What better way to end the first week of January than...

...swig more codeine-laced cough syrup and down my last Azithromycin tablet.

Yep. I am still really sick.

I mean what the *&#*^, is going on???

I swear, the only thing keeping me from crossing over (if-you-know-what-I-mean) is Alexander Fleming's little accidental invention - PENICILLIN.

Thank-you Mr. F. Or rather, Sir Fleming. (I dare say he deserves that knighthood more than Elton John - no offense to the king).

Yessirree. I attribute my being alive to two things - Alex Fleming and indoor heat.

No wonder most of those early Canadian settlers died over winter, (poor bastards).

It's not that I haven't improved mind you...

I feel pretty good in the morning, (gone are the days of dry-coughing 'til tears run down my cheeks and I have to cross my legs so I don't pee myself from the force),

but then I step outside...

... and that cold air hits my lungs like a jackhammer.

Within fifteen minutes, my body is in shock and my breathing shallows in an effort to avoid the deeper ones that bring with them spasms of pain and more leg crossing.

And old man winter is there to remind me who's boss. All ye, bow to mother nature.

But I'm gonna do something our forefathers could never do in this great country of ours way back in the 1800's when they got sick.

I'm gonna bugger off to California at the end of the month for a week. What better way to end the Six Month Experiment?

Who's laughing now, eh? Old Man WINTER?

So really, I have no cause to complain.

All I have to do between now and then is get better.

Next - The importance of taking trips...

What better way to start the first week of January than...

...swig some codeine-laced cough syrup while downing an Azithromycin tablet.

Aye. For once, I am really sick.

(So much for saying, "Aw gee, sorry you feel so awful. I can't remember the last time I was sick"! in front of someone with more sniffles than a German Shepard at the Mexican border).

Braggers beware - after years without so much as a tiny recollection of being flat on your back with a cold or the flu, it is possible that one day, you too will be reminded of how fragile it is to be human.

The good news is, my immune system should to be stronger afterwards. And now that I've been there, done that, I can get on with the business of manifesting because I won't get sick again for like, a year.

Okay, more like 6 weeks (or so they say).

I just wish it had been the stomach flu - that would have only lasted two days and performed the double duty of dispensing with those additional Xmas pounds while detoxing my body in a way that diet pills only dream of doing (if only causing stomach cramps, projectile vomiting and giving one Montezuma's revenge were legal side effects).

But it's all good now.

Almost.

I still hear that god-awful gurgling sound when I lie down... and then the wheezing starts.

As I roll from side to side, trying to get to sleep, my chest becomes a symphony of phlegm-induced noises that leaves me hallucinating that some sinister orchestra is trying to play Mozart's requiem in my chest.

And the entire string section is on acid.

Still, I managed to get real help a mere two weeks after this infection began. I guess I just couldn't take choking in my sleep anymore.

(Better late than never I say).

So it's all good now. Or At least it will be soon.

And next time I'm this sick, I won't go to the outdoor driving range to hit some golf balls in JANUARY IN WINNIPEG - the coldest city in the world with a population of over 1/2 million - even if they do have vents blowing hot air.

Hot air my ass. My lungs didn't agree.

This year, I vow to listen to my body, voice my needs more clearly and make others pay attention when I know what is best for me.

That's part of manifesting too.

Being heard... stating what you want, what you need, what you don't need and what you wish to change.

Knowing what's good for you, knowing when you're burning out and knowing when to draw the line. And voicing it.

But that means taking full responsibility.

And sometimes that entails (what we think) is hurting other people's feelings in the process.

But in the end, it doesn't matter. Besides, if they're really your friends they can take it.

All that matters is that you learn to trust you instincts. And if your instincts tell you to put the brakes on - whether it's because you're sick or something else - then you better damn well listen or you will suffer the consequences.

I can't continue with this experiment in all its glory if I can't put my foot down when I need to! It's like spinning my wheels!

I have a mere three weeks to go in this Six Month Experiment. I was hoping to finish with a bang, but it looks like I still have some old patterns that need tweaking.

Thankfully this experience gave me more than just phlegm. (The bronchitis that is, not the experiment). It taught me another lesson.

I learned that if you don't take care of yourself, nobody else will. If you don't think your health is important enough to say 'no' to something, then nobody else will either.

The lesson is: you draw unto you experiences that mirror your level of committment to yourself.

No more, no less.

If I wanted people to care that I'm sick - and I mean to really care (you know, be sensitive enough to recognize what is in my best interest) - it must first begin at home - ie; with me.

So, if I made myself sicker in the process by not recognizing this truth, then so be it. I deserve it.

It was a lesson worth learning at the beginning of what I imagine is going to be a fabulous year.

-----

Next - Back to basics: the process begins... again...

New Year's Eve 2009... the end of a decade...

This year, I promised myself - months ago - that I would not sit home, rent a movie and pop in a deep dish pizza on New Year's Eve.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Last year, I watched Forgetting Sarah Marshall with my AP while I planned how things were going to be different in 2009 - I was going to have more fun and get more stuff done that personally meant something to me... like write a book.

It was an awesome night because I literally laughed my way into 2009. And it proved to be great medicine for a year that had been quiet and contemplative.

But this year, a movie was out of the question. There was too much to celebrate.

Nor did I wish to play cards with my parents while taking shots of whatever liquor there was in the house.

Not that there's anything wrong with that either.

But like I said to my stepmom:

"No offense Ma, but... I just can't spend New Year's Eve with you guys playing cards. And I don't see myself playing Kinsman Jackpot Bingo again next Saturday either."

Not that there's anything wrong with either of those.

She just laughed and said:

"Good".

Because she understands.

It's New Year's Eve.

And this year it was particularly auspicious because not only were we ushering in a new decade, but...

1. It was a full moon.

2. It was a blue moon (two full moons in the same calendar month - the last one that occured on New Year's Eve was in 1990, the next one will be in 2028).

3. It was also a lunar eclipse - the first one to take place on New Year's Eve in 353 years.

Call me superstitious but WOW.

If the National Geographic AND the L.A. Times are writing about these galactic events then maybe I wasn't that crazy to think that this New Year's Eve I should convince my friends to attend some sort of a formal gathering dressed in as much bling as we could muster on short notice.

After all, the next biggie will occur on New Year's Eve 2012. That's three years away. Given all the build up, the entire planet will no doubt be partying that we actually made it to 2013.

I'm gonna have to start planning for that one like, NOW.

And that party's gonna make every other New Year's Eve bash look like the birthday parties in a Jehovah's Witness family. (And for those of you who don't know, they don't celebrate birthdays).

Oh yeah, 2012 is gonna be somethin' else.

Everyone will be breathing a sigh of relief that we made it through all those Nostradamus predictions and horrible, fear-mongering specials on T.V. that predict the end of the world without so much as a glimmer of conscience as to what it might do to the psyche of the general population that seem to crave drama in their lives to function, let alone for entertainment.

But I digress. Back to New Year's Eve 2009...

We (me n' my two girlfriends) entered our evening with great flair and anticipation, hot curling our hair, donning our frocks with panache, covered in bling and wearing shoes that were bound to hurt our feet after the first hour.

We were doing it up right.

The idea was to dazzle each other and perfect strangers with engaging conversation, star-worthy attitudes, Ginger Rogers dancing finesse and a general sense of well-being that exclaimed (without a hint of reservation):

LOOK OUT 2010! I'M READY FOR YA!

Well, the party I chose was forwarded to me by a dear friend, whom I trust implicitly.

Well, at least I DID.

There were to be singles galore, it was at a nice venue and the dance was reasonably priced.

Perfect.

And it wasn't so much the singles venue as the fact that it was a 'formal' occasion. Not a bar, not a house party, and not a 7/11. (And yes, sadly I've been at one of those buying chips n' a coke when the clock struck twelve).

And best of all, given that this was a last minute decision, there were still tickets available.

Perfect.

Or was it? Maybe that should have been my first clue. I am however, an eternal optimist.

As we made our grand entrance, the scene before us turned out to be... slightly different than any pre-conceived notions I had that I'd missed my calling as the New Year's Eve version of a great wedding planner.

We walked into senior night at the prom.

And I'm not talkin' grade 12.

Now, I'm no spring chicken, but I think I'll let another woman's comment (who was my age) speak for me:

"I don't know about you guys, but I feel like a newborn out there," she said, in the washroom while reapplying her lipstick to impress God-knows-who.

But once the shock wore off - which took all of 5 minutes and one drink - we had a marvelous time.

Because really, it doesn't matter where you are. All that matters is who you're with and what you make of it.

And that's the truth.

The funny thing is, all of us who had made a point of going out that night because we wanted to be 'with the girls' were all texting and phoning the people that mattered to us at midnight to celebrate the New Year with them anyway.

Ain't that the way it goes :)

-----

Cheers to the magic of 2010!

Next - getting down to business - the experiment continues

The importance of Rituals - Part III - my birthday ritual

The thing is, it really doesn't matter what you do.

All that matters is that you set aside a little space, make your intentions clear, go to it and have the courage to be honest about what you want - with no regard to whether other people will think the dreams you have are silly, unrealistic or better left in fairytale ville.

And remember, it's suppose to be fun.

So screw those naysayers and that overrated, annoying internal dialogue of munchkins telling you it's time to be 'realistic' at the ripe old age of n (that's algebra for all you non-math types).

(By the way, that's how old I am, in case you were wondering).

Anyway, when I sat down to write my letter to Damabiah (that's the angel assigned to me according to the kabbalah and based on my date of birth) and I started to make fun OF MYSELF for this exercise, I said aloud...

"Shut your traps, you subconscious warfaring bubble-bursting miscreants"!

... and felt much better.

Further more, don't feel despair over goals not achieved, (as I did) and permit yourself to be forthright with your angels, your guides, or whoever else you call upon to assist you in the coming year.

And expected the miraculous.

DREAM BIG.

This year, I set 20 minutes aside from my party (and Xmas) and went to my apartment for a little 'me' time.

For those of you unawares, I live in the same building as my Dad and stepmom. While this often leads to exclamations of 'ewwwwwwwww' from some, the truth of the matter is, it rocks (for the most part - I have yet to bring a date home but I do go upstairs and help myself to their cheese their vacuum all the time).

Anyway, while everyone was still playing cards, Wii and enjoying a variety of libations in my honor (the best excuse EVER), I snuck back to my apartment to light a candle and write a letter.

Here's what it said:

Dear Damabiah,

Pleased to make your acquaintance after all these years.

I wish I had known of your existence way back when but it never occured to me to check the rules and regs of the Kabbalah (considering I was a Catholic n' all). Go figure.

Truth be told, you could have made your presence known to me in a blazing flash of light at the foot of my bed when I was GOING THROUGH HELL - that would have been kinda cool - but whatev, water under the bridge.

Anyway, it's all good.

As you probably know, today is my birthday. (I dare say you do know considering you were assigned to me and I didn't know about it and you did this whole time, but I digress)...

I also heard that you angels don't have a sense of humor, so I'll get right down to business.

First of all, thanks for being there.

I know I know, considering my caddy remarks above you're thinking, "riiiiiiiight" but seriously, I'm lucky to be alive on so many counts, the only thing I can attribute this good fortune to is you and your legion of winged buddies.

(I owe ya one).

Anyway, as I said before it's my birthday. Here's my wishlist:

yadda yadda yadda
blah blah blah
yadda yadda yadda
blah blah blah

And just so you know, this list comes with a disclaimer...

If I get all the things that I wish for and start acting like an asshole, you can take them away.

Except maybe for that BMW - I'd like to keep that as a freebie. I think that's reasonable. You know, for all those years I didn't know of your existence.

I any case, I promise to be the best person I can and in the end, I only truly desire those things that are beneficial to my evolution as a human being.

(And I mean that).

Love from the bottom of my heart n' soul,
Nicole

p.s. Are you a guy in white tights and abs to die for?

-----
Then I blew out my candle and went back to my party.

Next: Bringing in the New Year in style!

The Importance of Rituals - Part II -first, a little friendly advice and how to find your angel

Don't cut your own hair.

You know... as part of a ritual. Like I did.

Before I get started on this whole ritual business and what I did on my b-day, I wanted to share that little tidbit because I just looked in the mirror at my haircut and realized that I... look...

...wrong... just plain wrong.

You know, like some throwback to the 80's. (Like that chick in the photo).

All I'm missing to finish this A-line frizzy hair look are some shoulder pads and a lot of blush. It's the same look I had in my grade 12 photo.

I should have gone to my barber.

(That's right, I go to a barber. At least I did six years ago which was the last time I let someone else cut my hair).

Or better yet, I should have left my hair alone.

But I couldn't help it.

When I got out of the shower earlier that day and realized that my ends were so brittle they had insta-dried, I knew it was time to chop chop chop.

Now I might be feeling like this because my jowls are still swollen from my lingering bronchitis and my eyes are peepholes constantly in the process of expansion but I can't say fer shur.

And to make matters worse, I've never liked the visual effects of my clothes (and face) feeling 'xmas tight' (which always gives me postsantum depression)- but I could be wrong.

All I know is I looked in the mirror and didn't like what I saw.

And it didn't matter how much I fussed with it, or put pins in it, or sprayed it, or pulled it back, it still looked like I butchered it.

I figure once my hair is feeling less stressed over the whole thing, it will spring back to its regular state but for now, I'll just have to live with it.

But perhaps what surprised me the most as I stood there dissatisfied for probably the millionth time in my life, is what a royal waste of time my vanity was causing me. And what an unnecessary amount of psychological discomfort.

After all, the damn stuff is gonna to grow back.

And here I am, talking about rituals and the importance of INTERNAL growth as good for your soul.

Sheesh. I'd call myself a hypocrite except I don't think it counts if you bust yourself early enough in the process of being exactly the opposite of what you've been advocating.

Or does it?

Anyway, whatever.

It did however, bring to mind a thought that left me feeling warm and fuzzy.

According to the Kabbalah, I have an angel called Damabiah who doesn't give a rat's ass what I look like and loves me anyway. He was assigned to me on my birth day.

"Ain't that right 'Bi"?

Check these out:

http://guideangel.com/

http://www.ucm.ca/en/traditionalstudyofangels/how-to-find-your-birth-angels.html

Now, I've never been into angels, though at one time or another I think we all secretly hope those winged men and women in white, (FYI- I hope mine's a guy in white tights who works out all the time), will be there to bail us out when we really need it).

But again, that's not the point.

For those of you who have been reading this blog, you'll know I don't subscribe to any particular religion (or their formal rituals), but I do take bits from different spiritual belief systems and incorporate them as I see fit.

This fits. And I used it on my birthday.

What I like about the first website is how the main page explains how different cultures/religions of the world acknowledge different levels of 'being'.

If not specifically 'spirit beings', then at least something resembling a hierarchy (either within us or without) which either assists us, or helps us aspire to become God-like.

It could be angelic beings, devas, or even our own internal system of chakras whose activation leads us upwards on a path of spiritual ascension.

But chakra activation seems awfully complicated to me.

And I really suck at meditating.

God knows I've tried.

And I'll bet my crystal rosary the Big Guy spent all his time either laughing at me or shaking his head in disbelief at how easily I give up, (or how every time I try, all I can think about are grocery lists, how I should be going to the gym more regularly or how wish I was having sex instead).

Yeah, it's BAD.

But that's okay, cuz I have my own Angel, and nobody can take that away from me.

The thing is, I'm not psssss-ychic. I don't see shit.

Nor do I hear things. Or know things. I have an intuition like everybody else, (which I've frequently ignored and suffered because of it) but that's not the point.

I like to think of angels as valid and real because it makes me happy to do so.

And the fact that the Kabbalah has this down to a science, pleases someone like me to no end.

All I had to do was plug in my D.O.B. and WALLA!!! Angel city!

Suddenly, I had someone (or something - I hear they're adrongynous), that I could put a name to and address when I have a question (or when I'm pissed, or happy or depressed, or need to beg for a favor).

It was perfect.

So I wrote Damabiah a letter on my birthday.

In my next post, I'm going to share a little bit of that letter with you and the simple process that was my b-day ritual (which I promise does not involve any five-pointed stars on my living room floor surrounded by thousands of burning candles or the blood of defenseless animals).

Until next time...
Happy Angel hunting!