Thinking ahead

A month to go before the big day and Sweetie is taken care of for Christmas. All I have to do now is figure out how to wrap a rather large item I found for him at a bargain price, and how to get it under the tree. Happily, some friends are storing it for now, and after all, I do have a month to figure it out.

I was surprised and happy at saving a few bucks on this kinda cool item my honey has been talking about for years (I SO want to tell what it is!) since it was touted at the store as a 'Black Friday' sale. The concept of Black Friday is still new enough this side of the border that I had to explain it to a friend of mine; "the day the stores figure they get into the black, and everything from now on is profit" is how it was explained to me.

We've generally been more excited about Boxing Day in Canada, but the Black Friday phenomenon got me thinking about shopping as sport.

A woman in California pepper-sprayed fellow shoppers as she defended the stuff she wanted to buy at a discount retailer. She was already at a discount retailer, and she brought pepper spray with her to a midnight opening as she looked for bigger bargains. Bizarre.

Now, the numbers seem to suggest this was the biggest shopping weekend the US has ever seen, with more money spent over the last three days than during the same period ever before, even during the boom years of the 90s and early 2000s. With 9% unemployment, how is it possible this was the biggest year ever?

Now I'm worried, because perhaps our US cousins are headed back into the trouble that started our 'great recession' of 2008, the one that's not over yet. If you're out of work or in trouble, doesn't it make sense to cut back on the shopping?

So maybe this is a sign of the US economy on the rebound?
Or is it a sign of collective insanity that's going to pull the world down with it?
Gee, I hope it's the former and not the latter.

The Best Superpower

I apologise if I startled you on the walking trail beside the curling club yesterday.

It was Mariah Carey's fault.

You see, I loaded my Christmas playlist onto my ipod yesterday and before I knew it, there she was, "All I want for Christmas is YOOOOOOUUUU!" with all the backup vocals and soaring stuff. It's a guilty pleasure and my favourite modern Christmas song; I just couldn't help myself.

I am well aware that my 'jazz hands' aren't exactly Broadway worthy, and I suspect my strange kick-ball-change dance moves looked more like a seizure than syncopation. Even my dog gave me a sideways look as I sashayed, shuffled and yes, twirled on the trail. But if only you could see how I felt inside as I made a stupid spectacle of myself, if only you could see how I might have looked, if only I could translate what I heard and felt into movement, you'd have been much more impressed.

If I ever get a superpower, that's the one I want: to be able to let other people see what it is we weirdoes feel like when we're doing strange stuff that doesn't make much sense.

Wouldn't it be great to hear how the off-key sound to themselves or know how the awkward and spastic feel as we dance?

Remembering Christmas

Somehow, cruising a shopping mall with a brand new pair of jeans (that fit!) and a new sweater made the Christmas season seem bright again.

It helped to be wandering in the presence of someone unremittingly positive.

My sweet and lovely sister-in-law is the kind of person you just can't refrain from loving. The entire afternoon, she chirped about the presents she had found for her grandchildren, her children, her mother, and how cute they were, how much this person likes that sort of thing, how she was creating new traditions with the grand kids, how she was looking forward to a trip to see her daughter, on and on, positive and upbeat. She clearly loves the 'giving' part of the holiday, not really thinking about the work or the potential disappointment that can come with high hopes. It was so refreshing to hear about someone's plans rather than their troubles.

But oh, she's a sneaky one and when she handed me a copy of a movie I'd been eyeing up, calling it 'not really a Christmas present', because I had to loan it to her, I remembered what I've always thought the gift-giving of Christmas is supposed to be about. It's not supposed to be the drudgery of 'having to come up with something' for your family members, but instead should be about listening to them and paying attention so your gift to them is also a gift for yourself: the satisfaction of knowing you pleased them.

I used to love the tradition of drawing names in the family because buying for one person out of the dozen gave me the opportunity to get to know that person better. Since we drew names at the end of the annual gathering, we had a full year to think up our gift. I loved spending the time thinking about someone else, asking about them, learning their needs and likes. It was like playing detective.

And so, in that spirit, after an afternoon of shopping and careful listening and a few minutes of discussion, my sweetie and I figured out what we're going to get for his sister this Christmas. She's going to be surprised and delighted. We hope.

I'll keep you posted, right after I finish putting up my Christmas decorations.

Humbug!

It's not even November and I'm already sick of Christmas.

How is this possible?
It's the pressure from my inner Martha Stewart, who wants things to be rosy and beautiful and perfect and fabulous.

Hence the re-decorating, which of course, must be done before Christmas.

Hence my high level of annoyance when one of my recently-single in laws decides that for the first time ever, that side of the family needs to have Christmas dinner on Christmas night, in spite of eight years of my hosting my family on Christmas night since no one on that side was available.

Hence my high level of annoyance when the first-ever office Christmas party is announced last week, set for a date I've already invited my friends to for my at-home gathering.

Hence my snapping at Sweetheart when he innocently asked, "We're not getting each other gifts this year, are we?" Sorry, dear. Of course you deserve a gift, and I'll be extra careful wrapping that lump of coal before I heap it on your head.

PENNance

I'm so angry about this Penn State thing, I'm about ready to explode.

In case you haven't heard about it, a football coach at the school is facing dozens of charges of abusing young boys over the last 20 years or so.

There were eyewitnesses. Even so, no one did anything to stop him, presumably worried about the reputation and therefore funding of the school and its sports rather than the health and welfare of the boys being raped.

To be clear, the allegations aren't whispers or rumours. In sworn testimony, a guy who's now a coach himself, but was at the time a student at the school, says he walked in on a coach in the middle of sodomizing a young boy. His reaction? He called his dad and then told the head coach.

On what planet does a person walk into a room where a naked man is raping a naked ten year old boy, and not jump in to save the child? On what planet do you witness that and NEVER go to the police?

On Planet Sports, I guess. Planet US Sports where there is more money than compassion, more ego than humanity, where in the name of cash, some star players finish university never having learned to read, where it seems anything goes as long as your team wins.

Now, before we get all self-righteous about the Yanks and their crazed ways, take a minute to remember Martin Kruze and what happened to him at Maple Leaf Gardens.

For that matter, also remember our sad history of residential schools, because in the end, that sorry story is not really so different from what happened at Penn State.

When idolatry and power converge and questions are silenced, sickos will find their way in.

Wallpaper How-To Tip Two:

Send husband away. As far as possible for as long as possible.

The best news so far about my years-late wallpaper job is that my sweetheart is far too busy to help.

I love him dearly, but we have both learned from hard experience and tears that we are not well suited to working together on decorating jobs and home improvement projects. It's a disappointment to my mother who judges the compatibility of a couple by their ability to install wallpaper together. Well, we're not putting up wallpaper, I'm taking it down. Slowly. Painfully.

When the 'knob and tube' wiring needed replaced, I went shopping. When I began the first of two bathroom re-dos, Sweetie wisely grabbed his fishing rod and vanished.

It's a smart move all around, since if he's not bodily in the house, I can let my projects become messy and disjointed, and don't feel I have to sweep up every ten minutes or keep the tools organised. There are scary repercussions that come with seemingly innocent questions like, "Do you know where the scissors might be?" While questions about the location of scissors might seem innocuous, girls know it's all about the tone. You know the one. The words might be about scissors, but buried in the dreaded tone are the implications about who's an idiot and why did I let you talk me into this project in the first place.

Best to work alone, not only to avoid battles over technique and helpfulness, but also because if I'm alone, we don't have to argue about whether 80s music is really crap or if baroque is the way to go. We both know who's right on that one, don't we?

Wallpaper How To

Here's my step-by-step guide to a job I really should have done when we moved into our house eight years ago:

Decide to finally tackle that long overdue job.
Check 'paint corner' in basement for supplies.
Spend nine hours tidying basement when rags, brushes, trays can't be located.

Go online to see who sells Martha Stewart paint these days.
Express disappointment to clerk at Home Depot that colours chosen eight years ago are no longer available.
Spend nine hours tidying filing cabinet when original paint chips cannot be located.

Locate paint chips in obscure corner of spare bedroom closet.
Also locate magazine clippings with pictures of 'dream' kitchen.
Dream.

Spend two hours tidying spare bedroom closet, trying on fancy dresses and wedding dress. Decide whether to throw out pantsuit that hasn't been worn in four years.

Purchase paint, paint supplies. Thank clerk for special mixes of expired paint colours.

Spend one hour tidying shed after moving nearly every article to reach buried stepladder.
Spend one hour planting tulip bulbs discovered in obscure corner of shed.

Wrestle stepladder from shed to house.

Lift teeny corner of wallpaper, discover six layers of wallpaper underneath, some of them painted.

Despair.

Saved by the Lists

I've been swimming about in a bit of a daze for a few days, wondering, "What do I do next?" I have now run the race I've been training all summer for, I hit my weight loss goal a few days later, and I finished reading my five Canadian novels in time for Georgian Bay Reads two weekends ago. As of this week, I finished updating my files and scrapbooks, sorting through two years' worth of detritus and photos.

Now what? After having a long list of goals for nearly a year, I'm at a loss.

So, this week, I started a new list, and this afternoon, the first few tentative strokes of paint went onto the faded and yellowing paint on my kitchen ceiling. The speed my projects take shape, I'll have a freshened-up place to cook just in time to start Christmas dinner. The big question is, should I do the walls in one of the three shades of yellow I already have in my house? Should I pick a new yellow? Maybe I'll go slightly mad and choose blue or green.

After the kitchen walls, I'll start a baby quilt for my expectant neice. And then? Well, by then, I'll have to start running again to get ready for next year's races, won't I?