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

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.

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.

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.