I woke up feeling sick even after handfuls of Chinese herbs and mega doses of vitamin C the night before. The Sweetie tried to coo something sympathetic but I could see him recoiling slightly, edging himself away from me and my stuffed up nose, fearful that my germs were going to leap on him at any second. I know I caught it last weekend. It may have been the guy behind me at the airport who coughed so enthusiastically that it actually ruffled my hair like a virus-laden breeze. I shouldn’t have reached for the inflight magazine on the plane. They are germ incubators masquerading as glossy reading material. You never know who has been thumbing through that thing and how many times the pages have been used as a kleenex. The sickness may have been delivered by my niece and nephew who were both extremely phlegmy. At one point I looked down to find a glistening mound of mucous on my thigh, hand delivered by my nephew. Whatever the source, I woke up this morning feeling woe-begotten and sporting a taupe complexion.

Then I stumbled across a brilliant gem on YouTube and had the best laugh of my day. Everything was going to be alright, plugged head or not. I immediately demanded that The Sweetie watch it with me. He just seemed puzzled.

“What are we looking at?” he asked as I laughed uproariously. “It’s just a photo of a cat.”

“But the music!” I yelled,” It’s that horrid Rick Astley song!”

“So?”

“The cat looks just like Rick Astley, it’s like they’re twins!”

I then forced The Sweetie to watch the ghastly Rick Astley video from the eighties. “You see it don’t you?” I cried.

“Who would look at that cat and then think of Rick Astley and then put it on YouTube?” The Sweetie mused to himself as I continued to slap my knee in delight. He began to back away.

“I am happy for you.” He said as he turned away and left the room, probably suspecting that I have been swilling the cold medicine a little too eagerly.

I am a cliche. I am not proud to be a stereotype but I love firemen. They aren’t like cops who seem too testosterone driven and just want to boss people around and be intimidating. Firemen are all brawny and heroically throw themselves in the face of danger to save lives, then use their ladders to help kittens out of trees. After a shift of rescuing they return to their cute spotted dogs at the fire station. What’s not to love? My admiration is now solidified after hearing about the story of two firemen who gave mouth to snout resuscitation to a dog that had succumbed to smoke inhalation. Giant dreamy sigh.

Toronto city council has voted that pet stores must only sell dogs and cats from shelter and rescue groups. It is about time! Hopefully the nightmarish practice of puppy mills will one day be a thing of the past. A big furry pawed high five !!

I saw these wonderful cards by Egg Press on the Creature Comforts blog and began to swoon.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw the Sasquatch card. I’m a fan of all his incarnations, whether as Sasquatch, Big Foot or Yeti.

Big Foot seems to be a creature that peaked in the seventies. Like the Farrah Fawcett hairdo, powder blue tuxedoes and disco, Big Foot was hot. I remember an episode of The Six Million Dollar Man that starred Big Foot as Steve Austin’s nemesis and later reformed ally. There were often reports of Big Foot sightings and grainy photographs of a hulking creature lurching through the woods. I found it thrilling. For a while Sasquatch reigned supreme and then sadly, he seemed to fade into obscurity. Perhaps Big Foot was too common place, not flashy enough, too passe.

Lately I have been hopeful about a Big Foot revival. With the hairy mountain-man look that is the new hipster moniker, there are a lot of Sasquatch-esque guys in skinny pants lurking about these days. What was old is new again and maybe back to the land trendiness will herald a return of Big Foot.

I think Big Foot and I would be friends.  Perhaps I feel an affinity for him because I too have generously endowed feet and happen to be on the hirsute side. One of my many fears is of being stranded on a desert island without a razor or tweezers.  I would look like a menacing female Sasquatch lumbering about the sand dunes and would be mistakenly shot by my rescuers. I think Big Foot and I would understand each other and enjoy hanging out, but we would give each other space when we needed it. Like Big Foot, I am a solitary creature. I would like to spend more time in the forest, ambling around in unabashed hairiness, enjoying nature and quiet, leaving worries of fashion, finances and accomplishments to the smooth skinned urbanites.

Naturally I ordered a stack of the Sasquatch cards.

The Six Million Dollar Man Bigfoot part 5

It was a day of dusting and getting groceries and sorting through piles of papers. Chores. Chores are a bore and I felt like my precious day off was shot to hell. I admit that I was a tad bitter and pouty.

Even though the sun was already setting  The Sweetie and I went for a bike ride by the lakeshore. The breeze was refreshing on my face and I felt silent and weightless, gliding along the waterfront path. I was free and whole and happy. I felt myself grinning. I wasn’t grossed out by the goose poo everywhere and felt like I was fully embracing summer. All of the sudden my boring day of chores became something beautiful.

Just like that.

I am a kinder, more cheerful being in the summer. In the winter most situations annoy me or are too overwhelming to bear. The sound of someone chewing too loudly can throw me into a murderous rage, the smallest chore can feel insurmountable, a fat person with a little dog can send me into a flood of tears.

The subway broke down the other day as I was heading home. Weary, sweaty travelers were visibly disgruntled and exasperated. In the winter I would have taken it as a personal affront, shaking my fist at the subway gods and lamenting my unsavoury options. Do I squish myself on a bus and slowly suffocate in a mass grave of down-filled jackets or do I walk for blocks in the freezing cold until I no longer feel my face? By contrast, my summer self  looks forward to a walk and feels delightfully smug for wearing oh-so-comfortable grannie-esque sandals.

As I skip along my nose starts running and my eyes feel itchy. I conclude that the ear nose and throat specialist is correct and I do in fact have allergies. I sigh in relief that it isn’t nose cancer as I had suspected all winter. I rejoice about the time I’ll save now that I no longer have to look up rare sinus cancers on the internet.

I pass a woman decked out like Bette Davis in Whatever Happened To Baby Jane. Her stringy grey hair is in two ponytails affixed with plastic baubles, she has a haphazard smear of lipstick and is wearing a pink and white frilly dress. In the winter this sartorial sight may have struck me as sad, verging on grotesque, but instead I give her an invisible nod for her rebellious fashion sense.

I feel my hair getting damp from the heat and rejoice that since it’s flat and lifeless on a regular basis I don’t have to worry about the humidity ruining anything. I feel like I am the star of my own limp hair commercial.

A dog carrying a frisbee in it’s mouth almost makes me burst into song. The canines are unperturbed by the heat and so am I. If I could wag my own tail I would. In the winter I am jealous of dog owners. “They look like assholes. They don’t deserve a cute dog,” I’d snarl to myself.

Luckily for those who find my Pollyanna outlook unbearable, summer is a short season. Soon I will be back to feeling cold and morose. If I were wise I would recognize that I create my own reality. My jolly self could last all year with the right mindset. Of course, if someone were to give me that advice in the winter I would spend days plotting their demise. My dark side will return when the leaves fall from the trees. For now I am a sweaty, shining, somewhat irritating, light.