My Mushroom Story…Yes, I Have One

I am neurotic. I don’t know when my perception of the world around me transformed from a blissful place of sunshine and lollipops into the anxiety-riddled one that I now inhibit  inhabit. My mother says I was always a tad bit…um…”different” (insert finger quotes here), which I guess is true. I did believe, after all, that tow trucks broke cars and firemen started fires. Think about it. Every time a car stops working, there’s a tow truck around. And, every time there’s a fire…well, you know where I’m headed with this.

camel tow

It seems that my mind–although highly superior to others in many aspects–in my opinion, which, by the way means very little given the state of my mind to begin with– was pre-programmed for neuroses at a very early age. (If you made it through that sentence without experiencing a walloping migraine, congratulations for your stick-to-itiveness. If that sentence made sense to you, please accept my condolences. I see padded cells and really long-sleeved white jackets in your future.)

crazy

When I was 7 years old, I experienced what I call the Toadstool Event…an event which has given me a phobia of inedible fungi.  Mycophobia. A fear of fungus. Yes, even the cutest flock of fungi has the power to fray my nerves.

Don't let their innocent faces fool you.

Don’t let their innocent faces fool you.

It started off as an innocent school trip.  My classmates and I merrily frolicked through the forest, picking colourful fungi to take back to our classroom, “oh-ing” and “aw-ing” at every turn, trying to outdo one another by finding increasingly weirder-looking specimens.  When our mushroom marauding came to an end, we piled on our school bus and returned to school just in time for lunch.

I happily devoured my peanut butter and raspberry jam sandwich and my wagon wheel (a chocolate-covered marshmallowy dessert adored by school children in the 1970s, not an actual wagon wheel, although those likely contain a great deal of healthy fibre), and headed back to my classroom.

wagon wheels

If these are the “original” wagon wheels, I would suggest backing away from the box.

 

Upon entering, my teacher (who from this moment on, I will refer to as Ms. WTF Were-You-Thinking) stated, “Now, I hope you all washed your hands before lunch as you did handle poisonous mushrooms.” The whole room broke into a series of obedient nods and “yes, Ms. WTF’s.” I, however, had lapsed into horrified silence.

Порги — небольшие морские птички в фильме «Звёздные войны: Последние джедаи»

I had not washed my hands. I had potentially eaten peanut butter, jam, and toadstool spores for lunch. I had no choice. I had to confess my potentially life-threatening hygiene faux-pas. And what followed is likely what transformed an otherwise well-adjusted (albeit slovenly) child into a neurotic, hand-washing-obsessed worrywart who is actually allergic to mushrooms. It’s true. I’ve been tested. Well, the mushroom part…I’ve never been tested for the rest.

Ms. WTF Were-You-Thinking immediately  gathered the offending fungi around her, opened up her toadstool book and proceeded to say aloud, ” this looks like the destroying angel.” The very name was ominous. She continued to read the potential side effects of accidental ingestion, but my mind only heard the words “deadly” and “Poison Control.” I don’t remember much after that–other than my parents receiving a phone call that evening stating that Poison Control had concluded that I had not, in fact, been in contact with any toxic fungi and that I would, indeed, live.

In a true neurotic fashion, I did not believe them and forced my parents to stay up with me in case I died. I, apparently, fell asleep at 10:00 and was pleased to wake up the next morning and discover that I was still alive.

Image result for hand washing compulsive

And that is my mushroom story.

I’ve got to go. My hands are calling me.

 

 

Photo credits:

Camel Tow: https://www.yelp.com/biz/camel-tow-fayetteville

Toadstools: I’ve had this on my computer for so long, I don’t know where it came from. If it is yours, let me know and I’ll give you credit. By the way, brilliant photo!

Wagon wheels: https://www.walmart.ca/en/ip/dare-wagon-wheels-original-cookies/6000147490402

frightened thing: http://monstersmovies.com/index.php/component/content/article?id=470:zhivnost-v-filme-zvjozdnye-vojny-poslednie-dzhedai

Hands: http://athensnowal.com/understanding-obsessive-compulsive-disorder/

Please Don’t Free That Willy

I recently learned an interesting little factoid. A blue whale’s fart bubble is large enough to encapsulate a horse. In this way, they are much like my husband’s farts. Except his are not ensconced in a protective layer of water and are more mushroom cloud-like.

mushroom cloud

“It was he who farted,” the villagers exclaimed as their town lay in ruins. “We will have to rebuild, but first–kill him.”

Pubs.usgs.gov

While images of giant whale farts seem cute and amusing, I find myself worrying about unsuspecting sea life and the impact that a giant fish colon blow can have on their lives.

spongebob

Which raises another question. Why can’t those people who sell CDs of supposed tranquility-inspiring whale songs include a few fart noises in the mix? I mean, come on. Sure whales make cool noises, but after a few minutes even the most talented diva in the pod becomes stale. A whale fart, however, never grows old.

I recently learned another interesting tidbit of info pertaining to whales. While playing a game of trivia at work (this was, of course, during the first ever, never-to-be-repeated-again moment in which we were being non-productive), it was discovered that the Blue Whale has a penis size of up to 10 feet in length. Now, I have heard that “once you go black, you never go back,” but apparently it should be “once you go blue, there’ll be nothing left of your wazoo.”

 

 

I’ve got a horrible taste in my mouth and I’m buried in snot rags…

I am feeling nauseated. Whoever invented the term “I’ve got butterflies in my stomach” needs a slap to the head…with a brick. My gut feels like a herd of hissing cockroaches are at war with a bevy of botulism-riddled bacterium carrying Swiss army knives. Butterflies, my ass. Speaking of “ass”…my butt is the cause of my urge to vomit. My buttal region has recently gone on strike and, as a result, I decided to give it a not-so-gentle nudge with a dose of Milk of Magnesia.

Now, for those of you who have never experienced this tummy-churning, bowel-blowing concoction brought to you by the lovely people at Phillips, don’t let the heavenly manna-esque name fool you. And do not let the bottle’s promise of mint or cherry flavouring raise your hopes either. All the chocolate in Switzerland could not improve the “dead fish and chalk” taste at the root of this witch’s brew.

Image result for milk of magnesia

Baby’s windigestion? WTF? 

So, here I sit with my guts rumbling, my taste-buds cringing, and a reinforced distaste for all things minty. But my butt will know who’s boss.

And, while I’m on the topic of masking horrifying tastes with seemingly benign flavours, does anyone–other than me–automatically associate artificial cherry flavouring with cough syrup?

Well, it would appear that the company that produces Kit Kat chocolate bars has decided to one-up this trend by masking the taste of chocolate–after all, who enjoys that creamy cocoa taste?–with the medicinal flavour of cough drops. Yes, the new flavour, available for a limited time only in Japan, contains throat lozenge powder. Apparently, this is aimed at preventing sore throats as soccer fans cheer on the Japanese National Soccer Team. If you want to try one of these cough-suppressing candy bars, you are out of luck. They were only available until September 2017. Darn it all.

The United Kingdom’s Donna Griffiths certainly wished that there was a tasty anecdote to sneezing as she achoo-d her way into a Guinness World Record. She sneezed for a consecutive 977 days, from January 13, 1981 to September 16, 1983–including roughly a millions sneezes in the first year alone.

Did she hold a job? How did she sleep? I want to know more about this. This would make an awesome movie. A little hard to find an actress willing to tackle this role, but Meryl Streep could do it.

Did everyone around her get tired of saying “God Bless You” and “Gesundheit?” How much Kleenex did she use? Did she find it hard to stay within her 2 garbage bag limit on trash day?

Virtual Assistant Help

On that note, I must run. Read into that what you may.

 

Image Credits:

Milk of Magnesia-https://www.earthclinic.com/remedies/milk-of-magnesia.html

KitKat-http://nationalpost.com/life/food/you-can-now-buy-cough-drop-flavoured-kit-kats-in-japan-with-actual-throat-lozenge-powder

Kleenex: http://www.propertymanagementtraininghq.com/using-virtual-assistants-in-your-property-management-business/

Cavemen and Martians and Doughboys, Oh My!

I have as much faith in the newspaper’s daily horoscopes as I do in a Chinese factory worker’s ability to pen prophetic words and stuff them into my fortune cookie. This raises the question…Why aren’t  there more psychic lottery winners?

I do, however, find it interesting that cartoon characters and puppets have birthdays. Not because I think that everyone born on November 2 will share Cookie Monster’s unhealthy relationship with food or that those born on February 22 will suffer from Pebbles Flintstone’s speech impediment. It is simply fun. Unless, of course, you are like me and learn that not a single one of your beloved childhood characters shares your birthday.

Here is a list of assorted talking ducks, dogs, and other creatures and their dates of birth (according to various websites).

January 9-Daisy Duck

January 12-Mater

January 17-Huckleberry Hound

January 13-Rubber Duckie

January 28-Ernie

January 29-Aquaman

February 2-Fred Flintstone

February 3- Elmo

February 8-Beeker

February 12-Gromit (Wallace & Gromit)

February 14-Pink Power Ranger

February 17- Rod Flanders

February 19-Batman

February 22-Pebbles Flintstone

February 25-Patrick Star (Starfish)

February 29-Superman

March 2-Porky Pig

March 3-Lucy Van Pelt

March 4-Woodstock

March 9-Barbie

March 17-Dennis the Menace

March 18-Pillsbury Dough boy

March 20-Big Bird

March 22- Kenny (South Park)

April 1- Bart Simpson

April 17-Daffy Duck & Sherlock Hemlock (Sesame Street)

April 20-Barney Gumble

May 1-Sponge Bob Square Pants

May 9-Kermit the Frog & Lisa Simpson

May 15- Minnie Mouse

May 25-Goofy

May 26-Kyle (South Park)

May 29-Iron Man

June 1-Oscar the Grouch

June 7-The Amazing Mumford

June 9-Donald Duck

June 19-Garfield & Tasmanian Devil

July 1-Guy Smiley & Cartman (South Park)

July 24-Marvin the Martian

July 26-Bert

July 27-Bugs Bunny & Jon Arbuckle (Garfield)

August 7- Wallace (Wallace & Gromit)

August 19-Snuffleupagus

August 21-Christopher Robin

September 5-Clifford the Red Dog & Pluto

September 13-Scooby-Doo

September 15-Mr. Burns

September 19-Slimey

September 30- Snagglepuss

October 1-Marge Simpson

October 2-Snoopy

October 6-Peggy (King of the Hill)

October 9- The Count

October 14-Grover & Winnie the Pooh

October 16-Telly

October 19-Stan Marsh (South Park)

October 25-Squidward

October 28-ALF

October 30- Charlie Brown

November 2-Cookie Monster

November 18-Mickey Mouse

November 21-Quick Draw McGraw

November 30- Mr. Krabs (Sponge Bob)

December 17-Little Bird (Sesame Street)

December 22-Elsa (Disney)

December 27-Howdy Doody

Who do you share a birthday with? Who would you most like to share it with? 

My Nose Smells. No, really. It Stinks.

I possess a very keen sense of smell, but there is something that I have always wondered, but been afraid to ask.  Do nostrils smell?  Of course, I know that nostrils are capable of enabling us to sense a smell.  What I am asking is “do nostrils, themselves, actually emit an odour?”  I have never sniffed with any nose other than mine, so maybe I have just become accustomed to the smell of my own nasal cavity.  What if it really stinks and, as a result, I am not able to smell the world around me properly?

i smell spit (1)

Maybe Tim Horton’s coffee doesn’t really smell like skunk butt.

Oh no.  I have always loved the smell of freshly pumped gasoline–a fact that has raised many an eyebrow over the last few decades.  Ugh, I’m old.  Maybe it smells horrible–like asparagus pee–and I don’t know it.

asparagus

How can any of us really be sure that our own nose aromas aren’t interfering with our sense of smell?  The only way to be sure is to rip off another person’s nose and borrow it.  You know–try that childhood “got your nose” trick, but really mean it.

I got your nose!!

 

Speaking of body parts, I love Tim Burton movies.  He’s rather an odd duck, I know, but his bizarre perspective on the world translates into brilliant films.  I have always wondered, however, how Edward Scissorhands partakes in rock, paper, scissors.  Seriously.  Only an idiot would do the old “one, two, three” and pull out a flat paper hand.

edward_scissorhands-1

And, as long as I am on the subject of idiots. In Canada, we have a dishwasher detergent called “Cascade” and its commercials star a woman who solves dish-related domestic disputes.  Unbeknownst to me, it would appear that we Canadians take our dish washing very seriously. This sage of plates and forks refers to herself as the “Cascade Kitchen Counsellor,” presenting troubled dirty dish owners with this miraculous product that can remove baked-on foods and marital discord in one dishwasher cycle. This is my new dream job.

 

 

But I digress. Back to the question at hand. Do you think your nose has a smell?

 

Images courtesy of:  Asparagus pee (http://diaryofahitman.wordpress.com/2012/03/20/the-history-of-asparagus-pee/), I’ve got your nose (http://bretacogan.blogspot.ca/2011/06/this-is-how-voldemort-turned-evil-you.html), Scissorhands (http://smg.photobucket.com/user/stellkins/media/edward_scissorhands-1.gif.html),

I Apologize on Behalf of my Middle Finger…

How do you hold your pencil? Apparently, I use the “death-grip” method–which is unfortunate if you happen to be my pencil. Or my middle finger. Yes, my propensity for clutching my pencil with brute force has resulted in a large protuberance that I (somewhat) affectionately call my “writing bump.”

skeleton pen

I was once a robust, healthy pen. And then “she” got her hands on me.

dx.com

Well, it turns out that my unsightly writing bump is the product of an “immature pencil grasp pattern.” Okay. I have been referred to as immature before–usually after I have been spotted talking to a mitten or drawing eyes on a cantaloupe–but this is a whole new form of…um…youthfulness. Yeah, that’s it. Youthfulness.

sad cantaloupe.jpeg

It’s hard to eat fruit with a face.

nourishinglittlesouls.com 

 

After years of communicating via the QWERTY method, my writing bump had almost disappeared. My middle finger had returned to its pristine pre-pencil self. Finally, I could hold it up with pride. I found myself wanting to show everyone just how lovely it looked. Surprisingly, no one seemed impressed. Coincidentally, this era is also known as the lonely years.

Even Mr. Rogers is proud of his “Mr. Tall.” (Just heard this sentence out loud for the first time. It sounds worse than it actually is.)

Enter the adult colouring book–the seemingly benign collection of highly addictive intricate drawings designed to transport fully grown people back to their childhoods. Seems like a perfect match for someone with an immature pencil grip. There is just one problem. Yes, thanks to Johanna Basford and her tribe of evil colouring book artists, my writing bump has returned to its former gargantuan glory.

On the upside, my middle finger is much less outgoing than before.

 

Here are a few examples of what happens when the innocent fun of colouring  enters the adult realm.

colouring picture for lazy

funny-children-coloring-book-corruptions-30

Bored Panda

thrill murray

Mental Floss

 puke by numbers

Sad and Useless

 

one night stand

Huffington Post

 

Have you fallen victim to the adult colouring phase? 

Yellow pants, rubber sheets, and a new Bic Razor…my increasingly bizarre shopping list

I almost threw up on my pillow last night. No, my pillow didn’t do anything to repulse me. It was just lying there as pillows tend to do. It’s this damn cold and my body’s apparent need to rid itself of it by plunging me into esophagus-splitting coughing fits. And, common side effects of said coughing include peeing oneself and vomiting in a manner that would have landed me the starring role in the Exorcist. 

 

 

Except much less green. What the heck have they been feeding that girl? Pistachio pudding?

 

Yes, the human body often betrays its owner. For instance, I harbour deep-seeded fears of vomiting on a customer’s forehead or accidentally urinating on a coworker’s shoe. It could be worse, however. I could be the woman whose farts forced the landing of a plane.

farts you just cannot trust them

Motivateusnot.com.

In December 2006, an American Airlines flight was forced to make an unexpected landing in Nashville after passengers reported smelling burning matches. The travellers were evacuated and bomb-detecting dogs were brought in to sniff out the problem, locating a stash of used matches under one passengers seat. The seat’s occupant admitted to the FBI that she had been lighting the matches in an attempt to hide her flatulence brought on by a medical condition. Wow. That’s gotta blow.

 

Speaking of blowing, if you have ever had a head cold, you know how annoying it can be. You blow and blow and still, your nostrils remain clogged shut. Imagine how this man–often referred to as the record-holder for the world’s largest booger–felt.

 

And, before pushing play, I should warn you that this could lead to you doing your own Exorcist impression.

 

Ack! Right? I’ll wait while you go grab the mop.

The human body is a mysterious and, oftentimes, uncooperative and somewhat masochistic thing. But it can also be a source of great amusement.

Sometimes eyebrows form a united front.

eyebrow

Funkyjunk.com. 

Ear hairs run wild…

 

Noses grow long…

 

biggest nose

Mix 965 Houston.

And bladders  have a mind of their own. No one’s body cooperates all the time. I have to go change my diaper.

 

Can Puppets Get Hemorrhoids?

I was a strange child, but I was also a problem-solver. In an effort to repair my status as an “only child,” I decided to create a quartet of loyal friends that would stand by me no matter what. And nothing proved more faithful than my trusty appendages–Mildred & Snowy Foot and Petty & Loyalist Hand. Yes, my hands and feet were the trusty friends that I was looking for.

Unbeknownst to me, however, my right hand had strong political views. I just thought the name “Loyalist” was pretty. Leave me alone. I was 4.

 

Hands-Talking-To-Each-Other

Soshable.com

Petty and Loyalist loved to talk, but as I grew older, it became apparent that other people preferred hands to remain mute. This posed quite the conundrum. On the one hand, I felt guilty silencing them after years of allowing them to converse freely, but, on the other, the threat of a padded cell did prove to be a strong deterrent. Petty & Loyalist–and by association, Mildred & Snowy–were silenced.

(Insert moment of quiet reflection followed by the playing of Taps). 

Until I discovered puppets. Finally, my hands could talk freely without shattering my ever-shrinking facade of sanity.

Over the years, Loyalist has accumulated a sizable wardrobe. Sadly, Petty’s comparative lack of cooperation limits him/her/? to playing spastics, the feeble-minded, and members of the NDP.

double-security-mitts-hand-control-mitt-one-size-fits-most-tie-strap-1-strap-white-one-fits-most

Berktree.com 

This limbless, mouthless, eyeless…er…puppet is the perfect match for Petty’s skill level. He/She/? has spent many hours of bliss donning this one-of-a-kind Thalidomide Helen Keller puppet.

Loyalist, however, has mastered a full range of class, order, and phylum ranging from Michelin Star chefs to red-nosed reindeer to snails. Yes, snails.

Speaking of snails. it was recently brought to my attention during an episode of Top Gear that snails give trout piles. I didn’t even know that fish could get hemorrhoids. I eat trout. Have I unwittingly eaten a ‘roid? Ack.

trout with hemorrhoid

“Stop squeezing my damn hemorrhoid!”   (Browntownutah’s Blog)

This, apparently, is the type of thing that Richard Hammond and Jeremy Clarkson –two avid British car guys–discuss while stranded in a South American desert.

 

Top Gear snails and piles

BBC Two

Which raises a question in my neuroses-plagued mind–What type of havoc will be wreaked upon my buttocks if I eat a trout that has piles and a stomach full of undigested snails?

beeker shocked

David Kanigan. 

Inquiring minds–and puppets–want to know.

If you could operate any puppet, which one would you choose? I know I’d be Bert, hands down. Then again, if my hands were down, how could I operate him? 

 

Nostrils Behaving Badly

I didn’t sleep well last night. And I blame my nose. Apparently, breathing in and out, producing snot, and providing a home for my freckles is not enough excitement for my mischievous proboscis. It has now decided to take up whistling.

If you have ever had a squeaky toy jammed up your nostril, you may know exactly what I am talking about. If you, however, are like most people and you’ve had nothing larger than your index finger rammed up your snotlocker, I will now do my best to describe the experience.

Jim Carrey fans have a bit of an edge as the rubber-faced comedian is no stranger to the perils of the squeaky snout. This clip from Me, Myself, and Irene adeptly illustrates the exact register in which my left nostril chose to perform. (Advance to the 5 min 38 second mark).

I’m not sure what exactly caused my situation last night, but I suspect an errant booger. And, no matter what I tried, it refused to dislodge. I blew my nose as hard as I could without rupturing an ear drum–although if I had, my nose whistle would no longer have been a problem. And, yes, I even embarked on my own archaeological dig.

There. I said it. “I picked my nose. And I liked it.” This confession is most effective when sung to the tune of I Kissed a Girl. Go ahead and try it out loud. “I picked my nose and I liked it…..” 

Everyone picks their nose. Hell, I bet the Queen of England has enjoyed a poke or two in her royal nasal cavity. It probably explains all the green dresses. And, I am fairly certain that George Costanza was right about Moses being a picker too.

Seriously. Desert air will do that to you. Forget worrying about bed bugs in your Vegas hotel room. Watch out for boogers, instead.

ed91109e29601a4b871248d2422632e0

When it comes to picking one’s schnoz, it is only acceptable to do it in private. And, no, driving in one’s vehicle does not constitute privacy. Windows are see-through and no one wants to witness you pulling a giant oyster from your left nostril. I think that the car immediately behind anyone who is caught elbow-deep in their honker should be allowed to rear-end said vehicle without fear of recrimination. “Officer, he seemed to be having difficulty getting his finger far enough up his nose, so I gave him a little nudge.”

It would probably generate the same result as this fancy manoeuvre…

I cannot leave you in good conscience without giving you one word of caution. Over-picking your nose can be hazardous to your health.  According to an article in the Daily Mail, 63-year old, Ian Bothwell, “died from a nose-bleed consistent with picking his nose.” Perhaps, he had a &*%$# nose whistle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Have you ever stuck your hand in a dust devil?

Have you ever seen a dust devil? It’s rare that something can be described as awe-inspiring and “cute” at the same time, but both of these words perfectly sum up a dust devil. On the one hand, I am astounded that these tornado microcosms can develop in the first place, seemingly out of nowhere. And, on the other hand, I sort of want to stick my hand in and see what happens. But I never have. Perhaps that is why I am still able to type with both hands.

I could have ended up like this guy.

Well, this year has gone by like a dust devil. It seems like only yesterday that I made the usual resolutions. Apparently, I was going to give up carbs (note to self: find and dust off Wheat Belly book), exercise daily (must hook up Wii balance board. Where is Wii balance board? Is it even called a “Wii balance board?”), and compose life-altering blogs that catch the attention of publishing companies around the world who, in turn, lavish me with high six-figure book deals, whisk me from one ivory tower to another on private jets, and provide me with a personal trainer for my transcontinental book tours–thus ensuring that I both exercise daily and eschew carbs, forcing me to live up to my previous two resolutions. Did I tell you that I lead a rich and fulfilling fantasy life?

This is the last place I saw my Wheat Belly book.

This is the last place I saw my Wheat Belly book.

1) Speaking of bellies–puffy from wheat or not– what I know about science, Sheldon Cooper could fit in his shortest eyebrow hair, so don’t laugh at what I am about to propose. If I rub my belly vigorously for extended periods of time, will it gradually disappear? Or will I just rub off my hand print? Or wear a whole in my sweater? Perhaps, the best people to ask would be the 1093 students from Effingham, UK who mastered the art of simultaneously rubbing their stomachs and their heads, creating a new Guinness World Record for “the most people patting their heads and rubbing their stomachs.”

The existence of this record raises a whole whack of other unanswered questions. Who the heck thinks up these things? How do you prepare for a feat as unusual–and stupid–as this? And, what the hell did their hair look like when it was all over? Seriously. There is not enough de-tangler in the world.

The last thing my Wii console said to me.

The last thing my Wii console said to me.

2) Getting back to my Wii, as you already know, I am exceptionally spastic. And my Wii console never lets me forget it. In my younger days, I was quite coordinated–able to do backflips, the splits, and balance myself atop my cheerleading squad’s less-than-solid pyramid. Unfortunately, a backflip or a split would now render me paraplegic. And no amount of cheerleaders would invite me to stand on their limbs.

While I struggle to perch upon one limb for anything longer than a few minutes, the flamingo makes standing on one leg look not only easy, but comfortable. Who in the hell is comfortable standing like that? They are. They are so comfortable, in fact, that flamingos have been known to sleep that way. This must be where the term “bird brain” comes from. Birds are not too bright.

According to How Stuff Works, we humans–me included–should be able to stand on one leg more easily than a flamingo. Our bodies are vertical. Theirs are horizontal. They have long skinny legs. Most of us do not. Yet, they make it look so easy. And, let’s face it. Flamingos look much better standing on one leg than we do.

Graceful.

Graceful.

Not so graceful.

Happy New Year to each and every one of you. May your hopes and aspirations–and some of your wildest fantasies–come true in 2015! I’m still hoping Barry Weiss will find “Searching for Barry Weiss,” that my belly will be unencumbered by wheat, and that I will regain my ability to do the splits. Who knows what the next year will bring?

What are your hopes for 2015? Would you stick your hand in a dust devil?

Images courtesy of: Flamingo (http://pencildancers.deviantart.com/art/Flamingo-on-one-leg-193144254).