The deer shirt is mine. I was in Anthropologie with a girlfriend the other night and I felt a small stab in the heart as soon as I entered, thinking about the shirt that got away.  As I listlessly thumbed through the sale rack, my hands suddenly brushed against something silky. It was the shirt. My shirt. There was only one. In my size.

Call it fate. Call it destiny. Call it manifesting my desires in accordance with the laws of attraction. The shirt and I were meant to be together. I wondered if the whole experience of coveting a material object and having it slip through my fingers had been a test to see how pathetically shallow I really am.

My grandmother used to tell me Latvian bedtime stories when I was a little girl.  They often involved two sisters on a journey. Each sister would encounter an old man who needed help of some kind. Often he needed assistance to take a bath, which is just plain creepy, but it was my grandmother’s story not mine. One sister would shun him and hurry on her way to find riches. Inevitably she would get torn apart by wolves or have a shower of tar fall on her. The other sister would help the old guy out and be rewarded with a handsome prince and a never ending supply of rye bread and potatoes. The moral of the story being that if you were good to others you would be rewarded. Maybe the homeless guy I’d passed the morning of the lost shirt was a test. Being sad about a piece of clothing while someone else is hoping to get a mouthful of food is a good perspective maker. If I had been too busy mourning my loss to bother buying the guy a bagel maybe the shirt would not have reappeared. Or maybe I am still shallow and will be showered with tar the first time I wear it and then be promptly eaten by a wolf.

“I found the shirt!” I cried to my mom on the phone, eager to share the happy news.

She paused. “I’ll make sure to tell your father right away. I’m sure he’ll be able to get a good night’s sleep now.” She finally replied.

“I found the shirt, God loves me!” I shouted at The Sweetie when I got home.

“Is it a little frayed at the bottom?” He asked as I held it in front of him.

“It’s supposed to be like that!” I snapped.

Truth be told, it is frayed at the hem. I worry about the first time I wash it, which, I was disturbed to read on the label, I am supposed to do by hand. I don’t wash anything by hand, nor do I iron and it looks like a shirt that would wrinkle easily. I also have to admit that taupey colours tend to make my complexion take on a khaki glow. No matter. You don’t mess with fate when it leaves you an offering.

It was the fifth anniversary of my friend’s store this weekend and she threw a lovey bash to celebrate. There was delicious punch, cupcakes and a great vibe all around. It was so nice to lounge on her lovely patio, meet some friendly fashionistas and honour a huge accomplishment.

I was very happy to pick up some brilliant stickers by the delightful Amy from Smitten Kitten. I love her whimsical designs and her sense of humour. She has created the Put a Burt On It sticker collection, inspired by the Portlandia episode “put a bird on it”. It pokes fun at the trend of putting birds on everything and sadly, I am one of those suckers who fall for it every time. Place a bird on any decrepit item and I will suddenly find it achingly tender and irresistible. It can’t be any bird of course. A bright parrot won’t do. It has to be a lone bird, looking free yet slightly lonely, or birds in flight, but not unromantic Canadian geese.

Amy’s answer to the bird trend is to put a Burt on it instead. Who can resist that charming rogue and his chest pelt? Burt Reynolds is a man goddammit and he has the man fur to prove it. He flashed that hairy chest at every opportunity and made the mustache king. Try all you want, hipsters and porn stars, the Burt Reynolds stash was an entity in itself, never to be duplicated or rivaled.

I wasn’t a huge fan of Burt growing up but I now feel a nostalgic affection for simpler times when men got into capers with chimpanzees and didn’t wax their chests. Burt makes me happy and I am thrilled that I will be able to pass on the joy to others.

Is it wrong to feel short of breath when I look at these heavenly delights? Is it weird that my heart beats like a jackrabbit and I may have squealed just a little when I discovered them? Is it very un-Buddhist of me to covet something so much? Is it shallow of me to want a cuff more than enlightenment and freedom from material objects? Is it too much to ask for a long lost wealthy friend to reappear during my birthday month to deliver one of these babies?

Yes, it is wrong, but how can I not feel a little crazed when these lovelies are so beautiful? Sigh.

I discovered this etsy genius on the milk blog the other day and I laughed out loud. I needed a laugh. I was PMS-ing, stressed out and on the verge of killing someone. The Sweetie was scared. I was scared. Anyone who wasn’t scared should have been scared. Then I saw the mug and I was happy. I ordered it immediately. A coffee cup that can make me laugh and prevent me from causing grave harm should be a household necessity.

If there was one thing that got a smirk out of me back in the day it was Lionel Ritchie’s Hello video. The creepy storyline portrayed Lionel as a teacher lusting after his blind student. I especially loved it when he telephones her and then basically hangs up on her. Lionel Ritchie was crank calling a blind girl! I loved it all.

Hopefully Lionel’s “mug” greeting me with a steaming coffee will brighten foul mornings and make the world a safer place.

My lovely cousin invited me to join her the other day at the Iyashi Bedrock Spa for an hour of sweaty bliss. She has been training for the Ottawa half marathon, running through blizzards and freezing rain, and had earned a little spa time. I had walked to two separate stores three blocks away from each other the other night when hunting for Cadbury’s Caramilk eggs, so I was feeling pretty virtuous and entitled to some spa time myself.

Rock bathing spas are popular in Japan and involve lying on heated stone slabs and sweating like a maniac. I plan to move into this spa next winter when I morph into a living popsicle. It was heavenly to feel like a lady of leisure rather than dealing with clients and having a breakdown over my taxes.

After the spa we stuffed ourselves on Pad Thai. She needs to carb load since she is going to run the Sporting Life ten kilometre run this weekend, “for fun”. I remember doing that run years ago. My only proof is a photo of me running, looking remarkably like Al Pacino wearing frameless sunglasses.  I didn’t need to carb load, obviously, but I wanted to be supportive and I love Pad Thai. It was a lovely afternoon. I floated home damp, stuffed and delighted.

A friend told me about an astrologer who is also a reiki master and Jungian therapist who was supposed to be mind blowing. I was intrigued and decided to book a reading. I was hoping for some insight into my ongoing midlife crisis. Perhaps it was time for the planets to guide me.

Before my reading I needed to provide my time of birth. This always brings up the question of whether I am adopted. My parents are very vague about my birth time, which I find highly suspicious.

“How can you not remember?” I whine whenever the topic comes up.

“Well, it was a long time ago,” my mother replies.

“Yeah, a really, really long time ago,” my dad quips.

“But what could have been more significant? All parents remember their child’s birth.”

They remember my sister’s time of birth. It is clearly marked in her baby book, along with the requisite lock of fine baby hair. I don’t even have a baby book. There are countless photo albums documenting my sister’s every waking and sleeping moment as a baby. There are few snapshots of me, although in my parents’ defense, I was an ugly baby. I was bald until I was two with a very sour face, and spent most of my infancy looking like an angry old man in a pink bonnet.

“Well do you remember whether it  was day, night, afternoon?” I pout.

“Hmmm, sometime in the evening I think,” my mom muses.

“No it was morning because remember you had a doctor’s appointment in the morning and then you went straight to the hospital,” my dad replies.

“So are we talking lunch?”

“No not lunch. Lets say two!” my mom suggests brightly.

When I arrived for my reading my friend the organizer raised her eyebrows.

“Whoa. I don’t know what is in your chart, but yours is the only one that Martin commented about. He said your chart is craaaazy.”

According to Martin I am in for a planetary ass whooping, and I know Martin wouldn’t lie. I was hanging on his every word. He was a soothsayer prophet who had me figured out with a few lines on a chart. Apparently, if I don’t start moving forward with my life, I will miss the boat and be generally screwed.

I immediately felt my anxiety level rise.

“I’m not usually this much of a hard ass,” Martin explained, “but you have to do something. This will either be a huge transformative time or you will completely fizzle and won’t get this chance again. If you don’t get it together there will be a whole lot of conflict.”

“Like the shit’s going to hit the fan?” I asked, gulping.

“Honey, the shit is already flying,” he replied, “you’d better start shoveling.”

Yikes. Now I was afraid.

“How was it?” The Sweetie asked when I returned home. He is a huge skeptic of all things new agey and has a hard time suppressing his eye rolls.

“Martin was amazing,” I gushed, “He was so on, he actually made me cry.”

“He made you cry? That isn’t exactly a huge accomplishment,” The Sweetie smirked.

Well.

Obviously the planetary conflict has already begun.