Working from home can be dangerous territory. As an unpublished writer it's great-ish. But I am looking for ways to add to a thus far unpaid creative endeavour. We've all seen them, those ads to boost your income. Work from home. Make extra cash. Earn up to $3000 a month. Supplement your income with your computer. What they fail to say is that those plans often take hours a day, with multiple links, hundreds of envelopes, lots of writing and little factual reward. Les Sighes. Building a business from home is tougher than it seems. There are seen and unforeseen pitfalls. Growing up in a household with both parents working from home taught me many lessons about the separation of church and state. So, I thought I would pass some of those tidbits along.
Productivity in an at home business is threatened at every text, update and tweet. Learning to focus on your tasks is a task in itself. The benefits though can out weigh the opposition. By working from home I am able to keep my overhead low. The commute is short but the comforts are a temptation. People assume that since I am home I am free for a visit, which I typically cannot resist. Getting up in the morning I can launch my pyjama clad self directly into funnelling those creative juices. When those juices dry up I am able to switch focus to something mundane- for example laundry- essentially double dipping. Without a clock to punch I often loose track of work hours, which can lead to late nights and sleepy mornings. In loo of a cubicle it's important to create your own in house workspace. A place for work alone. Even if it's a special table splay, it's a centre to focus yourself. Ideally mine would be a vintage roll top writer's desk, though that's still a ways off. Create a task oriented routine, including meal breaks. By chopping your day into bite sized segments I've found an ease for consumption and creation. Working from home means your work may never end. Being your own boss means giving yourself a bonus for good work. Though it also means cracking the motivational whip. Balance is key but that key is big, heavy and easily lost.
The world often treats an at home employee as lessor than a work a day job Joe. No matter who you talk to it's value is difficult to pin down. Being a workaholic I have learned that I am capable of working myself like crazy no matter where I am. The most important part of being your own boss, your own publicist and the company janitor is diligence. Having a stick to it mentality will help you avoid the very obvious distractions. The not so obvious villans will always sneak up on you, but if you're ready to focus on your goals, you can remain on task. Strategizing my non-paying creative jobs and making some extra stay at home money would be great. I just wish I was getting paid for napping, bon bon eating and blogging. Which will come, as long as I can stay on task. Oh yeah, it's just that easy, said The Secret. But for now at least, working from home is where my heart is.
 Alternate titles include: The Resolutionator, My Body/My Self, Everything Old is New Again, You Say Goodbye, I Say Hello and This is Going to be the BEST Year Ever- the Farmer's Almanac said so. Well, jingle my Xmas bell and ring in the New Year! I've missed all 6 of my loyal readers! And am enjoying my new found popularity in the Russian market. Who knew they were fans of the middle of the road humour I am all about. Hmmm*insert shrug. There have been a multitude of changes over the past 2 weeks... For one you might've noticed the image to the right...Why yes, that is my new logo. Oh really? You think so? I'm a big fan too. I am also planning on a huge website overhaul to celebrate my first blog-iversary- Exciting times for those of us on the ground floor. Many more floors planned, but I am awaiting zoning by-law approval. Now, this Year's resolutions include soon to be classics and renewals of the ever popular standards. For example I am taking level 2 Ukeology with my Fav teacher Judy Marshak, a continuation of last year's initiative. There has been significant progress on my YA novels, so that's coming off the back burner and being put onto the mid-burner. I am back to being a pescetarian, which is a type of omnivore. A fancy way of saying meat makes me sad and sick, plus fish can't cry, they don't have tear ducts. Hubby and I have also started juicing. The amazing flavours of cabbage and kale finally in one condensed murky glass...that was sarcasm, though most of his concoctions have been a dis-licious veggie blast. The whole eating right and exercise thing seemed to be working, so that is to be continued with renewed fervour. Which brings me to what I have been worried about...I owe us a weigh in. Sigh. I'll be honest, all the goodies and boozes and baddies caught up with me this holiday season. For example, Hubby and I finished a box of Ferrero Rochers in a sitting, mind you it was a Sons of Anarchy marathon, so it was over a few hours, but still. Those delicious hazelnut nuggets went down like butter... which I also ate a lot of. Looking at myself in the gym wall mirror this week has given me pause. I am definitely up... but just how much is yet to been seen. So, I guess it's time for us to see what comes of bad decisions.
And now for the moment I've been avoiding: Week 12 measurements
Height still 5'8"
Weight 173.6 (-2.6 lbs)
Bust 40 (-/+)
Natural waist 33.5 (+.5")
Hips 44 (+1")
Arm flex r:13.5 (+.5") l:13.5 (-/+)
Arm rest r: 12.5 (-1") l:12.75 (-.75")
Thigh standing r: 25 (+.25) l:24.5 (-/+)
For a total gain of .5 inches but a loss of 2.6 lbs
That is one strange weigh in. I knew that I would be up, but to also be down... It's a wonder that people don't drive themselves crazy with their numbers. From what I understand the muscle I gained before the holidays helped me to fend off some of the weight, though not the bloating. Oh and as had been the pattern no inches gained or lost on my bust line. Surprise, surprise, surprise. I am definitely happy to be back on track, it's not necessarily a fast track, but now I know what direction I am going. So as soon as that Pot of Gold is gone I will be back to my strict no junk regime...I mean who can resist that chocolatey flavour rainbow?
A little bit of bad luck goes a long way. Cell phones are a modern appendage. They are the gateway to the universe, the twitterverse, the blogsphere, and intergalactic entertainment time travel. And these tiny little upwards-of-expensive devices live by 2 rules. I mean, they aren't even as complicated as Gremlins. The rules are simple- Do not drop it, and do not drop it in water. As you well know I am not one to follow rules. So, I dropped it- in the toilet. And not just any toilet, a public toilet, at a wing joint. Argh, sigh, job well done, truly a stellar moment in my technological history. Take that rules!
The moment it happened without a thought I thrust my hand into the bowl to retrieve it. Popular opinion is split, those who reach in and retrieve and those who cut their losses. I am a retriever. It was a clean bowl, and that phone is my link to the outside world. It would also cost way too much to replace. And I am not due for a hardware upgrade until the 36th of Septnever. Holding that drippy white digital box, my brow forcefully furrowed, squealing "Oh my Rod, I dropped my phone in the toilet, I can't believe I dropped my phone in the toilet! What do I do? What can I do? Help!" Swaddling my wee wet white technological sponge in paper towels and caressing the now black screen. Rushing my patient upstairs, searching for an urban legend rice repair, awaiting lackadaisical first responders. The only option for providing such grainy apple care was to hit the road, trudging to far off destinations. Finally sliding my swaddled baby into a ziploc full of hope. Needless to say it was a quick end to an otherwise pleasant night. I have been worried ever since. What should I do? How long should I wait? Is an iPhone comfortable in rice because it was made in China? How many hours, days, weeks before this tiny apple would be unsaucy and ready for fun? Would our relationship ever be the same?
I fretted and fidgeted about this little device all day. BFF says perhaps it's a sign. That being unplugged from online reality, might be a good thing. Thrust back to pen and paper. Writing my blog in my mind and on the back of my hand. Like a teenage girl in the early '90s. Counting on my watch to actually tell the time. Brass tacks baby, back to basics. But I don't want to be the stupid girl who forgot her phone was in her back pocket. And even though everyone knows someone who's done this, now I'm that girl. And she sucks. If everything comes out alright and my teeny apple dumpling flickers back to miLife I am going to buy one of those $80 waterproof unbreakable protectors I've been making fun of at Future's Best. The money is worth the peace of mind. Then I can continue on not following rules, and dropping that delicate little appendage any dang place I want to. Also I pledge never to take any hardware to the loo again, maybe I'll buy a couple of Betty and Veronica comics to keep myself occupied early '90's style.
Please find attached 2 relatively related rants:
Rant the First
Hubby and I are chronic renters. We prefer small cozy city living. Snuggled up in tight quarters. Small spaces but with great windows that on a clear night can see all the way to Bloor St. But to make way for progress our panoramic view is quickly depleting. It is a sad day for open space loving small townies like us. I liked the view from here. It's a great location... Location, location. Real Estate has never been my forte. It sounds really interesting at first until I realize the stories I hear about these amazing gems with nob and tube aren't in my future. I don't want a fixer upper in the city that's been lived in by 15 different people and none of them cared. Bleached and barnacled and tired from city living. It's not my cup of T.o. There is a dream though, a teeny little quiet dream. The wish is to have a house that's been in someone's family for generations and, this is silly; it's been deemed historically significant. Our house would be a part of the history of something bigger. Our very very very fine house, would have 2 cats in the yard. A story to tell. A song to sing. Our house would have personality. The stairs would creak and the wind might whisper on occasion but it would hold the secrets of history. Of course, it would be a pain to maintain all the structural integrity in accordance with the local historical society bi-laws; a challenge Future Me willingly accepts. But for now we live in a city shoe box, without a story. And the wide screen we were watching life on is shrinking. I guess I'll really have to go outside.
Rant the Second
The giant hole that is my backyard is a muddy disaster. Clay and gravel and slick squishy mud coat my pathway home. Covering my boots and imbedding itself in my tread. Stomping and dragging my feet the whole way. Trying to shake off the filth. When I do get inside the view is like an exposed root after the tooth has been ripped out. The bottom which is almost 4 stories down is dotted with tents to protect the men working in these conditions. Giant flood lights click on at sunset and push the crew to quitting time. The holes have been drilled, the rebar impacted. Cranes have been brought in to move the cranes in. The skeleton structures floating over head. Suspended and riveted. They are sleeping giants. Not quite ready for action. But I can hear them practicing their shriek, stretching for the long job ahead. I get why people want to live in the city. I mean obviously I do, it's just that how many more of us does there need to be? In such tight quarters and with all this mud and dog pooh, you can't ever wear nice shoes. Fancy city night living shoes. Shoes you hoped to look nice in, ensemble shoes. Been a long time since my feet were fancied up. Also down side, there is a lot of stomping in my building. Mud clots dot the hallway carpets. But winter is coming. The anticipation of frozen clay is killing me. Though, I don't think it will be a respite. By the time it gets cold enough to freeze everything's gross and soggy anyway. The once dirty route now becoming treacherous. It will be a slippery layer of icing on top of the so-hard-it-hurts-to-fall when you fall on it permafrost. (Notice I said when. I accept I will fall. It's slippery) At least while I am hibernating this winter, trying to pick the pooh out of my boot tread, I can watch the cranes spin and twill and finally grow up to be elevators. A dirty festering hole like that? The dentist would recommend a filling, at least 9 out of 10 of them would.
The ability to relax is one that many people lack. Trust me. Having worked as a masseuse for almost 5 years. Five years of telling people to breathe. Telling people to let me do all the heavy lifting. With our 70 hour work week, we have forgotten how to relax. Taking our work home with you and trying to fit your love, your family, your friends, your animals, your dreams, your life into your already over stuffed schedule. We have forgotten the art of relaxation.
Today though my no Good Friend from Winnepeg reminded me that I do deserve to relax, feel beautiful and relax...wait I said that, sorry I am so relaxed. While spending our day in saltwater whirlpools, saunas and eucalyptus steam rooms. We felt great. The art of relaxation isn't something that comes easy to either of us. We're go-go-goers'. As with all art it takes practise unless your a savant- a rare and beautiful breed in itself. Relaxing takes focus. You must focus on your breathing. Make sure your brain is where you are instead of the billion miles away it usually is. Laugh. That's a good one laughter aids digestion and is a mild abdominal workout- a peripheral benefit. While working and accomplishing tasks is important, you only get one body and one life.
Wearing joggers and bumming on the couch can be calming but there is still a chance you will be interrupted by a Hubby, a needy Pupparoo or laundry. The key to artistic relaxation is extraction. As anyone whose ever had a facial knows-extracting yourself dermally and positionally is imperative. Remove all distractions- including a perstering blog and sit with yourself or add a friend for the fore mentioned ab workout. There is a strange beauty to be found in the sheer indulgence of body and soul. So when you want to finally master the art of relaxation. Take the weight of the world off your shoulders- let someone else take a turn carrying it. Relax so you can do a better job on your next shift. And a kind suggestion from this masseuse "Relax and breathe." Then stand or lay back and admire the art of relaxation. With a little more technique you could be a relaxation Renaissance Master someday.
While trolling through my own FB page I noticed something...I still own most of those clothes! No matter when the photo was taken; I still got it. The turquoise wrap sweater, the black and white satin dress, the grey business suit from 1999; you name it, I still got it. Yesterday someone said I looked like a hoarder! Oh please! What does that even mean? I don't own more than my fair share of cats. I flush the toilet every time I go. I don't have a spare bedroom filled with fast food containers and old Reader's Digests. But man- have I got clothes. And most of them I've had for years!! I mean it, yee-ears. They are pilled and frayed and I keep clipping and tucking and yanking, stitching and hoping for the best.
Today however, I congratulate myself. I have culled the herd- again. Donating my too short t-shirts and throwing out ugly undies. Collecting uncomfortable shoes and mis-matched socks. Pulling out the shirts with missing buttons and skirts with dropped hems. Tossing anything stained, streaked or discoloured. In an effort to be seemingly more polished. I have given away my "party" shirt that's been a staple for 5 years. I'm convinced the only thing keeping those sequins attached was my wishing. I am sentimental about my Chicago and blue Batman tees, so I kept them, though now they're tucked away safely and quietly under the bed. My stack of work clothes keeps growing. Downgrading some of my 'nice' clothes to work clothes to make room for the new phantom pieces I should add. Now, I have only 3 casual tees and 2 skirts.
The real war being the cost vs the worth. Which brings me to another crossroad. Do the expensive products differ in value to the cheap stuff? The short answer is hell YES! Now, shall I continue with the long answer? Yes. You must've noticed the difference between the Payless pleather and the Steve Madden leather. The way your hair shimmers, shines and stays when using salon products. How the dermatologist tested and clinical skincare line is better; limiting breakouts, irritation and premature aging. With the adage of getting what you pay for ringing loudly in my mind, I've tried to KISS it. (Keep It Simple Sweet-cheeks) But how do you apply this when it comes to clothing?
Understandably, the fickle nature of fashion is a strange mistress. But I am a vintage lady with classic tastes. Maybe that's the reason I've kept so many untimely timeless pieces? Hoping that they will come back around style-wise, though they never will 'weather the storm' I will keep my fingers crossed that a white tee and jeans will never go out of style. Shopping vintage has it's advantages, it's also the toughest type of shopping. It might be easier to have clothing made...which brings me to alterations. I want my clothing to fit me, but I am between sizes on top, bottom and in the middle. The only realistic thing to do would be buy a bigger size and nip-tuck it. But why spend $25 in alterations on a $35 shirt? Because it will look way better!?! What's it worth to look better?
So, FB we've reached an impasse. I am sad that my wardrobe is on constant photo album repeat. What would it take to photoshop in a new look? Would it be cheaper to alter my photos or alter my wardrobe? Well when stacked up side by side I think: It all comes out in the wash.
When I first brought my would-be-Hubby home; Papa B pulled him aside and asked: 'Are you getting used to doing things her way yet?' to which Hubby laughed... Little did he know. I am a tad/lot controlling. Not in a bad way; in a the shortest-distance-between-two-points it's my way or the highway -way. If there is a simple way of doing something I will find it. And if your doing something and ask me to help, I immediately take control of the whole project, even if I don't want to do it. Not a great feature in a partner/teammate/roommate/employee/wife or child. Of which I have been all.
I correct everyone. Hubby says I am not supposed to tell people when they're doing things 'wrong'. He goes on to say just because I am like my Papa B, doesn't mean I get to run things in this one dog-town. But I like things my way. For example, I go on bursts of cleaning. Sprees of cleanliness. Organizing everything, so that when I come home from a long day, I don't have to do anything domestically. That means I have to make sure it isn't a disaster before I leave. But Hubby knows by Thursday that the teeny pile of projects on my desk will become a heaping mound of laundry and mail, with a new book thrown in, a cluster of knick knacks and a comedy writing journal. A pile of my working titles and things I hope to have time for...eventually. My way is to sit in that pile for the week and absorb all the life from those things; taking it all in and loving every bit of it. His way is to throw all that laundry into the dirty clothes hamper and hide any evidence of work from our home. Then he promptly remarks on the amount of laundry there is.
My way can be a sloppy and disorganized mess. Taking me off my direct route. Do you ever wish you could take your own advice? As for Hubby, I think he pretends to do things my way so he can stay on the shortest path with the least resistance on the road to his carefree destination. Cuz no one should waste their lives fighting with a control freak over laundry.
While riding up north in the backseat of yet another rammed car, I was beaned by a flying chess set in a metal box. While recovering from the shock; I started this list. And it must've been some bonk to the noggin. Cuz here's all the mental floss. So what I thought about this long weekend.
1. It's called a long weekend because that's how it feels- long.
2. That cottages are far from the city andr by the time you get there you've missed half a day.
3. Jilly is allergic to Puppy cupcakes. They transform her into a poltergeist shooting from both ends.
4. Air mattresses have a central vortex that acts like a black hole.
5. I forget how to write a blog.
6. Almost everyone on my side of the family writes.
7. A year is a long time to feel sorry about not saying you're sorry.
8. Going 8 games undefeated inflates an ego, priming it for popping. Even while playing lawn games.
9. Drunk people don't make much sense, if you're sober.
10. Bro finds immeasurable pleasure in saying the Eff-word in front of my religious relatives.
11. Turning 80 means never having to say thank you.
12. Jilly and her cousin Reese get along and share toys quite well. Except the teeny tennis balls that Jilly cracks like a walnut- splitting yellow fuzz and plastic everywhere.
13. Gin and club soda with lime is a great and classically thirst quenching beverage. Especially in a giant Coleman thermos.
14. When someone owes you $100 they make sure you give them the $5 they just lent you.
15. People pay attention to couples using their silent language.
16. Banana boat sunscreen smells like summertime.
17. I clean to show people I love them.
18. Jilly likes ice cubes and cauliflower.
19. You can lead a man to the shower but you can't be sure he'll come out clean.
20. Bluegrass is the best driving music, but Graceland is a very close second.
21. People like repeating stories. Especially if they got a laugh the first time.
22. Pontoon boats were invented for long weekends and dancing to Bryan Adams.
23. A weekend without a watch on is required every so often.
24. Bathing suits aren't designed to last for 6 years.
25. Packing light means leaving stuff behind. Even though you might need them later.
26. Even when BFF isn't there I feel the influence she's had on my life enjoyment level.
27. I need to Shining myself in a northern cottage for 2 months and write.
28. Swimming in a lake and making a joke about snapping turtles causes them to suddenly appear. Sending a gaggle of girls screaming and an Uncle yelling at us to be quiet.
29. Stargazing apps are wicked sticks.
30. A hot July is way better than a wet one. Mosquitos like to bite my bum.
31. I really like my new sister in law.
32. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day if your coffee has Bailey's.
33. A pavilion is a fancy way of saying concrete floor with roof.
34. Coolers should be see-through for efficiency sake.
35. If there's anything lovelier than queen Anne's lace I haven't found it.
36. Diving into a lake is nature's netti pot.
37. Traffic is terrible when you're between radio stations.
38. Bacon and eggers from A&W are worth every penny.
39. When a stat falls on a Sunday everything is closed and they take Monday too.
40. People want to show off their garden, even if their thumb is more brown than green.
41. Sunscreen makes clean hair look greasy.
42. Soy beans are a very popular crop for Ontario farmers this year.
43. If you're in a town with an asylum, expect to see crazy people.
44. Girls ask questions about boobs and laugh at farts.
45. One big zit provides fodder for a whole weekend worth of jokes.
46. KFC is the perfect picnic saver. Mayonnaise is essential for every summer salad.
47. 80 year olds love playing the piano without their hearing aids.
48. Orange hibiscus are beautiful in the overheated Camp grounds.
49. Most conversations with an 80 year start with; did you hear about -blank- they died.
50. A country Mommy will not tolerate 60 in an 80
51. Sometimes your journey takes you back to where you've started, and gives you a chance to start again.
52. You can make ice cubes out of anything- including oil, broth and milk
53. A dog tumor feels weird to accidentally run your hand over it.
54. Actors don't get vacation pay.
55. The winter wheat is ready for harvest.
56. You'll always get complimented on your old 'I only wear them at the cottage shoes'. My calluses get worse the more I wear these shoes.
57. Wearing dress with a strange neckline generates a strange tan line.
58. Puppa will strangle herself to escape the danger of fireworks.59. Being jammed into a full car is more fun than being alone in an empty one.
60. There is no place as comfy as your own bed. Except a five star hotel.
As always it is nice to be back, and starting up my routine of going to be at 10pm again. It's always amazing how I need a vacation after my vacation. I think I might be trying to pack in too much fun, but who complains about having too much fun? Oh wait. that's me:)
I am a 30+ year old. It took me 3/4 of a year to become alright with that. Getting older and becoming the person I never thought I'd be old enough to be; for example a Mme, changes things. I don't mean that in the dramatic I am getting old way. But at 23 I was convinced that I would never actually be mature. Twenty-three Whoa! was quite frankly a crazy and strange age. I didn't know who I was or who I really wanted to become. The only thing I knew was who I didn't want to be, which didn't help. I knew I didn't want to be alone. And I really didn't want to be scared anymore. I was very nervous. Nervous to have an opinion. Nervous to be myself. To say what I thought, and have an actual full blown personality and all the great and awful things that go along with it. Which brings me to where I am now. Seven years after I was so scared. I am not nearly as scared. But now I have friends who are going through those 23 year old things. And I see their fears, which scares me all over again. But Baby, regardless of the things that scare you, you are who you are... And it would take a lot of time, effort and therapy to change those things.
Dear 23 year old:
My biggest concern; the way you cover yourself up. Painting yourself with thick layers of synthetic skin, protecting you from the world outside. I know you're scared. I can see it in the measured way you talk. The ruler leaning against your phrasing. Taking the wind out of your sails. You deserve more from yourself, and it makes me sad that you don't think so. If you, a beautiful 23 year old don't feel love for yourself at the prime of your life, when you are the most beautiful, natural and lovely creature, what hope is there for the rest of the world? Including the 30+year old woman that I am now. Dear 23 year old, you are so amazing that watching you become a brave and idealistic soul is inspiring the people around you. Please understand that all the best people you know got their hearts broken by people who pretended to love them. That you're not perfect, and nobody expects that from you, except you. You are better than the way people treat you. Your high school friends won't be your only friends forever, and soon you'll get to choose a whole new clique, people who will be your family because they love you, not just because they live in the same school district. But being a grown up will be really hard for the few first years. Kitty says: Hang in there baby.
When I was your age, I was crazy. I couldn't get a grip on the idea of becoming a "member of society". Paying taxes and doing things like cleaning my own apartment. I lived with roommates; which teaches you how to suffer in silence. Grin and bearing dirty dishes and uncleaned washrooms. Girls are not easy to understand at the best of times. Twenty-somethings are even worse. With the climatic apex of living on their own and trying to be grown ups before they really understand who they are...Can I even tell you. I hated myself, I didn't need anybody's help, I covered myself with laquer and expected people to see past it. But you don't need to hide to be seen. You are beautiful and I know you can hear me. Please know when a 30+ says it's going to get easier, that it will. It doesn't stay crazy for much longer. Dear 23, you are young and beautiful, things get better and we will welcome you at our 30+ table because you help us to feel like we're helping:) And Sister Sledge, we are family, because you chose me.
Every month I have 3-5 days when I am a crazy full moon-atic. When this not so pleasurable version of me appears to keep Hubby company, he never takes it well. It also takes him 2 days of me being not so nice for him to realize that it has been 28ish days since I was this mean. So, needless to say he is finally getting the rhythm. I also admit that working 14 hour days, most of which are in Hamilton have amplified these symptoms. Yesterday, I wasn't nice at all. I didn't deserve a second thought, let alone a premeditated ambush of love. But that's what I got. He sniper-ed me with a happy marriage and a grenade of smiles. Starting my day at 4:30am has created a split in our sleeping schedules, some nights he works that late. Our weekends are full of all the errands and all the life we can jam into them. We've been busy. Today as I was waiting at work for my work to start again, I got a text.Hubby: I have a surprise for you when you get home:)Melicious: Ginger Beer!Hubby: Better.Melicious: The Comish has moved out?Hubby: Nah, he's staying...Melicious: Dang. You got me that super expensive nightie from SFYS? (SFYS: Secrets from your Sister, Toronto's most amazing lingerie boutique)Hubby: Nope.Melicious: Washed the Sheets?Hubby: Nope. But I'll do that too.Melicious: Oh geez. I racked my brain trying to figure out why this rainy Wednesday was suddenly so special. Two hours later I saw Hubby's Facebook post: "Melicious is going to be surprised when she gets home" Below this statement friends and relatives posted their hypotheses, I was surprised to see what they thought would surprise me. Thank Rod nobody suggested another FanBoy toy! Then text:
Hubby: 2 surprises.:)
Melicious: Oh dear my love.
Hubby: ETA? Wanna make sure things are nice for you.:)
Melicious: Why?
Hubby: There are 3 surprises.
Melicious: That's a bit much.
Hubby: You're worth it.
I sat at work thinking about surprises. I finished work. I rode home from work thinking about surprises. I got off the bus...then I walked home thinking about...that's right, surprises. Turns out I really love surprises. I should say that again. I REALLY love surprises. Climbing the four floors to my condo I thought some more. Turning my key in the lock, opening to smells of my current favourite food: Saag Paneer Roti. Mmmhmm, dinner is served. Hubby turning the corner close on Jilly's heels, both of them wagging with excitement to have me home. I smile. If this was the surprise- I really liked it. And I smiled. But I came into our nearly new apartment and you know what? It was painted. It was painted in one day. I left and came back and it was painted. The cans had been sitting in our den for the last 3 months waiting for their chance to show their true colours and they did. My house was transformed and I didn't even have to help do it:) BEST SURPRISE ever. My vintage inspired bedroom... I mean OUR bedroom is Bibbity Bobbity-Blue and the den is Buttercup yellow and their both done. Two coats, dry, clean and finished. Boy, was surprised. A huge checkmark for the TO DO list and a giant gold star for the best Hubby I've ever had. My 2 other surprises? Clean sheets and 2 books from my Wishlist. SO, as a representative appointed to speak for this Moon-atic; Hubby please remember she'll be back in a month and you've set the bar pretty high. I love you! I love you! I love you. But that's no surprise.
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