I’m skipping writing a post about Christmas. I will say that CASHMERE was involved (and apparently, CASHMERE has been added to the list of words that must be capitalized along with BUCK HUNTER and OBAMA!) and although I found myself at times frustrated and quite sad- overall it was good. And I can say that it was good because I learned something. And as long as you learned something, it’s got to be classified as a ‘good’ experience. At least that’s what my grandfather told me on the phone. But I’m not sure he can be trusted, he has a sweet love affair with vodka during the holidays. Actually, he’s Ukrainian so he pretty much has a sweet love affair with vodka any time of the year. Now you know where the love of the drink comes from.

I’m house sitting right now. I adore this place. It’s in the country, and although the house is surrounded by trees and deer- the inside is hooked up with flat screen tvs, a fireplace, a hot tub and hard wood floors that my bare feet love. One of my favourite parts about the place is it’s bath tub. It’s so large you could float an ocean liner in it. I’ve taken to having a late night bath accompanied by a glass of wine. I considered listening to some jazz while doing this but that just felt too over the top. If I listened to jazz while in the bath drinking wine, I think I would have to start calling people ‘Bugsy’ and wear a lot of red lipstick. Instead, I lay in the bath reading old copies of Hello! magazine and searching for the celebrity with the best hair.

After I get out, I’ve taken to smearing body lotion all over. This is an important to share for three reasons:
1. It relates directly to the title of this post
2. It relates directly to my New Years resolution plan (more on this in an upcoming post)
3. I think more people should be putting body lotion on in the winter. Skin gets dry and it’s important to moisturize and I wanted to raise awareness of this serious issue.

So the lotion gets put on and while I wait for it to really ’set in’ I usually stand naked deciding on pajamas (and now I think we’ve reached that point in our relationship where you know everything about me), because I think one of the grossest feelings in the world is putting on a robe (or pajamas) while lotion is still on your skin. Tonight I was standing there deciding on which pair of flannel pajamas to put on (and yet I’m shocked that I am single), when the doorbell rang.

I wasn’t expecting anyone so I considered not answering it. But then that illogical part of my brain took over (’what if someone died?’, ‘what if you won the lottery and there’s a camera crew outside waiting to give you 4 million dollars?’, ‘ what if it’s a cute guy who’s lost and wants to come give you a massage while tries to orientate himself?), I grabbed a robe, tied it loosely around me (because I didn’t want it touching my still lotioned up skin) and went to the door.

It was a cute guy (illogical part of my brain= 1, logical part= 0), who owned a snow shovelling company asking if I needed his services. I explained that I was just housesitting, but if he had a business card I would pass it along to the people who lived here when they returned. He took out his card and went to pass it to me, but a wind (or the evil side of God, or the karmic consequence of cheating on an old boyfriend) caused it to fall to the ground. I picked it up and kept talking, thinking that the elevator glance (you know, looking at me all the way up and down) he was giving me had to do with his appreciation of my quick wit and charming banter.

Suddenly I looked down noticed that my robe was wide open. WIDE OPEN. Leaning down to pick up the card undid the already loose loop I had done up because HEAVEN FORBID that my skin touch the robe. And instead of interrupting me while I chattered about snowfall, he just looked at the goods. Bastard.

There was an awkward moment, and by ‘awkward’ I mean that I’m pretty sure a part of my soul died right there on the front step. I politely went back inside and laid on the floor, letting the lotion stick to my robe.

Sigh.

I suppose it could have been worse. There could have been a camera crew.

I planned on letting my previous post sit through the holiday season. I thought the greatest way to spread some holiday cheer would be a description of how much I do love the party and the beauty behind BUCK HUNTER. Then, I saw something. And realized that there was more I wanted to leave you all with…

For the month of December I’ve been volunteering at the hospital. I’ve yet to perform a brain surgery, but I am now an expert on hanging lights, putting together trees and displaying Christmas cards. I spent my last night of work putting away extra decorations, dusty ornaments without a home on trees already weighed down with sparkle and shine. I was no where close to being finished when I glanced up at the clock and saw them.

A frail woman in a wheelchair eyes closed, with hands dotted with liver spots- a constellation that crawled up past her wrists. An equally old man had pushed her wheelchair so that it was facing the windows that showed the night sky. He then sat down beside her in a peach hospital chair. He wore a threadbare blue sweater and brown pants. She wore a hospital gown.

He whispered to her and though I couldn’t hear what he said, his manner and tone reminded me of the gentle way a mother speaks to a child. With love. From love. Suddenly he pulled a comb from his pocket and began to carefully run it through her fine, silver locks. With all the concentration in the world he focused on untangling knots, parting her hair, running the comb right through to the ends before starting again, all the while whispering things I could not hear.

She never opened her eyes.

I’m not sure what it was that made me turn away with eyes filled to the brim with tears. Perhaps it was the way he looked at her with such reverence. Or maybe it was the way he tenderly patted her hand between combing. Or perhaps it was simply seeing what love looks like- the act of someone doing a daily task for someone else, without hesitation, restraint or a second thought when they could not perform the task for themselves.

At Christmastime it’s easy to be bogged down with what we want, what we buy, what we give, what we wish for. I’ve wished for my loved ones happiness, peace, a new year with good health. But after seeing that couple, I wish for everyone something more- I wish that you all have someone who will put you in front of a window even when you have your eyes closed. Who will comb your hair when you cannot. Who will pat your hand so gently it will feel like a breeze. Who will take extra precaution with knots and will whisper to you with a voice rich with love when you do not speak.

I wish that for all of you, this holiday season and for all the days after.

Happy Holidays.

This past weekend I was re-acquainted with my old friend BUCK HUNTER (and yes, it needs to all be in caps. Sort of like OBAMA!). After my shopping adventure (that would result in me getting everything on my list in one short day because my legs may be short, but when it comes to maneuvering through a crowd, I’m like a fighter jet), I went back to my friends house, had a shower, blow dried my hair and immersed myself in another hidden pleasure (other than BUCK HUNTER)- the drinking game.

Before you ask- yes, I’m out of school and no, I’ve never had my stomach pumped. I just like games in general and one that allows me- nay, makes it necessary for me to drink while playing, makes me all the happier. The game we played was drinking roulette, with 5 shooter glasses and a roulette table, complete with mini ball. Our shots went from the mundane- wine, to the outlandish (something I mixed when no one was looking- 2 parts vodka, 1 part rum, a smidgen of coke and some blue curacao to make it smell less like death. Oh, did your stomach just clench up just then? Mine did too). We played while waiting for our ride and by the time I fell into the back of a friends van, I was drunk on excitement, wine and my overzealous application of perfume. Because when I drink I apparently think MORE PERFUME = MORE SEXY.

We went some place where drinks were $1.50. By the time I had spent $10, I had become in love with many things- the fact that they had a hair straightener in the bathroom, the sound of my voice, and the greatness of my friends. It was also around this time that I became aware of the fact that I had yet to eat anything that day, minus the poutine from the mall. (Because fighter jets need fuel, and what is a better fuel than gravy, cheese curds and potatoes?).

We went to an Irish pub that served hearty foods to soak up the swamp water that was sloshing inside me and commandeered the dance floor. The large group of us danced to all those songs that you can’t possibly NOT dance to- “Brown Eyed Girl”, “Sweet Caroline” and “Home for a Rest”. Honestly. Is it possible to not dance to “Brown Eyed Girl”? Can anyone possess that much self- restraint? Better question, why would anyone want to restrain themselves from dancing to that song?

Between dancing marathons and being the thoughtful drunk friend who is forever ordering her even drunker friend water, I managed to catch up with some good friends I hadn’t seen in awhile. We talked about teaching, our love/hate relationship with Wal-Mart and just how great it was to be around friends for the holidays (I might have been close to weeping when I said this.). We said our goodbyes, I yelled something like “I’m finding love tonight!” and then my two closest friends and I found ourselves in yet another club and face to face with BUCK HUNTER.

For those of you not familiar with buck hunter, it’s a classic game involving a large screen, a plastic gun and simulated animals running for their life. I say ‘animals’ instead of ‘bucks’ because those of you lucky to advance past the beginner stage get to shoot at other animals- boars and frogs for example. It would appear that my addiction to tetris and old school game boy has cultivated my hand eye coordination, and unlike others, I never forget to reload.

We hunted buck, while drinking triples and doing that dancing that makes you cringe when you think about it sober. The kind of dancing that reminds you of Cirque de Soleil acrobatics combined cheesy 80’s music videos. The kind that you do when you are feeling SEXY and AWESOME and IN LOVE WITH EVERYONE, where you flip your hair a lot and do a lot of aggressive pointing to your dance partners. I’m not sure why this sort of dancing isn’t outlawed, it clearly should be. Not only because it’s mortifying to recall, (and can frighten other people on the dance floor) but also because at the ripe old age of 26, I’m not sure my body is supposed to be bending like that anymore. Oh yes, there was much bending on the dance floor.

So there you have it. A post without deep meaning or insight. A post that identifies my true loves, BUCK HUNTER and drinking games, and most importantly good friends to enjoy both with.

And just so you don’t think I’m a total 19 year old trapped in a 26 year olds body- the next day I went to the theatre. And wore dress pants and smiled politely to strangers and crossed my legs like a lady. And I only giggled once when I heard the line “I’m sorry I was late for work. I was busy making merry”.

I recently posted my performance review regarding my New Years Resolutions. It was mentioned in the comments that it must have been nice to have stuck with the blog for a year so I could track my goals. And I agreed it was. Which got me thinking, where else did I have written evidence that showed my goals or dreams, how close was I to something my younger self had wanted? How big had I let myself be in my future? Did I predict Britney Spears would turn 83 shades of crazy? What had I wished for deeply enough to write about, but had not wanted enough to remember?

I went searching through my archived emails for an answer (because before I realized that blogs existed, I sent out my thoughts in the form of mass emails. And before you ask 1) Yes, I’m extremely slow when it comes to technology (I hear that there’s a phone out that doesn’t require a cord, could it be?)  and didn’t know about blogs for a looong time.  And 2) No, I’m not joking about sending out my thoughts in mass email. I really did think my thoughts were worth forcing people to read). I expected to find some emails that detailed my young, hopeful ideas of love and lust, of friendship and family. I expected something to show me how light-hearted and whimsical I was. I expected something completely different than what I found.

Dear: Everyone,

It’s 2:39am. Right now I’m rubbing my leg trying to forget the horrific dancing I was a part of tonight. A man named Colby did not want to stop dancing, and unfortunately I was his victim/dancing partner. I think I might actually have his shoe prints on my feet. I know for a fact that his phone number is written on my arm (why do people give you there number even when you say you don’t want it?) I need to write about something. Some wild, mildly depressing tangent. Brace yourselves.

A few days ago I had an interesting conversation with a friend regarding the idea of love. More specifically, whether anyone who ever spouted that whole ‘ it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all”, was right on track or had been smoking whatever the homeless people who loiter in my work parking lot indulge in on a regular basis. I favored the smoking theory, and I have been thinking about it since.

It’s not that I’m cynical, really. It’s just… I have a hard time seeing what it’s all worth. I mean, I guess it’s different if you feel like Juliet and he’s Romeo (but some could argue that a double suicide is a less than lovely note to end on…), but honestly, how often does that happen? (And if it does, how often does it last before it just…. fades away and they forget about you?) Why does the idea of love always come with the word ‘compromise’ and ‘hard work’… should it be work? How much do you compromise before you compromise yourself? And when it does happen, this “magical romance”, there is always 900 gazillion things that can/could/most often do, go wrong. I mean, Nicolas Cage came back to life for Meg Ryan and she got hit by a bus. Even Robert and Francesca seemed okay with it and they only had four days together. Jack and Rose had a week- tops. I’m sure they would all argue it was worth it (the movies were all blockbusters) even if they all ended up alone, but lately I see it differently. (And if any of you email me and talk about how you are so in love that if your loved one got hit by a bus you would just be grateful for the time you had with them… well I may hunt you down and kick you as hard as I can with my good leg)

Maybe it should be ‘it’s better to have loved and lost once, but after that you should learn your lesson and instead take up quilting’, or ‘ it’s better to have liked and lusted and lost, than to never and liked and lusted at all’. I could deal with those. But love! Oh, love. Love is so much more work, such a bigger investment, so when you lose, well you lose so much more. And if you are slow to recoup your losses (like I am), it is even more maddening. (oh, and please refrain from that whole ‘if you want big rewards you have to take big chances’ talk, either. that’s off a no fear t-shirt and i’m inherently against no fear mantras) Sigh. I feel like I should care more, want to love more, but it just seems like so much work and today it just doesn’t seem worth it, or maybe I just don’t feel capable of it lately. Maybe because caring a lot sometimes ends in trouble. Or missing people that you should never miss and sometimes wish you didn’t know about ends in trouble. And yes, I’m fully aware at how awful that sounds. Wow. I feel like I should write a country song- at the very least it would be a chance for me to work my autoharp skillz.

You are all happily coupled living the fairytale.. give me some insight.

I don’t like how this current email goes directly against my fun-loving, carefree, currently living a 9 day self so I’m ending it.

I promise to never watch “Bridges of Madison County” ever again. Cross my heart.

love (the non-work kind),
brandy

p.s. And if I’m this articulate after 5 martinis, I almost feel I should be drunk all the time.

After so much time has gone by since writing this, I have to say- I still feel like this sometimes, but not as often as I once did. And if reviewing the past is a way to measure growth, I’m happy with where I am now- and look forward to seeing where I stand on this issue in a year.

More importantly however, I take comfort in knowing that I’m still pretty awesome 5 martinis in- and still have the guts to cite “The Bridges of Madison County” (because holy hell, do I ever LOVE That movie) to everyone on my email list. I also love that I’m not ashamed that more than anything else- it’s cheesy blockbusters with sweeping musical scores that shape my idea of love and lust and everything in between.

Peace. Love. These are deep topics. My next post will be about table dancing, buck hunter and the fine art of drinking games.

Peace.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this word lately. It’s been coming up in Christmas carols and is stamped on my holiday cards. My glossy magazines are encouraging me to find it in myself and Oprah raves of how it’s changed her life. We wish it upon others, in the hope they can find a content calmness and we admire those who’ve attained it (Yoda The Dali Lama, I’m talking to you) for themselves.

I’m a person who struggles with peace. I’m a woman who reviews my mistakes regularly. Reflection is my self-imposed torture device. I lay awake thinking of the guy I turned down, the shoes I didn’t buy, the trip I didn’t take. I bring up each memory, recounting every detail. And then, I fold it gently back up into my brain and bring down the next one off the shelf. A constant barrage of “You should have…”, “Why didn’t you…”, “That was awful that you..” ring through my ears. It’s hard to find inner peace when you want to curb stomp the part of you that is always so quick to judge. Who highlights what you wish you could forget. Who types up your flaws in 36 point font and flashes them in your head when you should be counting sheep.

Recently however, I’ve found myself feeling more peaceful. My life has not changed dramatically, yet I’m feeling more content than I have in a long time. Of course I still think of what I’ve done wrong in my life, but without the help of Oprah or repeated viewings of Star Wars, I’ve found a way to forgive myself. For the mistakes that I made, the words I can’t take back, the people I let go.

Who knows how long this moment of Zen will last. Whether I will go to sleep tonight and dream of George Clooney or lay uncomfortably in my bed recalling how awful I was that I once made my grade 6 crush cry, eventually I will sleep. And if I do fall off the Peace wagon, I will try again tomorrow. I will think of what has past and how I cannot change anything but now. I will wish to remember how good it feels when I realize I’m not angry about anything. How much better my body feels when it isn’t curled tight, each muscle filled with anxiety. How much more I enjoy sharing compliments than complaints. How it feels to have a light heart.

I will wish for peace.

Speechless.
On Wednesday I taught grade 2. I was warned that the class was fun, but “extremely chatty” (meaning that by 3:15pm I would be wanting to take a few out behind the woodshed and beat them with my shoe), and they didn’t disappoint. I had to pull out my ‘hey! I’m commander-in-chief of this little unit, so take me seriously‘ voice a few times.

However, they were also extremely charming and had the highest ratio of dimples to cheeks that I’ve witnessed thus far while subbing, so I let some chatting slide. There was one girl though, who I didn’t have to worry about being noisy, because she is a selective mute. She has made the conscious choice not to speak. This was noted in the substitute plans, and various teachers came to me before the beginning of class to tell me that “Emily” wouldn’t be speaking- ever. Apparently she made this choice over a year ago. Intrigued, I watched her throughout the day as she played with her friends, skated with her class, colored her Christmas elf with a nose and cheeks so red he looked like an alcoholic. She was happy. And silent.

She managed to communicate every single need she had (bathroom breaks, a new glue stick, help finding her pencil sharpener) without ever speaking. Without even moving her lips. I was fascinated. It was a continuous game of charades, that was as natural as breathing. I thought of her as I walked home from the school amazed that someone so young had such determination and the realization that I would never have that sort of will power (my grade one teacher actually taped my mouth closed once). What makes someone choose silence? I do not know. But I do know that if she can get all her needs met without endless chatter, maybe I can practice a little self restraint myself. And you know.. not tell everybody EVERY SINGLE THOUGHT IN MY HEAD THE SECOND I HAVE IT.

Needless
I’ve come to the conclusion that I do not need a single thing for Christmas. Realizing that I’ve graduated from having a list of needs, to having a list of ‘wants-but-I-honestly-think-I-will-be-just-as-happy-without-these-things’ was is a good feeling.

Guiltless
My current guiltless indulgence? Listening to all of these songs over and over again. I’m on a mission to find her CD this weekend during my shopping adventure. (I call it an ‘adventure’ since I’m doing ALL my Christmas shopping on the Saturday at the mall. And I plan on drinking like a fish afterwards to celebrate. Because that’s how I celebrate. Me, scotch, close friends and an unwavering urge to dance on a table). I love all the songs, but the first three are my favourite. Anyone who can do their own version of a Nelly song and make me love it deserves a bow. And a Purple heart.

Also, I want this. And I’m going to buy it and not feel guilty. Because I like it, I’ve earned it and I can afford it (the how I can afford it part will be detailed in a post in January titled “Why I love the Alberta Health Care System“). I just need to decide on a color. Navy? Grey? Pink? Blue? Green? Black? Red?? Suggestions? Thoughts?

Lastly, today (Friday) is Blog Crush Day . According to the lovely Sizzle, you are supposed to use the day to share your secret admiration for another blogger. I found it tricky not to cheat and do the whole ‘I admire everyone on my blogroll’, because if you are on the blogroll, then I obviously admire your writing (and even if you aren’t, I admire you… sigh. I’m sadly lacking in the gene that makes one productive when it comes to things relating to things like *’updating the blogroll’. I think the last time I updated my blogroll I was wearing acid wash jeans.) With that said, I decided to go with 3 people who I admire (and who I feel more people should know about!):
1. Pink Cereal and Raspberries. I know. I’ve said it before, but she’s fantastic. She writes honestly and about every topic under the sun. Also? She recently cut off TEN inches of her hair and donated it. Any girl who has ever got a dramatic haircut can appreciate the courage needed to do this. (I hear the sound of scissors and I begin to cower. What’s with us girls and hair?)
2. More is Better. Nicole may be the only person I know who has a love for “The West Wing” that rivals my own. Plus she makes lists titled ‘why I’m awesome/not awesome’. It’s like, she takes ideas out of my head and writes them in a way that’s far more articulate (and a hell of a lot more funny).
3. Speaking Of. You know when you read something and you think ‘I wish I would have said that’. I get that when I read here. Nic is brilliant.

Have an excellent weekend universe. And if you find yourself at the mall being swarmed by too many people and not enough patience, remember that somewhere in this great big world, I’m fighting the exact same battle. Together we can survive holiday shopping. I suggest taking a mickey in the purse deep breaths to make it easier.

* Speaking of blogroll page- if you aren’t on it, leave me some comment or email me so I can one day remedy this.

Idea shamelessly stolen from Bre

Dear Me At Thirteen Years Old,

Right now you are deciding which Club Monaco sweatshirt to wear with your Guess jeans. Man you love your Guess jeans. Especially the ones with the zipper at the ankle, you really work that zipper. You are listening to “Waterfalls” by TLC and are wearing that Tribe perfume you begged your mom to get you. It vaguely reminds you of the Tinkerbell perfume that the kids you babysit wear. The hairspray is VITAL to your bangs, so you cross your fingers the Tribe counteracts the hairspray smell. Most days it does.

At 13 you feel out of place. You don’t really understand why people put up the JTT posters in their room. You like framed pictures but saying this makes you feel too old. So you say nothing. You wonder if you will fall in love and what’s going to happen if you never really kiss anyone. Will people know, just by looking at you? You wonder if love is so great, why does it make so many people in movies cry? You admit to yourself in your purple journal that the idea of love scares the hell out of you. And sex? Oh boy. You aren’t sure why anyone would want to do that when they could just kiss. But saying this makes you feel too young. So you say nothing.

At 13 you can’t wait to leave your school. You wonder who you are going to be, what you are going to become. You wonder if you will ever go to Europe, or what it’s like to leave the house without telling anyone. You wonder what kind of car you are going to drive, if you will ever have your own business card and if you will date a football player and he offers you his coat, do you have to take it even if it doesn’t match your dress? You wonder why your hands sweat when you dance and if your partner notices. You wonder about so many things your head hurts. You turn to liberally applying lip smackers lip gloss as a way of coping. You are far too afraid of drugs.

You have friends now that you will keep forever. Of course, they are not the ones you think. The ones you think you will keep forever turn out to be the ones who you have nothing to say to after you’ve both stopped loving Melrose Place. And the ones you keep? Oh they are amazing. You don’t realize it yet but you really hit the jackpot. They are funny, thoughtful and diverse- just last week you got an email from one who was in California living in a teepee.

I want you to know that whoever said it gets easier, lied to your face. It doesn’t. But as your problems change from boys to men, from homework to office work, from allowances to salaries- you learn better ways to deal with it all and that does make a huge difference. In fact, it makes all the difference.

I want you to know an apology means more when you look someone in the eye. I want you to know that you should eat that second piece of cake at Andrea’s birthday party, you will never taste cake that good again. Ever. I want you to know that you are better than note passing and gossip- but you will do both and won’t learn how much it hurts until it happens to you. I want you to know that when it comes to friends and shoes- quality trumps quantity everytime. I want you to know that good manners are always appreciated and that you actually CAN wear too much eyeshadow. I want you to know that you will never take enough pictures to capture it all. So live it- every second of it and I will be happy with what memories remain.

I want you to know that you have a fantastic future.

I go to work now in the school you couldn’t wait to leave. I walk the same halls that you did, I sit in the same rooms. I marvel how different it all seems sitting at the big desk facing everyone else, rather than the reverse. I hope you realize that it’s just as scary being the teacher as it is the student. It’s funny if you think of it, you couldn’t wait to live and I ached to come back.

You will make choices I don’t like, kiss boys I don’t approve of and wear far too many hats inspired by Blossom. But I will live with it all because I see now- the worst parts of you are by far, some of the best parts of me. Realizing this makes me feel proud. Of who you are, of who I was.

As for real kissing and Europe? You experience both. And they are wonderful.

much love from the older (and hopefully wiser) part of you,
brandy

p.s. I’m not kidding about the cake at Andrea’s birthday party. Eat 3 pieces if you can. Maybe ask for some tupperware and take all the leftovers.

(Also, it’s my friends birthday December 12. She has a fantastic blog (check out the drinking game, perfect for all the upcoming holiday parties. Hit up her site and wish her a happy birthday please!)

Almost a year ago I wrote out my New Years resolutions.

And because I can cut and paste like a rockstar- here they are. Let’s review these little chestnuts and see where I failed and (more importantly to my ego) succeeded.

My 2007 To-Do List

1. I shall continue rocking my new bangs, my favourite jeans (complete with hole) and my side ponytail with complete abandon. (Verdict: Mission Accomplished. My bangs have grown out a bit and I’m still loving my jeans with a hole. Although it’s winter here now, so the jeans are in retirement. Any exposed skin is likely to get devoured by that gluttonous Jack Frost. I’m now having a love affair with corduroy. And nothing rocks a toque better than a low/side ponytail. Thanks for the confirmation Keri Russell.)

2. I shall make continue making Nancy Regan proud and “just say no” to: half hearted attempts at friendships with people who are jackpot tragedies, re-joining the Grey’s Anatomy bandwagon and succumbing to the tasty (albeit dangerous) lure of The Olive Garden. (Verdict: Mission Semi-Accomplished. I’ve said no to “real” friendships yet still have a hard time refusing to be friends with long forgotten people on facebook. Even those who I’m pretty sure wouldn’t even recognize me if we passed each other on the street, or those I dodge in a store because we would have nothing to talk about. But, I’m working on it. As for Grey’s Anatomy, I stuck to that one. And after the complaints I heard about last weeks episode… I’m glad I did. Olive Garden I’ve stayed away from, but can I tell you I’ve had a strange and dangerous illicit affair with beer lately? Shhh. I know. It’s not good. My body weeps. Gluten, you are a faithless wench.)

3. I shall eat more ants on a log. Peanut butter! Celery! Almonds! So good! (Verdict:Mission Accomplished. Anything involving peanut butter is good with me. It’s like a jar of awesome that comes in two textures- who doesn’t love that?)

4. I shall start watching “The Wire”, finish a Sudoku puzzle and will stop apologizing for loudly singing along to “Life is a Highway” any time it plays. (Verdict: Fail. On all counts. The idea of watching “The Wire” seems foolish when I have 7 seasons of “The West Wing” to watch over and over. And yes, I’m one of those people who take great comfort in watching old shows over and over rather than venturing into new shows. This is why I got a cell phone only after my 11 year old cousin had one. I’m slow on the idea of change. As for Sudoku- I watch “The West Wing” instead. I feel it challenges me sometimes, keeping those acronyms straight is hard work. And I will always apologize for singing “Life is a Highway”. In fact, I apologize right now for even mentioning it.)

5. I shall not feel bad for needing confirmation that I will not die alone. I will also stop putting myself in a position where that thought even crosses my mind. (Verdict: Mission sort of accomplished. Any by that, I mean I stopped calling the psychic to see how long it’s going to take the neighbors to realize I’ve died. I still worry, but it’s fleeting.)

6. I shall stop worrying about Reese’s happiness and consider my own. Unless of course, damning photos come out of Ryan and his rumored love Abby Cornish. Then, naturally, Reese’s happiness will become a top priority. (Verdict: Mission sort of accomplished. It may considered sad, but I do always worry about those celebrities who go through tricky divorces or who seem genuinely screwed up ((Amy Winehouse, this one’s for you)). I suppose it’s because their faces are everywhere and you can’t help but be drowned in details of their lives. However, I’ve stopped losing sleep over whether Reese is happy or not. She’s been looking content lately and seems okay. And besides, she has Jake to talk it out with.)

7. I shall consider the possibility that me standing on one foot for 20 minutes, cheering with a toothbrush in my mouth is NOT the reason for Canada’s world champion hockey victory. (Verdict: Never going to happen. It’s just how I’m wired. My ego will always have me thinking that any behavior I arbitrarily deem ‘the one’ will be what I need to do for my team to win. Does this cause added stress during an already stressful time? Absolutely. But does it make me feel a tiny bit smug when my team does win and I feel I can take some small personal victory since I helped them succeed by standing on one foot/standing on the couch/forgoing my favourite food on game day? Absolutely. And on this note- can I just say that I actually hop up and down with excitement when I think about the upcoming Olympics? I think about them regularly and just feel happy. Competition. Hot men with accents wearing tight skating suits. Hearing anthems played and seeing grown men weep after tasting victory, ahhhh these are good things!)

8. I shall start memorizing all 1014 3-letter Scrabble words, but will also work on ‘toning down’ my obnoxious victory dance. (It’s getting a bit.. out of hand) (Verdict: Fail. My dance is still going strong. However, Scrabulous on Facebook has sort of altered this goal. Instead of knowing all the 3 letter words, I’m just working on improving my win/loss stats. Maybe I should make a spreadsheet to keep track…)

9. According to my friends I have a problem with actually ‘answering’ my phone. So, I shall work on improving my 3/27 pick-up rate. That’s just for you Darci. (Verdict: Mission Accomplished! I’m answering far more regularly. Darci, you cannot disprove this. My current pick-up rate? 29/54! More than half the time someone calls now, I answer! I am amazing!)

10. I shall do more things that are good for me and less that are not. ( And I shall continue being as vague as possible when I’m too tired to go into details) (Verdict: Mission Accomplished. I think. Wellll… I’m working on it. Maybe ‘mission semi-accomplished’ fits better here.)

Overall, I’m happy with my progress. I love that I dedicated a whole goal to answering my phone and another to eating peanut butter and celery. I really put the bar high. Next year? Tackling world peace and the pesky global warming issue. And working on thinking before I speak. What will be your goal?

(* Also? If you want a card, I need an address. )

On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
a pretty red kitchen aid mixer.

On the second day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
two cute shoes
and a pretty red kitchen aid mixer.

On the third day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
three French men
two cute shoes
and a pretty red kitchen aid mixer.

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
four lipgloss kits
three French men
two cute shoes
and a pretty red kitchen aid mixer.

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
fiiiiivvvvvveeeeee golden rings
four lipgloss kits,
three French men,
two cute shoes
and a pretty red kitchen aid mixer.

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
six seasons of watching
fiiiivvveeeee goldeeennnn rings,
four lipgloss kits,
three French men,
two cute shoes
and a pretty red kitchen aid mixer

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me,
seven sets a matching,
six seasons of watching
fiiiivvveeeee goldeeennnn rings,
four lipgloss kits,
three French men,
two cute shoes
and a pretty red kitchen aid mixer

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me,
eight maids a cleaning
seven sets a matching,
six seasons of watching
fiiiivvveeeee goldeeennnn rings,
four lipgloss kits,
three French men,
two cute shoes
and a pretty red kitchen aid mixer

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me:
nine cashmeres waiting,
eight maids a cleaning,
seven sets a matching,
six seasons of watching,
fiiiivvveeeee goldeeennnn rings,
four lipgloss kits,
three French men,
two cute shoes
and a pretty red kitchen aid mixer

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me,
ten performers leaping,
nine cashmeres waiting,
eight maids a cleaning,
seven sets a matching,
six seasons of watching,
fiiiivvveeeee goldeeennnn rings,
four lipgloss kits,
three French men,
two cute shoes
and a pretty red kitchen aid mixer

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me:
eleven bouquets smelling,
ten performers leaping,
nine cashmeres waiting,
eight maids a cleaning,
seven sets a matching,
six seasons of watching,
fiiiivvveeeee goldeeennnn rings,
four lipgloss kits,
three French men,
two cute shoes
and a pretty red kitchen aid mixer

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me:
twelve jars for scrubbing,
eleven bouquets smelling,
ten performers leaping,
nine cashmeres waiting,
eight maids a cleaning,
seven sets a matching,
six seasons of watching,
fiiiivvveeeee goldeeennnn rings,
four lipgloss kits,
three French men,
two cute shoes
and a pretty red kitchen aid mixer

Oh, and I really want this.

As you can see, the holiday spirit has snuck up on me and firmly implanted itself somewhere in close vicinity to my heart (and if that isn’t the cheeriest holiday sentence ever, I don’t know what is). Anyway, you know how I was making Christmas cards? Yeah. I needed to make 40, but due to an extreme love of paper products and wine (have you ever had a card making party where you consumed a few bottles of red while crafting your holiday cheer to paper? You should. IMMEDIATELY.), I have extra. If you would like a card created by yours truly while she sipped a cheap bottle of vino and tried to out sing Bing- let me know.

Wait,- that’s not how we should do this. You shouldn’t be able to just say ” I want a card”, when I sweated cheap wine and bled crimson for these cards (papercuts? yes. I have them. My fingers look like I shook hands with Edward Scissorhands). I’m thinking if you want a card you need to take one line from the song and substitute in your own wish (you can email me your address). Do that, and you shall receive a bloody, ink stained, wine-smelling, handmade piece of awesome mailed directly to your home. Also, if you don’t want a card, I won’t be offended. I just probably will never want to talk to you again.

Happy Holidays!

Remember that time I cleaned up after the prep school flooded and didn’t find out I was cleaning up toilet water until after my gloveless fingers had pruned? And remember how I had to post something the next day because I didn’t feel good having a post that discussed possible fecal contamination at the top of the blog?

Yeah. That’s what this is. I didn’t like having the previous post at the top of the page. That doesn’t mean I regret writing any of it, I just don’t want to look at it. Instead I will leave you with the last post I read that made me laugh. Check this out.

And yes, I just realized that this post has the words fecal contamination and it will be at the top. But I’m okay with this, since it doesn’t involve… you know, me being contaminated. Also, fecal contamination will always be written in italics. Some terms are just italic terms.

You know what I’m saying?