It feels like just last week I was complaining about seeing Christmas displays before Halloween and the next thing I know it is New Years eve. My plans for homemade gifts, sumptuous feasts and whimsical decorating have been foiled again. One day I hope to spend the month of December smugly admiring my artfully arranged decorations while softly humming to myself as I cut out paper snowflakes. There is always next year.

Despite trying to simplify things as much as possible, the Christmas frenzy is palpable and contagious. One night on the streetcar a seemingly normal looking woman got on, let out a giant sigh and then yelled a string of obscenities. When she didn’t get any attention she calmly put on her headphones and sat quietly for the rest of the ride. I chalked it up to a mini Christmas meltdown. The holidays can do that to a person. One morning I found myself inexplicably running around the house with a slab of butter in one hand, a box of Christmas cards in the other, feeling completely scattered and flustered until I burst into tears.

Interspersed with these bouts of madness, however, there were little pockets of cheer. One girlfriend decided to have a Christmas party at the last minute, calling people the night before and leaving incoherent mumbled invitations as she was falling asleep. It felt more festive and celebratory than any well planned fete would have been. The Sweetie and I enjoyed a night watching an old Babara Stanwyck movie in our pajamas that left me feeling comforted and cozy. I made a pompom garland and hung it on our mantel where it looked utterly ridiculous. I recharged in baths scented with gingerbread bubbles.

The morning of Christmas Eve The Sweetie had to go to the hospital for an MRI which was scheduled at 4:30 am.  Walking in the frigid cold to catch the all night bus, affectionately known as the Vomit Comet, we had a chance to see Christmas lights and suddenly felt like we were having a lovely date. That night we gave the cat a special plate of tuna for his Christmas dinner and collectively marveled over the girth of the bloody Christmas tree that practically filled the entire room and had almost killed me carrying it home.

The Grinch is right. Christmas came without packages and baubles and roast beast. It came despite MRIs in the middle of the night and my disorganized ways and sugar fueled meltdowns. It felt like Christmas because there was a chance to savour the little things that matter. The stolen moments among the chaos and sweet times with loved ones made it feel merry. And the shortbread. The pounds and pounds of shortbread. That helped too.

In case you have been wondering what I have been up to, enjoy this video and instead of a dog, picture a woman in a bathrobe and instead of kibble imagine a pile of shortbread.

Found here

Christmas is almost here which meant that it was time to get a tree.

The Sweetie and I decided to stroll a few blocks to the church where the boy scouts sell Christmas trees. Since The Sweetie is still suffering with his bulging disc there was some discussion of how we would get the tree home. “Christmas trees are light,” I assured him. “I can carry it. It’s not far. It’ll be a piece of cake.” My memories of Christmas trees past involve the two of us merrily carrying the tree together, practically skipping. Last year I posed for a photo with the tree hoisted over my head like a mighty lumberjack.

Little did I know that we would choose a tree with a weight problem. It didn’t seem that big when we selected it, but I began to totter under its weight when I attempted to lift it.

“What the hell is going on?” I panted. “This thing weighs a tonne!”

“Put it on your shoulder. Crouch down like a football player and lift with your legs,” The Sweetie suggested.  Once I got it up I immediately started tilting. A pine needle poked me in the eye.

“There must be something living in it,” I gasped. I put the tree back on the sidewalk and hugged it in front of me, trying to hoist it a few inches from the ground while shuffling.

“That doesn’t seem to be working,” The Sweetie murmured.

“I’m fine!” I snapped.

“Let me take an end. I can’t watch this,” The Sweetie said.

“Back off the Christmas tree!” I yelled. “You can’t injure your back any further. I can do it”

A flood of expletives followed when I tripped and fell forward. How do people steal television sets and run down the street with them I wondered. I’d be caught immediately.

“Maybe you should walk ahead or behind me so that your manhood isn’t compromised,” I suggested after we passed a couple giving us a strange look.

“I’m staying,” The Sweetie said grimly.

I was in a full sweat at this point. The house felt so far away. I had to stop every few steps to readjust. “Careful with it, your losing a lot of needles,” The Sweetie offered. I had needles in my hair and sap on my hands and jacket. I spat a needle out of my mouth.

“Umm, maybe you should have worn practical shoes?” The Sweetie remarked. I was wearing shoes with a heel, thinking I would look cute and festive. Now the clickety clack of my shoes sounded like an affront, mocking me as I took wobbly, mincing steps.

“Almost there,” I hissed.

A car pulled up next to us and a man stuck his head out the window, “Shouldn’t he be doing that?” he called to me. Funny that it was okay for him to heckle but he didn’t bother to offer a helping hand. I gave him my best Scrooge stink eye, muttering to myself and stared straight ahead.

Somehow we made it home and I leaned the tree against our back door. “That’s it, I can’t go any further,” I huffed.“It can stay outside for the night. I can’t even look at the damn thing right now.” I was soaked with sweat and sap. Pine needles were in my hair. My hands were shaking. I hated my clickety-clack shoes.

That evening I was in the kitchen when I heard voices in the driveway. I knew the neighbours were away. Maybe some thieves are finally stealing that lumber the neighbours have had out back, I mused and continued washing the dishes. Then it occurred to me, “What if they are stealing the Christmas tree! I’ll be damned if someone takes our tree after all I’ve been through with lugging it home.” I don’t know how I planned to wrestle a tree from thieves. My arms were already achy from the exertion of carrying the tree but I was determined to fight to the bitter end if necessary. It turned out it was our neighbour’s son who seemed a little startled by my snarling face on the porch. The Christmas tree was safe.

The tree is now sitting in its stand in the living room. It is quite wide and bushy. It makes sense that it was so heavy. I figure another couple of days and I will be able to lift my arms again so that I can decorate it. Then it will look glorious and proud and the struggle will have been worthwhile.

Sometimes my penchant for cute animals in ridiculous costumes can get tiresome. Not tiresome for me, however. With that in mind, enjoy this Halloween treat. How can anyone not love a cat that looks like an old man wearing a pumpkin costume really, really enjoying some chicken?

This video couldn’t be more appropriate for Thanksgiving. A local Sacramento newscaster went to investigate reports of a turkey, nicknamed Terrible Tom, terrorizing the neighbourhood. I am on Terrible Tom’s side. It’s hard enough dealing with a waddle under the chin but knowing that you have a bounty on your head for holiday feasts would give anyone a chip on their shoulder. I’d be inclined to wreak some havoc myself.

The Sweetie and I decided to squeeze out a final summer road trip to Grand Bend last weekend. Along with having a glorious beach and beautiful sunsets it is one of those quintessential beach towns, lined with tacky shops selling straw hats with Corona emblazoned on them, cruising teenagers and bars blaring requisite Jimmy Buffet music. We decided it would be the perfect place for a final summer blowout.

I tried to ignore the turning leaves and the autumnal chill in the air. “It’s a summer road trip and it is going to feel like summer even if it kills us!” I declared, although my voice sounded forced and rang a little hollow. I secretly wondered if I was like the bearded, portly guys I see in March wearing shorts and sandals when there is still snow on the ground, or the young girls wearing mini skirts, oblivious to the fact that their legs are turning blue.

On our way into town we stopped at an antique market nestled in the woods. Unfortunately, instead of antiques  there  were more flea market type finds such as flags with cannabis leaves on them, belly button rings and dusty DVDs. The Sweetie pulled out a DVD called Roads Trips From Hell, a compilation of movies where road trips go horrifically wrong.

“Put it back!” I hissed, seeing bloodied bodies and a machete wielding masked killer on the cover. “We’re on a road trip, don’t even look at it!” I worried that it was a warning from the summer gods that I was pushing it and forcing the season past its prime.

As we left the dusty DVD section and bypassed moldy books we passed a vendor doling out samples of sausage. I politely declined saying, “Thank you, it looks delicious but I don’t eat meat.”

He turned to The Sweetie and muttered,“Lucky you,” with a disdainful toss of his head in my direction.

I pretended I didn’t hear him and hurried towards an old lady hunched by a stall with antique looking items. I spotted a pair of salt and pepper shakers shaped like turkeys and asked for a closer look. I have a cousin who collects tacky salt and pepper shakers for Thanksgiving and thought rainbow coloured turkeys would be a welcome addition. The old woman sighed and groaned until she finally managed to grab the shakers. When I turned them over I noticed they were cracked and one was missing a stopper.

“It’s an antique, of course it’s missing a stopper!” The old lady barked at me before I said a word.

I touched the intact stopper wondering if I could find a replacement somewhere.

“Well don”t push it in! You’re going to break it!” She chided. I gingerly handed them back to her. She snatched them from my hand and turned abruptly.

The treasure hunting adventure had taken on a darker tone. Instead of cheery banter and good-natured haggling, I seemed to be making everyone angry. I tried to cheer myself with some kettle corn and immediately started to choke on a kernel. Passersby gave me the stink eye and a little dog growled at me. As I sputtered and hacked, wondering if this was going to be my untimely and undignified end, I began to even annoy myself.

“Let’s get out of here and find a cozy little cottage for the night. Everybody is cranky here,” I whispered to The Sweetie.

The sausage guy gave me a final smirk as I passed and I think I swallowed a gnat as we trudged back to the car.

The cute looking cottages I had hoped to rent for the night were locked and empty, looking ghostly and forgotten. We went to the corner of the main strip and saw that the decidedly less romantic looking Rod & Gun hotel and lounge had rooms available.

The lively stores along the street fell silent as the sun started to set. I hurried to an ice cream stand and asked the girl, “What time do you close tonight?”

“Now!” She snapped and turned her back, quickly slamming the serving window shut.

I started to get cold, pulling my hoodie around me and wistfully reminiscing about those heat wave July days when it was almost too hot to breathe.

As we walked back to the Rod & Gun we stopped to peer in the darkened shop windows. Suddenly I felt an urge to look up. Dangling from the awnings were spiders. Huge dark thick legged full bodied spiders. The town was filled with them. There were menacing spiders dangling and crawling everywhere. Every hanging basket was a threat. Every neon light was a showcase for a spider colony. Maybe that is why everything shut down after dark. “It is a town of spiders!” I shrieked, my voice becoming more and more shrill. The Sweetie was equally disturbed, which heightened my panic. “What the hell?” he kept repeating over and over again as I left deep fingernail imprints on his arm. “Wouldn’t they have reported this is the news? Do you think they’ll have this on the internet? What if the spiders band together? There are enough of them and they are big enough that if they worked together as a team they could take us out!” I babbled until we got back to The Rod & Gun.

Everything was strangely desolate and still at the hotel. It felt a little spooky. The room and silent hallway felt oppressive. The Sweetie started getting sleepy, strangely so, almost like he was under a spell.

“So sleepy,” he murmured, as I lay next to him in the bed, thinking of giant spiders, crabby old ladies and growling dogs.  I remembered reading somewhere that the average person swallows eight spiders in their lifetime. As The Sweetie’s breath deepened I began to worry that maybe the old hotel was haunted. Perhaps there had been one too many drunken brawls at the Rod & Gun lounge and a disgruntled hunter had been shot over a glass of whiskey. His ghost could be wandering the halls in a bloodied flannel shirt looking for revenge. The spiders had been a warning and The Sweetie and I were like those dumb people in horror movies that ignore all the signs and are always the first ones to meet a grisly end. I felt myself drifting off and felt a pressure around my throat, realizing as I started awake that it was my own hand gripping the sheet closely around me.

As I lay in the dark listening for ghosts, I thought again of the bearded guys with their bare legs when the air is still icy cold, pushing the season, and how I scoff at them, my forehead furrowing in a mixture of concern and disgust at their pale hairy legs looking like plucked chicken flesh. As I drew the covers around  me, my own skin covered in goosebumps,  I thought about the planned outing to the beach the next day and realized that I am a bearded sandal wearing weirdo myself, foolish and touchingly optimistic, destined for icy toes and an early seasonal flu. Perhaps pushing the boundaries and insisting it is still summer in an abandoned beach town is not the best choice after all. Maybe there is something to be said for accepting things gracefully.