many of these wonderful little snugglers I possessed.  I have this lovely ice blue one which is my latest acquisition.  It definitely reminded me of Elsa from “Frozen”.  I went through a brown phase.  A really large brown phase.  I believe I have three different brown bitty blankets.  I have an uber soft navy blue one and there is an off-white one somewhere in my humble abode.  Why do I keep purchasing these throws?  They are portable hugs!

I have been a hugaholic all my life! When I meet people for the first time and, if it feels right, I go right in for the hug!  Blankets are usually too large to be able to swirl around you and somehow transform into a comfortable warming position.  They usually awkwardly overhang and some part of your body gets left out.  With a mini-blanket you can quickly yank it up in the air and it will swiftly land on your person in the most pleasant and accommodating hug-type position.

As you can see, there are many great features to the semi-blanket:  perfect size, lightweight, fabulous feel, colour variety, fits one and all.  They also make great housewarming gifts.  Who would NOT want to get a petite blanket?

The cold weather has set in.  It’s nice to know that the days are getting longer.  We will be heading into the worst of winter and happily looking forward to the days of spring.  I am very pleased to have my plethora of small blankets to warm my winter-worn body.  I lazily sit down on the couch and curl my legs up under me.  I pull the blankie off the back of the couch and wrap myself in it.  Happy.  Content.  I grin with joy.  I know Wiseguy is happy that I have all these woolies in each room.  He is ecstatic!  (Not really…but he has told me NO MORE!)  Sadly, the feeling is short lived.  I am watching tv and I see the new spring colours appear that would definitely brighten up one (or many) of my rooms.  So many new potential fuzzy hugs to have in each room and I have luxurious space for them!  I am sure that Wiseguy would LOVE to have more colourful, soft, cuddly, fuzzy, love blankets.  Right?  Dearest….sweetheart…love of my life… JUST ONE MORE PLEASE!

Food Fight!

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You are probably thinking that I am going to regale you with the many high school adventures I had with food fights.  Firstly you would be incorrect as we never had food fights in my high school cafeteria.  Secondly, I can’t throw straight!  (You can confirm that with my dart-playing partner.)  So, what food fight am I referring to?  Let me gently guide you back to your childhood for this one.  If that part of your life has bad memories then you can easily relate while watching (your) children.  Here we go.

Close your eyes and think back to a time when you were playing with your brother or sister or cousin or neighbourhood kid.  Now, recall when a bag of chips came out.  The bag was cautiously opened by an adult to ensure minimum spillage.  The glorious contents of the bag were then deployed into an awaiting cavernous bowl.  YES!  Junk food!  Chips!  Woo hoo!  You would think this would be an amazing event and all would be happy.  NOT! Why?  Well, if there was a younger (spoiled) sibling it got ruined.  Who got the biggest chip?  Who got the chip with the most flavour toppings on it?  Once you got down to the end of the bowl, how could it be divided evenly?  Does this sound like your family?  Chips were a special food group in our humble abode.  Now, let’s ramp up the crazy and discuss the genius solution that my brother and I came up with in order to ensure equality.

Me:  There aren’t too many chips in this bag.

Bro:  I know.

Me:  Our two cousins are here so we need to make sure we share or we’ll get in trouble.

Bro:  I know!  Let’s crush the chips so there’s more of ’em!

Me:  Great idea!

Well, truth be told, we actually had our cousins help us crunch up the chips into bitty pieces so that there would be more pieces for everyone to share. Genius right?  Perhaps, but eating chip crumbs wasn’t that great.

Now, let’s discuss family meal time.  How about that can of pork and beans!  I loved this canned delight!  Honestly, when I saw that on the dinner table I was mega-excited!  As a child I loved the thickness of the sauce and how tasty it was.  However, there was a glitch…pork.  The can stated there was “pork” and beans in its innards.  How true!  Imagine a family of six.  Two adults and four children.  There was a “pork” inside.  One “pork” in the pork and beans.  Who would be lucky to get the “pork”.  If you have never had the honour of digesting the contents of a can of pork ‘n’ beans, you cannot really understand the need to be the “Chosen One” to get that insignificant little fatty piece of bacon.  You want Food Fight!  Bring it on!  This was where the debate began of who was worthy.  To this day, I view this canned good as a vessel of divisive evil.

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Moving right along we come to the eternal evil: CEREAL!  I do believe that serial killer was hatched from the word CEREAL!  From childhood to grandparenthood I do not find that cereal has good qualities.  I shall explain.

Cereal commercials show the benefits of these boxed glorified sugar bandits.  They contain fibre, vitamins, iron, petroleum, fairy dust and other things we know nothing about.  For some reason, as children, the FUN cereals were the ones that led to the most trouble.  Do you recall “Count Chocula”?  Healthy breakfast?  Heck no!  We wanted it because it would make chocolate milk.  When my mother actually bought a box we children stood there in awe trying to figure out the type of hostage situation we would have to deal with.   There it was.  The box of our imagination.  It was in front of eyes.  Not only did we get our dream cereal but there was a prize inside!  Oops.  There was the catch.  Since we were only permitted about a 1/4 cup of that prized cereal to mix with our Rice Krispies and Honey Comb cereal we had no idea who would be the lucky one to get the prize.  Dissension occurred.  What if Mom picked the youngest child out of pity?  What it the child with the best grades got the prize?  What if it meant being nicest to mom?  What were the rules to getting the prize?  You want insane behaviour?  Find a child surrounded by other children competing for the two-cent prize in a cereal box.  The rules changed.  You were never ready.

The same deal for the Cracker Jack box.  Lovely box with caramel popcorn.  There was a prize inside.  Gadzooks!  If one child got the prize there was always a fight.  Honestly, the prizes were crap, but it was always about who got something more than the other kid.  You solo kids…you missed out on all the drama in life.

 

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The same holds true for marshmallows in hot chocolate.  You had better ensure that each child gets the same amount of marshmallows in that brown frothy goodness.  That is a misstep that parents make and it leads to traumatic psychiatric treatments.

Popsicles?  Same drama.  For some reason that mixed box of popsicles should only contain purple and red.  Why is there an orange flavour for children?  In the olden days only red and purple were of any use.  They were like the gold bullion of frozen sugar water. Orange?  Bleh.

SUMMARY:  Food fights.  Jealous food fisticuffs are all about who got what and why or who was deemed more deserving.  Perhaps the world is better off with real food fights.  Although I have never partaken in such a vigorous display of displeasure, I have seen reels of The Three Stooges throwing cream pies at many an adversary.  What did I learn?  It appears that the evil ones were stymied.  The good, although creamed, being recipients of said sugary confections, appeared to be satisfactory with the results of their actions.  In plain English:  FOOD FIGHT!!!!!   Whip it!  Whip it Good!   (Let’s “LOL” you children of the ’80s)

 

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way into the New Year…

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Here it was, a few hours before the New Year and my little heart was going pitter-patter with nervousness.  I am sure everyone has their tradition regarding the coming year, but I have this quirky superstition that whatever I am doing last in the “old year” will be a representation of what my life will be like in the new year.  So, here it was, 2016, and I was having a fantastic time hanging out with wonderful friends.  We were shooting darts or playing Euchre and for some reason, I still felt like there was something not quite right.  Playing games is a good way to start the new year but I felt I needed more.  Then…it happened!

“3…2…1…Jump!” I heard everyone yell.  I jumped excitedly off the couch, waving my hands in the air and landing happily on the floor.  This was my fantastic leap into the New Year!  I was also 7 years old.  My parents had let us stay up late so that we could do this exciting thing!  My mother had made homemade pizza (we weren’t take-out OR delivery people).  My aunts, uncles, and (YAY) cousins had come over for this new adventure.  I recall the big joke my dad had made with regards to my eating habits:  “Ha ha!  It took you two years to eat a slice of pizza.”  Too true!  I started a slice of pizza (I was a super, super slow eater.  Nothing like the Hoover-eater I am today!) and I finally got to finish it after my super bounce.  What a memory!

As a teen, I was lucky to go out with my older siblings.  We went out to fancy banquets / dances for New Year’s Eve.  There would be a fancy three-course meal and afterward there would be endless dancing.  There was the obligatory nervousness due to the desire to find the best dress, matching high-heel shoes, fancy jewelry to be worn that evening.  Quite the show!  Quite the excitement!  Quite the fun for one evening!  Year after year we looked forward to this event.  Then marriage and children came along and the procedure changed.

As new parents, instead of going out for the evening, it was time to invite other new parents over and hang out while the kids either played together or were put to bed early.  A quiet evening with some munchies and chit-chat.  5…4…3…2…1.  Happy New Year!  Quieter, but still fun.

Fast-forward again and you see children breaking away from their parents to do their own thing.  The parents would either have fun continuing their pre-toddler tradition of a banquet hall or they might even stay home.  Parents worried about their children, but pretended they did not.  Children…ahem…adults…not worrying at all since they were invincible. 5…4…3…2…1. Happy New Year!

This is a footnote of what life was like for me every New Year’s Eve.  As I grew older I realized the beauty of life and how incredible each coming new year was.  I also gave up on resolutions.  I found that these best-intentioned goals seemed to dissipate, usually by…um…January 14th.  I finally decided that I would focus on that last hour of the old year to predict my new year’s fate.  Why?  Not sure, but it seemed like a genuinely great idea at the time.  This brings us full circle back to December 31st, 2016 and when IT happened.

We had congregated in the kitchen. Nine minutes to go.  Here we were, all gathered together, awaiting the dawn of the new year.  I sat there nervously, pensively.  Why?  Well, my weird (unique) thought-bend of “last actions of previous year permeating the new year” were beginning to haunt me.  Yes we had had fun! Yes we were surrounded by friends!  Something was missing and I didn’t know how to fix it.  Then, a funny thing happened on the way into the New Year.

“Amanda is still up,” said H.

“Who threw up?!” queried B.  That was it!  I broke out in fits of laughter.

“No,” said H, “Amanda is still up.”  I was done for.  I was laughing hysterically.  Literally laughing out loud (the real LOL).

Suddenly Wiseguy yelled “HAPPY NEW YEAR!!”  We looked at him like he was a crazy man.  The time on the stove clock showed a minute to midnight.  He pointed to the television which showed all these lovely people happily kissing and embracing each other.  Not only had we missed the countdown, but we had missed the actual jump into the New Year.  Were we upset?  Heck no!  We all hugged afterward and wished each other all the best in the new year.

Me?  I was beyond ecstatic.  I had desired a sign to show me what the 2017 year would be like based on my interesting definition of “old versus new” philosophy.  I was so grateful to be laughing hysterically from 2016 into 2017.  This was something very new for me.  So far my jaw is going to need therapy from all the laughing I have been doing.

P.S.  I did feel short-changed a bit in missing the countdown.  Imagine my surprise and supreme gratefulness, when my friends and I got to do a repeat countdown!  We watched as New Orleans counted down (an hour later) into the New Year.  I love this life!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!   May you wake up happy every morning.  May you look out and enjoy what you see daily.  May you appreciate all the good that you have in your life.  May you smile everyday.  Even when your life seems impossibly hard, believe that everything that happens is leading you to something brighter and better.  Life is beautiful and so are you.

 

I Am A Stripper…

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Yes it’s true.  I am a stripper.  I became a stripper three days ago.  It wasn’t what I thought it was going to be.  I should’ve started each day with a warm up.  I am using muscles I haven’t used in many, many, many, millennial years.  Sometimes you have to do what is necessary.  I am reaching up high.  I am bending down low.  Squats.  I thought this only happened at the gym with a tough trainer, but here I am doing squats and hating it.  My hip joints are yelling at me.  My shoulder muscles (whatever they are called) are talking to me “Keep it up!  Great job!”  Yep.  Oh!  On top of that I am looking at my accomplishments and I am not that impressed.  Oh, by the way, being a wallpaper stripper is not as easy as you think.

BAHAHAHAHA!  Ok, my tagline of “stripper” was just a draw, but I was serious and honest.  I have been assigned the task of stripping…wallpaper.  This hideous, super-glued paper that has been the bane of my existence.  I have never been a wallpaper person as I have heard the tragedies from friends about the horrendous job of trying to remove said demon paper.  You know what?  They were and are RIGHT!

Wiseguy and I moved into a house with many levels (three) and many…ahem…interesting quirks.  That’s a nice way of saying, “Holy Sh**!  How did we miss that??!!”  This is where I am going to be very honest.  W and I didn’t really pick this house.  FIL (father-in-law) loved it.  He said this would be the perfect place for all of us as he was moving in with us.  (This will be a story (novel) for another day.)  However, we love this neighbourhood and were have great neighbours and there are many other locational benefits.  BUT…this Pandora’s box of a house has been…let’s call it an interesting boxing match.  Hubby and I get relaxed in our home and the house suddenly  says:  “Hey!  It’s freezing outside!  No water for you!”  Yup, our pipes froze.  Hubby punched a hole in the wall and once the copper piping was exposed the water flowed.  Good.  All was well and then…

Basically, our “home” has a personality.  (Seriously, I have worked hard to find the silver lining).  So, when it came to the removal of the wallpaper I knew it was not going to be easy.  I was ready.  I was armed with “Friend” knowledge and with “Google” knowledge.  I was going to prove to Wiseguy that I could do this!  Woman Power!

I am NOT a Renovationator!  I am a wannabe.  I am nowhere near being that reliable person to remove wallpaper.  Honestly, I even thought I would write a proposal to federal prisons and suggest that a good method of ensuring that offenders would never re-offend would be to make them remove wallpaper dating back to the 1950s.  I am sure anyone who has moved into an older home can agree with me.  Those in prison might also agree with me.  The desire to actually take a Thor hammer and demolish the wall is WAAAAAAAAAYY easier than removing this clinging wallpaper.  I digress.  Let me take a step back and re-evaluate the situation.

We have lived in this house for thirteen years.  There have been many changes and upgrades done to this house:  New roof (shingles), siding, eavestroughs, soffit.  New air conditioner.  New furnace.  New windows.  New kitchen.  New wood floors.  New bathrooms.  New driveway.  New bedroom mattresses.  Back to new kitchen because it includes new appliances including Wolf stove, Wolf toaster, Wolf toaster Oven.  Wow!  There are so many things to be grateful for!  Seriously grateful for!  The silver lining in this laborious new work is that once all the irksome wallpaper has been removed we are going to paint the walls with a beautiful new colour and make our house even more of a wonderful home.  In fact, tearing the wallpaper down is not actually a bad thing.  It’s a very good thing right?  Which means that being a stripper of said wallpaper is a job that I should be applauded for!  Yes! Yes! Yes!  It’s good to be me!

Then again, I could be delusional and I actually am in hell (or prison) and my punishment is to try and remove this horrific flowered paper that seems have been glued on with Gorilla Glue.  I will be needing physiotherapy as I am slowly losing the ability to put my hands over my head due to the usage of muscles that I have not used in about 40 years.

Progress Report:  As you can see from the scene below, it really does look like Alcatraz!  Except for the cute puppies.  (This could become a good “rescue dog” video).

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MORAL OF THE STORY:  There may be hard times facing you.  It may seem impossible and overwhelming.  Little by little, and with lots of good thoughts (and/or good music) you can tackle any (seemingly) impossible job.  You can do it.  You will do it.  Believe in yourself.  Love yourself.  Conquer those self-doubts and you can do anything.  Even become an accomplished (wallpaper) stripper.