I've had a varied and busy 47 years (Yes, I know, thank you!) of life so far and if there's one thing it's taught me is to always expect the unexpected. I'm definitely one of those people that "stuff" always happens to. If I fall, I most definitely do not come up smelling of roses but rather stinking of fox shit. Which is the worst shit of all shits to fall into. Dogs love it and will chase you for hundreds of miles if they smell it on you! I have learned to embrace this unfortunate stance life has taken upon me and to laugh into the very face of it.
Expecting the unexpected helps to minimise the impact of misfortune, soften the blow, and give you the chance to exclaim loudly "I knew that was going to happen!" So nowadays when something good happens to me I take it with a pinch of salt because I know just a little further down the timeline it will be taken away again. Probably. If it doesn't and said good thing remains good then it makes the good thing most excellent!
I spend so much time procrastinating, it's unreal! I'll sit here for hours thinking about the massive list of shit I've got to do, often sitting in silence just staring, lost in this weird yet wonderfully colourful mind of mine. I don't think I'm lazy because once I get my head through the myriad of cloudy obstacles then I go all out on the task. I have a sign that reads:
(n.) the tendency to not start anything until you've had a cup of coffee.
Well, lately I even think about making the coffee for hours too. It's like my mind has worked out that the longer it takes to make the fucking coffee the longer I can sit and ponder over other shit.
After procrastinating for several days about being allowed to have a shed on my patch for winter storage I finally managed to get one sorted. I did spend days looking at free sheds on Facebook only to eventually realise that all the giver really wants is free site clearance! Some of the shit being offered for free is offensive, it really is! I mean I have good wood magician skills but fuck me, a Cruise Missile detonating dead centre on it would be an improvement!
Anyways, I was making my way through a small wooded area on the farm to fell a dead standing Pine tree when I stumbled across an old forgotten shed. I immediately claimed it as mine despite it also needing much love and cuddles to make it strong again.
I set about dismantling it, repairing it and rebuilding it with a new (old) roof and new floor. Of course, though, this didn't go as smoothly as that now did it? I did this all on my own. I carried the panels to my patch, laid a new pallet base, and lifted the first panel into position along with the rear and the other side. All good so far. Now for the front. The panel with the door. The door that kept swinging open and hitting me in the fucking face with the force of a bare-knuckle fighter going for the top score on a fairground punch bag ball thing machine. In front of a dozen scantily clad ladies. You know, ultimate effort! So, to stop this happening a ninth time, I pushed the bolt over and screwed the fucker to the frame to prevent my dentist from earning more cash monies from me.
I balanced the panel well and slowly backed into position where it slotted in perfectly first try! I reached down for my impact screw gun but alas it wasn't there. Fuck it. It's the other side. So I reversed my expert manoeuvres, grabbed the screw gun and screws and retraced my perfectly executed steps. Once again the door panel slotted in perfectly! "This doesn't feel right. Why doesn't this feel right?" I questioned myself. Still, I carried on with the procedure and drove 8 x 3-inch screws deep into the 2-inch timber securing it forever to the side panels. I did the same fixing the base runners to the pallet.
With a big smile and feeling all chuffed with my handsome self, I pushed the door open to get started on the roof. Except it didn't push open, did it? No, it fucking didn't. Because I had bolted and screwed it. From the outside. And I was inside. Fuck.
I managed to climb over in the end but not without ripping my t-shirt twice and hurting my knee with an awkwardly styled-out attempt at a landing.
The shed is almost finished now, it just needs a lick of paint. I hate painting. I'd rather 69 a hungry Alligator.
Today was my youngest daughter's 20th birthday (happy birthday Kayleigh!) so I met with her for breakfast. Her present hasn't arrived yet as it weirdly has 21 days for delivery but I know she's gonna love it! As usual, she and her sister were running more than fashionably late. Like almost an hour late. I was standing outside the eating place of choice eagerly watching for her to arrive in her sisters car.
"AHA! Finally, there she is! And she hasn't seen me!"
She was stopped just opposite me in a bit of traffic so I sneaked up to the door and with a 14 stone yank, I wrenched it open and screamed "RAAAAAAAARRRRGGGGGHHHHHH" at the top of my voice quickly followed by a rather embarrassed "Oh my god! I'm so sorry! I thought you were my daughter!" The lady driving I'm pretty sure actually did a shit. She was screaming with a look of shock and horror on her face whilst staring me dead in the eye! That look will haunt me forever I'm sure! If by some chance you ever read this, I'm truly sorry! I'm not washing your lingerie though, but I will buy you some new ones.
Here's a pizza trivia to sign off with:
There will always be fierce debates over whether or not pineapple has any place on a pizza, but there's no question about where the Hawaiian pizza originally came from: Chatham, Ontario, Canada! Restaurant owner Sam Panopoulos was born in Greece but moved to Canada when he was 20 years old. And in 1962, the entrepreneur decided to put pineapple on pizza.
"We just put it on, just for the fun of it, see how it was going to taste. We were young in the business and we were doing a lot of experiments." The name apparently came from the brand of canned pineapple that Panopoulos used on that fateful day he invented the Hawaiian pizza.