When we purchased our home, we loved the color scheme the previous homeowners painted the walls.  They chose warm earth tones throughout the house.  Our master bedroom is a tranquil light blue.  The living room has a deep, olive green color below a brilliant white chair rail.  Each room has it’s own style, and is well complimented by it’s wall color.

Except one room.

There is one place in this house that will stop you in your tracks.  Perhaps even force you to shield your eyes, and send you running for Advil.

Because sitting in this room may give you the worst headache of your life.

And sadly, I serve guests meals in there.

This is just a tiny corner of my dining room wall. Don’t get me wrong. I think the toile pattern is actually quite lovely, but perhaps on a place mat, pillow, or a window treatment.   Imagine if you will, sitting down at the dinner table, surrounded by this winding, red floral nightmare while trying to enjoy a meal.

Need a moment to close your eyes and refocus?  No worries. I understand.

After more than a year of avoiding this room at all costs, I have finally decided to tackle these four walls…and tear down the vomit inducing floral wallpaper myself.

Only problem is… I have never removed wallpaper before, and I’m resorting to the web for instruction.   So far everything I have found is rather vague. 

So say a little prayer for the plaster walls behind these flowers.  I’m not sure how gentle I will be after sitting in this room and staring at the walls for more than 20 minutes.

Anyone have some tips to offer?

I have a wallpaper scoring tool, scraper, spray bottle, face mask, and a bottle of DIF.

Oh yes, and a barf bag.

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

Everyday, I’d lay on the couch, like a beached whale.  Bored. Out. Of. My. Mind.

I had not started blogging yet, and I am not much of a TV person. Besides, daytime television sucks.  Luckily the internet offered something else.

Games. In particular, Bejeweled.

I shared my addiction with a good friend of mine (aka Buddisodes), and he began playing as well. We both played fairly well, and over the phone, we occasionally sparked competitive moments.

Nothing’s changed.

Three weeks ago, Angela from MommyBytes sent me an invite on Facebook to the tournament version of Bejeweled.  I passed the invite on to Buddisodes, and he SWORE that I never beat his high score 4 years ago.

Oh, it was ON.

Every week the scores reset.

Every week my high score falls just slightly below his.

Every week the smack talk gets more ugly.

But not this week….Buddy.

Nuh uh.

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It was the coolest room in the house during hot and humid days.  The ground was smooth, poured concrete, and two grated air vents sat on the bottom corners of the garage door.  There were no windows, but by ducking low you could squint to see outside through the metal slits.

In the corner of the room sat my plastic, brown forty-five record player.  A cheap relic, even for the time, but it worked.

During the week I shared my bedroom with my grandmother, my mother’s mom.  Monday through Friday while my parents worked full time, she was there.  But every now and then on the weekends, my other grandmother came to stay with us, my father’s mom.  Her visits were more rare so when she did stay over, she aimed to please, at least her grandchildren anyway.

“What do you want for your 5th birthday?” she asked in Cantonese.

“Well…um…maybe a record.” I replied with trepidation.

My elderly Chinese grandmother had no idea what records were. Nor did she speak English, or drive, but she was eager to please, and with that we were off to the nearest music store.

“This one grandma. This is the one. This is the only thing I ever wanted for my birthday,” I cried.

“Twenty DOLLARS!” she scolded, whipping her head around in horror.

“It’s the only thing I want, and I don’t want anything else for Christmas. Can I please have it? Please?” I begged in my broken Cantonese.

“Oh…oh, alright!” she exasperated, and briskly walked to the check out.

It was enormous. The expanded, bi-fold album cover was taller than my upper body.  I smiled as I found the inside liner photo of the singer sitting with a baby tiger.  Slowly, my tiny fingers pinched the edge of the black vinyl, tugging it gently from its sleeve. I reached down and turned the dusty knob until the small turntable spun.

It barely fit. With each revolution, I cringed in fear of the record edge scraping along the plastic case. Ruining it. But it never did. So with delicate anticipation, I raised the needle and placed it gently along the edge of the spinning record.

Inside of those private, windowless walls and along those cool, smooth floors, I danced endlessly to the songs on the Thriller album.  It became a space where this tiny, awkward Chinese girl could move freely, shielded from discerning eyes, laughter, and judgment outside.  It was the only place I felt…free.

That record spun endlessly for several years. And to this day, it is one of the only gifts I remember from my childhood.

Every note and every step brings back so many moments from my life. Back to when cardboard boxes covered our garage floor for dancing, or when my first boyfriend and I held hands.

His voice has been the soundtrack of my life for so long. And lately, it echoes in my mind asking, ‘Remember The Time…’

I always will.

I always will.

————————————————————————————————————————————–

The past three years has been a learning process.  Not only in my role as a mother, but also in the motherhood social arena.

For instance, when Babisodes was a wee infant breastfeeding on demand, I learned the importance of loading a battery of supplies into my diaper bag, just to leave the house for an hour.  Breastfed poop, can and will go everywhere.   There is no such thing as too many extra pants.  And those changing pads the size of paper towels will. not. cut it.  Seedy poop can get some distance.

Before she learned how to speak, I foresaw the benefits of teaching her sign language.  Basic signs such as “more,” “please,” and “all done” not only facilitated communication between us, but restaurant patrons around us were also able to enjoy their meals in a bit more peace and quiet.

Today, I do my best to try and prep her before walking into social settings.  Mainly playdates.  I have a little laundry list we cover beforehand.  I often remind her that it is best to speak kindly, take turns, and although it can be challenging, it is important to share with friends.

So far I have been pretty good about anticipating and preparing for social catastrophes with my daughter.

Usually.

That is until last week.  When toddlerhood’s honest, literal sense threw me a humdinger of a social reality check.

For the first time, perhaps since Babisodes was a non-speaking, non-mobile infant, I braved the frilly-laced racks of a lingerie store.  Preparing for Valentine’s Day of course.

I should have taken the immediate warning signs seriously in the store, but I didn’t.

Not even two minutes after walking into the store, I turned around to scold her, “Stop walking through the panty racks!” as she brushed away armfuls as if it were a G-string jungle.

I should have known better, but I didn’t.

I put my big girl panties on and sucked it up.  I decided I would make this trip as quick as possible.  Besides, they only had a handful of options in my size.  So I grabbed them and ran for refuge in the fitting rooms.

Of course, every single stall was occupied, except one.

The stall was riddled with un-hung clothing in various sizes, clearly left behind by shoppers.

In a hurry, Babisodes and I went in anyway.  I sat her on top of a bench and quietly went over a laundry list of fitting room etiquette.

“Do not touch anything.  Do not sit on the floor.  And you must stay inside this stall only.”

“Okay, mommy” she said softly amidst the bustling fitting room noise.

I handed her a book to keep her occupied and began unhooking a delicate, pink teddy from a hanger.

“Mommy.  When will I have boooobz like yours?”

“Shh!”

(If she’s lucky enough to get bug bites in the right places, perhaps maybe this summer.)

“Oh Mommy!  Don’t forget to try on DAT HOT PINK UNDERWEARS!”

<<<<crickets>>>>

Not to mention, the hot pink panties were not brought in by me, and they were approximately 10 times larger than my size. I had strapped on my big girl panties, but they’re not that big.

Amidst the deadened silence, I said to myself- Screw it.  This teddy will fit…mostly…probably…I think. We’re outta here.

Methinks lingerie will be missing from my wardrobe until I have a sitter for Babisodes.

Until then, we’ll be ringing in the holidays of love with neutral colored, faded, cotton full coverage…

…just my size.

The drawer sticks. It does not close very well.  And I am still unsure if it is sturdy enough to handle anything inside

But… I’m not saying a word, at least not anymore.

Dadisodes and I finally talked.  Actually, I probably spoke a little louder.  And as usual, his selective amnesia for all things handy miraculously resolved immediately.  However, I’ve been down this road before.

I raise a stink; he suddenly volunteers to do laundry and fix things he’s left untouched for 9 months.

It never lasts.  Not for any longer than a day.

However, after speaking (loudly), he surprising admitted to just not being able to complete most of the projects around the house.  So we decided that if and when we can, we should hire contractors rather than waiting around for him to piece meal the dozen or so unfinished projects around the house over the next ten years.

And I have resolved that this will take time.

However, until then….

No. new. projects.

I guess sometimes when you light a fire, you should let it smolder before you burn down the house.

PLUS, he’s agreed to buy a “real“ lawn mower. Just in case.  Because I have strange premonition I will continue to be the one doing that chore.