I have probably already mentioned that I have a time management problem. I honestly don’t know how some people do so much in a day whereas I often feel accomplished if I shower and shave my legs. Back in our university days my sister and I briefly shared a room. Before I had opened my eyes in the morning she would have gone for a run, baked muffins, organized her closet and cheerfully blow dried her hair. I often waste time reading blogs about the seemingly fabulous lives other people are living. Women with handfuls of children are growing their own vegetables, sewing their wardrobes and spinning wool to knit tasteful throws for their stylish homes. I have made attempts to channel my sister and other accomplished Type-A early morning muffin bakers but I just end up feeling frantic.

I was discussing this with a friend, another laid back sort who recently had a crisis when she realized that life was passing her by and she wasn’t where she thought she would be. She was afraid that she had lost her fire.

“What’s wrong with us?” she lamented. “Shouldn’t we be setting more goals and getting things done?”

We decided to set weekly tasks and check in with each other so that there would be a sense of accountability. We set a date for the following week. When the day came I had to fess up that I hadn’t folded my laundry mountain and she admitted that she hadn’t gone to the gym. We then spent the afternoon eating cheese crepes, drinking coffee and seeking out clothing with animal motifs.

“Maybe people who get a lot done just don’t like to relax,” I said darkly.

“They probably don’t know how,” my friend agreed.

We still have faith in each other. My friend still believes that I will one day fold all my laundry and make it to a 6:45 AM yoga class. I believe she will work on her resume. I would probably get more done if I actually remembered to grease the cooking tray before trying to bake cupcakes so that I wouldn’t have to spend an inordinate amount of time scraping my failed remains out of the pan. Baby steps. We can’t all get things done at breakneck speed. Overachievers need people like me to feel more accomplished and my friend and I need each other to spend afternoons strolling and bonding over coffee. Unfortunately no one needs crusty cupcake crumbs.

The Sweetie and I have been obsessively watching old episodes of Damages. Thanks to his herniated disc and limited movement we have been lounging on the floor guilt free and have made our way through the first three seasons in a month.

Excessive hours of television viewing have given me the opportunity to make a knitted toilet paper roll for my friend’s birthday. We alternate between calling each other buffet buddies and poo buddies. We are base like that. Once he made me truffles and said that his dog pooed them out for me. I once baked him cookies molded like poo. When I saw a pattern for a knitted toilet paper roll I knew I had to get to work. I realize there are people who would look at a knitted toilet paper roll and ask why? Who would do such a thing and who has that much time on their hands? Maybe I should be doing more with my life but if I get a chuckle out of the birthday boy it will be time well spent. I won’t be an accomplished Manhattan lawyer capable of cutting the throats of anyone who gets in my way but I will measure my accomplishments by other means. The ruthless Glenn Close has made me acknowledge the fact that I would be eaten alive in most workplaces.

“Can you imagine what it would be like if I were ambitious?” I asked The Sweetie.

“No, no I cannot,” he answered immediately.

I am not driven and I don’t feel a need to force it. That may be seen as a bad thing in our success oriented culture that measures worth by prestige and money, but if things are competitive or I move too quickly I get anxious. I always hated team sports for the same reason. Actually, I hated team sports because I am not a team player, I suck at athletics and I couldn’t imagine facing a bunch of people wanting me to fail so that they could win. Who feels like it when we could all be relaxing and eating snacks instead.

I watch Damages as a cautionary tale. Look where ambition is leading the wide eyed ingenue lawyer. Her life is in shambles and “trust no one” is the recurring theme. Maybe if she was sitting at home knitting useless toilet paper rolls she wouldn’t be in the pickle she is in now.

Anyone who has ever had a pet knows how they can get under our skin, stomp all over us with their hairy little paws and rule the household. They are often the favourite members of the family. Always thrilled to see us, they greet us like we have been away for weeks. They know when we are sad and need support, and they are always up for hanging out or cuddles. They never judge or question our decisions or motives.

It is no secret that that I’m generally more fond of animals than people. I’m not necessarily proud of this and I should probably work on my love of humanity, but given the choice between a cocktail party with humans or an evening surrounded by dogs, I would choose four-legged company any day. You won’t run into phonies when you are around animals. Animals teach us how to be fully present and in the moment, something we humans try to achieve through meditation and yoga and a million self help books. Animals teach us what unconditional love means – to receive it as well as give it. Although my cat may not be delivering on the loving me unconditionally part (he tends to regard me with a combination of disdain or disinterest), I would do anything for him. I look at that little body filled with so much bitchy attitude and my heart melts every time.

Of course, some pets are more remarkable than others. Every now and then you meet an animal that has that additional something that twists your heartstrings with extra force.

My parents got two cats back when they were kittens. Clyde was the runt of the litter, a ginger with a pointy alien face who is either too skittish or too pushy for cuddles, forcing himself on you and rubbing his tail in your face. He often smells.

“Why does the cat smell like cheese?” I asked my mom when I found his scent particularly overwhelming.

“He only smells like cheese when he is aroused,” she answered casually.

I have not recovered from that comment. How my mom came to the conclusion that the cat smells like cheese when he is aroused is highly disturbing. I do not want to think that the cat is feeling sensual when he is rubbing against me. I refuse to believe that he is releasing some weird aroma as a way to seduce me.

The cheese scented ginger cat is nice enough, but his sister Bonnie really won my heart. An emerald eyed beauty with a bit of a weight problem, she was the Elizabeth Taylor of cats. Even after Elizabeth Taylor became rotund she still had those haunting violet eyes and that glamorous demeanor. Bonnie was like that, all femininity, charm and mesmerizing eyes. When she rolled onto her back she looked like a baby seal. When she walked she looked like a giant ham with legs. Despite her girth, she was a beautiful, gentle creature. When I would visit my parents she would waddle out to greet me and promptly fall on her side so that I could rub her belly.

“Oh my God, Bonnie fainted!” I would cry every time. She would walk a few more paces then fall to her side again. ”She’s swooning!” I’d shout. I loved the fainting game. As my dad and The Sweetie would play cribbage I would gather up the cat and announce,”It’s ladies night!” My mom, Bonnie and I would hang out together, her cheese scented brother lurking somewhere in the hallway.

A couple of weeks ago Bonnie began lying in the corner and ignoring her food, which for her was a sign that something was definitely wrong.”Maybe she’s on a diet as a New Year’s resolution?” I suggested. My parents took her to the vet who ran tests for her thyroid. The results came back negative and by this time she wasn’t eating at all. I went to visit her last weekend. She didn’t waddle over to greet me and we didn’t play the fainting game. I carried her limp body next to my mom on the couch and we both started to cry. I looked over at my dad and I saw that he was welling up as well. Last Monday Bonnie had to be put to sleep. My mom has been crying for days. Clyde spends his time wandering around yowling.

Anyone who has lost a pet knows the void that you feel when they are gone. Those who don’t understand have obviously never experienced furry love and don’t know what they are missing. Our pets teach us about our own capacity for love. Our hearts may break when we lose them but we also realize how much our hearts can swell. As soon as we care about something we have that awful fear that we will lose it. That is the risk of love and that is always my downfall when I try to embrace a Buddhist attitude. I can’t be Buddhist about love. The emphasis on the transience of existence and the conclusion that we cannot possess anything doesn’t work for me. I am all about grasping and possessing and trying to hold on with all my might. I live in terror of losing those I love but I am willing to risk dying of heartbreak for it.

It will hurt for a long time when I visit my parents and expect to see Bonnie waddling out to greet me. I am going to miss her gentle face and seeing her hairy butterball body faint at my feet. Above all though, I will be grateful that she existed and I had a chance to love her, even if it stabs me in the heart to know that she’s gone.

It is always around this time of year that my serotonin reserve is utterly depleted. While other people are still excited about their New Year’s resolutions and facing fresh goals I am trying to figure out how I will achieve the Herculean feat of getting out of my bathrobe. These episodes are interspersed with heavy infusions of carbs. Yesterday I enjoyed a big bowl of leftover spaghetti topped with fried potatoes. Carb on carb meals may not be for the faint hearted or for those hoping to fit into their pants when spring comes, but they feel therapeutic. Naturally I followed my starch plate with chocolate cookies, a handful of vitamins and and my happy herbs from the acupuncturist. I have no idea what is in my little herbal pearls but I don’t care. Perhaps it is odd that I am highly suspicious of my doctor when she recommends any type of conventional medication but when my acupuncturist passes me a new bottle of pills I happily pop them, no questions asked. She also is convinced that my salvation lies with giving up dairy. When she first mentioned this I paused and said, “Does that include cheese?”

“Yes. No cheese.”

“I thought you were supposed to make me feel better. I love my cheese. You can’t take my cheese away.”

She looked at me gently and then tapped me on the nose like a misbehaving puppy.

After my appointment I immediately went to my favourite cheese shop where they give out free samples. With my mouth full of cheese I told the counter guy about my acupuncturist’s recommendations for me, including the shunning of cheese.

“I think you need to find a new health care provider,” he said and handed me my purchase.

I guess I could do more to get through the winter. I could give up cheese and alcohol and eat a hard boiled egg every morning. The acupuncturist seems to think an egg a day will save me too. Maybe I should stop self medicating with carbs and go to the gym instead. I could do a lot of things but really all I want to do is sit under a blanket next to a calendar and cross off the days until I feel like a semi-normal person again. Ideally with a vat of macaroni and cheese and a chocolate fetching dog by my side.

I just read that Iggy Pop is the new face of Paco Rabanne fragrance for men. I love Iggy pop. Always have. I am desperate to inform anyone who will listen that Iggy Pop is a Taurus, just like me, hoping that somehow this will make people think that I may have a smidgen of Iggy’s coolness. Despite my fangirl love of Iggy, however, I do not look at him and immediately think of seductive aromas. Then again, what do I know.

And now to treat your other senses, Iggy with Peaches and zombies.

The Sweetie has been suffering for almost two months with a bulging disc in his back, making sitting for any length of time impossible. Luckily he is not in terrible pain but he has been spending most of his days either standing or lying down. Our evenings consist of Sons of Anarchy marathons and eating our dinner from trays on the floor. His recovery has been a long and boring road with minimal progress and few encouraging milestones. Poor Sweetie. I would have lost my mind by the second day. If anything is wrong with me physically I instantly feel tragic and betrayed. I am indignant if I get a cold or a hangnail. Luckily The Sweetie is much more stoic. We can’t be brave little soldiers all the time, however, and everyone reaches a breaking point. The other day he was thoroughly fed up, tired of lying around and being housebound. We decided that the answer was a drunken Sunday brunch. Scads of bacon for him, veggie bacon for me, hot buttery toast and eggs. And mimosas. Lots and lots of mimosas. We would stuff ourselves, pour Bailey’s in our coffees and then have a leisurely Sunday afternoon nap.

Forget making lemonade when life hands you lemons. Save that for a sunny summer day. When you’re in the dark, cold days of late November it is time to get out the big guns. Sometimes a little escape is good. When The Sweetie and I were first dating I went through a period where I felt like I had hit rock bottom. I was broke, in debt, and I didn’t know how to claw myself out of a lifetime of eating ramen noodles and living hand to mouth. The Sweetie told me to get out of my pajamas, get dressed up and ready to go out. We went to a posh restaurant where we ate like kings, drank cocktails and had a spectacular night. “Sometimes when you’re at your lowest you need to remind yourself that good times will be back.” He explained as I sat in a chair built for a duchess while a waiter came by with a little silver scraper to remove the stray breadcrumbs from the tablecloth. Call it irresponsible or denial but sometimes distraction is good. Reality will come creeping back and practicality will rule once again, but that doesn’t mean that things have to suck all the time.

A mimosa stupor may not be the answer for a bulging disc but a little vacation from the crap is worthwhile. There are no prizes for martyrs and bleak realists, but there is brief respite for tipsy optimists.