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.

“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.

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.

Found here

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.

I have a confession to make. I am not a fan of pears. This admission always seems to provoke incredulous gasps and protests. There is always the indignant, “How can you not like pears? What did a pear ever do to you? What’s not to like about pears?” It is a texture thing for me. They are mushy. Often slimy. They bruise easily. I don’t like that overly sweet grainy sand-like sensation. Frankly, I find them a little pretentious. Perhaps being a small chested, child bearing hipped woman I resent the pear for invoking my shape. This hasn’t interfered with my love of butternut squash, however, which has a similar physique.

The Sweetie gets the same incredulous indignation when he admits that he doesn’t like smoked salmon. People can’t accept it. Rather than being indignant shouldn’t pear and smoked salmon lovers rejoice that there will be more left for them? The Sweetie does love pears though. Knowing this my parents brought over a pile of pears for him. Every day I nag him to eat the pears. I leave them in strategic spots for them to catch his eye, much like I do for myself with my vitamins. I decided to take matters into my own hands and save the pears, feeling heroic for saving something I don’t particularly like. It must be the season making me more charitable. I found a recipe for pear bread that looked enticing despite it’s star ingredient and set to work. It was delicious.

It turns out that pears have taught me a valuable lesson in keeping an open mind, expanding my horizons and overcoming biases. Unpalatable things can be made acceptable if we are willing to bend a little. All you need to do is put them in a cake.

I  have a new sunrise alarm clock that I bought in the ongoing battle against SAD. It is supposed to mimic rising with the sun and trick you into thinking that there will be light, even on the gloomiest of days. Instead of a blaring alarm, you hear a gentle steel band or chirping birds when it is time to wake up.

This morning was beautiful. It was dark when I got up. There is a peace that comes when the rest of the world still seems to be sleeping. I padded around quietly in my ratty old monkey slippers, my coffee cup warming my hands. The cat followed me briefly but was soon bored and curled up to go back to sleep. I felt calm and peaceful and relished the quiet. I made crepes, the mixing and the swirling on the pan feeling meditative and hypnotic. I wasn’t bothered by the ones that didn’t turn out. Momentarily I debated turning the radio on but decided that I wanted to pretend that I was the only person awake for a little while longer. As the sky started to brighten and streaks of  grey began to appear I filled a crepe with Nutella and ate it off my favourite cat plate. Whatever else happens today doesn’t really matter. It has already been a good day.

And then of course there is tonight to look forward to. Naturally I am the second guy.

Found here

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.

I am a shallow woman, I admit it. I am in love with a store. The first time I walked into Anthropologie I almost collapsed with excitement. Here was a store that was speaking to all of my fantasy selves.  I wanted to live there. I wanted to place whimsical trinkets in a delicate porcelain dish while brushing my teeth with Italian toothpaste. I imagined myself flitting around in embroidered lounge wear planning dinner parties with mismatched painted dishes, jotting down notes notes in a parchment paper notebook embossed with birds. Alas, I don’t have an Anthropologie budget. This week, however, I received an email announcing that Anthropologie was having a mega sale. This morning from 8-11 AM, sale items would be reduced by a further 50%. I could hardly breathe.

The week was spent visiting their website, gazing adoringly at a blouse I was lusting after, a loose frayed looking number with deer along the hem. “Soon you will be mine and we will be together forever,” I whispered to the computer screen. I checked on my beloved every day. I have not been able to wake up early for months to go to the gym or a yoga class. Inevitably I hit the snooze button until I finally give up and go back to sleep. Obviously I never had the right motivation. I can’t get up for my cardiovascular health or spiritual growth, but this morning I was up at 6:30 AM.

The store was already teeming with crazed women jostling for space when I arrived. “I guess other people got the email too!” I quipped to the woman edging me out of her way in order to get at little dishes featuring gilded raccoons.  She ignored me, her eye on the prize. The air was thick with tension, everyone was on a mission and no one was willing to concede space .

I dashed for where I had last seen my coveted blouse. It was gone. I frantically searched among the racks, sweating in my heavy coat, hands trembling and feeling panicked as other women more aggressive than I held their ground and refused to move. I scanned the line ups at the cash and the dressing rooms, certain that someone was clutching my blouse. Nothing. It was gone. My deer dreams were dashed, gone forever.

I walked out defeated and empty handed. Once I was away from the chaos my head began to clear and my hands stopped shaking. Breathing the crisp air and having space again calmed me. I didn’t have to fight anyone. Now there would be time to go to the gym since I wouldn’t be putting on a fashion show for myself. I bought a bagel for an inventive panhandler with an empty cup tied to a stick like a fishing pole. He called me Miss and bobbed his cup at me.

It turned out to be a good morning, even without a deer blouse.