How To Return Home

I had recently been trying to figure out how I could (most effectively? efficiently?) make the trip to Waterloo to visit Sunny. At the start of the pandemic I didn't worry about it too much. I had been to Canada in February, and normally would go every couple of months. By July, however, there were some health issues that weren't improving (don't worry, there will be so much more about those in subsequent posts). Given that Sunny had to go to the ER on August 18, it seemed prudent to hitch a ride to Canada when the opportunity presented itself, even though quarantine requirements meant I wouldn't be able to see Sunny until 14 days after my arrival in the country.

And so: on Thursday, August 20, just after 7 a.m., a jocular yellow Lab named Cruz and I piled into the cab of a U-Haul, driven by our friend Ben. We stopped briefly in the Bronx to have all of Ben's family's worldly possessions loaded into the truck, then made our way along various interstates to the U.S.-Canada border crossing at Lewiston. Within 2 hours of entering Canada, we were quarantining, along with Ben's wife (my beloved LFar) and their handsome son Gus, in a very suburban house in Waterloo.

Gus and Cruz were fast friends. Cruz and I slept on an air mattress in the basement and tried to stay out of the way of a family navigating a pandemic with a working-from-home parent in a city they'd only moved to out of necessity. A friend dropped off a case of wine from LCBO. We ordered a lot of frozen pizzas and bag salads from Instacart. I worked from the kitchen table, and when I needed to close a door, I did a few meetings from the master bedroom.

During our quarantine, Ben and I each received 3 calls from the Ontario government, only one of which was a robocall. The live callers were apologetic: Sorry to bother you, this will only take a few minutes. We are trying to stop the spread of COVID in Ontario and want to make sure you are quarantining. Do you have access to a washroom? Are you able to get outside? Thank you for your time, have a nice day.

On Day 14, in anticipation of spending Labour Day weekend with a friend who is immunocompromised, I did a drive-through COVID test. I assured them that, having recently returned from the U.S., I had completed my quarantine. I received the (negative) results within 2 days (incidentally, the same amount of time it had taken for my prior two test results in New York).

And a week ago, after a cottage weekend that approximated normal life (lake swimming, campfires, too much wine), I arrived at Sunny's.

During quarantine, I was out walking Cruz one day and I heard music. I assumed it was coming from a nearby backyard, but it followed me. I checked my phone and it turned out I had pocket-played a song called "How to Return Home" by Natalie Weiss. I had never heard this song before.

Your bare feet sliding on the old wooden floorboards,
Home just as you left it but still you're shaken,
Like walking into a museum somehow out of time.
It's all the same except the girl in the hallway,
Where she's been and who she will ripen into,
Your childhood's on the other side of a sprawling divide… too wide.

Take a silent breath.
Hold in the change.
Tell yourself you still live here.
Take your bags upstairs.
It's the only way you'll get through today.
Count the hours.
Take a shower.
Wash yourself away.

The house is pulsing with an alien heartbeat,
Was it always here but you never listened?
It's calling you to be the girl that you were way back then… again.

Take a silent breath.
Hold in the change.
Tell yourself you still live here.
Take your bags upstairs.
Put away your clothes, take it nice and slow.
Be their daughter.
Nothing's harder
When nobody knows
How to return home.

Gillian's Eve

With only an hour left in my thirties, here are a few thoughts:

DYKWIL: Depositing cheques with my phone. Technology FTW!

YKGOML: I miss landlines, because sometimes someone other than the person you were trying to reach answered, and you'd have a chance to catch up with your friend's spouse/lover/parent/child/cat.

Ultra Fine Advice: Friends are more important than money, but paying attention to your finances is more important than paying attention to Facebook. Mint.com is my new spending conscience (and go-to distraction).

(Aside: Mint should let you send thank-you emails when someone buys you drinks or dinner, like, "Hey [insert name here], thanks! You helped Gillian stay in her Restaurants budget for June. Save on! Love, Mint.com")

Finally and definitely most importantly, a big UFF shout-out to my amazing 10-yr-old godson Griffin, who saw the book I sent to his mom and said, "Why be perfect when you can be awesome!"

That, friends. That.

Unpacking and Packing

"Moving is the worst. You have to touch everything you own, and make a decision about it." - my (very wise) friend Doreen

A friend of mine recently shared with me that she underwent her own crisis several years ago. She said up until then, she thought that her stuff - her baggage, her issues, whatever you want to call it - were all packed up in boxes and locked neatly in a room somewhere. Then she had this crisis, and realized that no, these boxes were actually stacked high on a palette and she was dragging that palette behind her. She went to therapy and one by one, unpacked as many of those boxes as she could.

As I write this, I'm procrastinating the final stages of packing a house's worth of stuff to move to a different country and into a fourth-floor walkup. That last part is key: The thought of carrying everything you own up four narrow flights of stairs is great incentive to own less stuff.

To that end, last Monday I had six full garbage bags and three overflowing recycling bins on the curb for pickup. This morning, a thrift store came to pick up about about six boxes of donation items, plus a bunch of furniture (assorted chairs and tables) (why did we even have "assorted chairs and tables"?). There are at least two more garbage bags going out tonight, and one of the recycling bins is already full.

At the same time I'm doing this physical packing, I'm trying to unpack a bunch of psychic boxes. Normally unpacking is way more fun than packing, but this kind of unpacking is *hard*. It turns out that I didn't make conscious decisions about what to put in these psychic boxes, and now as I unpack them, I have to decide what I really want.

The thing I'm realizing is, there will always be a box labeled Misc., and the only way to find out what's in it will be to unpack it and make decisions about what to do with the stuff. Some of it will probably end up back in the same box, or in another box named Misc. with some other stuff, and in that context maybe it will look different, and the next time I look at it maybe I'll make a different decision about what to do with it. And while it's inevitable that I'll keep adding stuff to these boxes, hopefully I'll do it more deliberately, and eventually I'll end up with fewer of the Misc. boxes.

It might help if I start to think of life as a fourth-floor walkup.

In other news, I'm reworking my last post (the one about relationships that's no longer here, but Google can probably still find it somewhere). It didn't make sense. I wrote it as a response to a conversation, not really deliberately, and if any of you actually understood any of it, you were probably like, um, yeah, no duh (because it was about projecting and is in every relationship book ever written).

The real point of that post was meant to be this. My friend D has a chalkboard in her kitchen, with a TODO list on it. I noticed the other day that under "haircut" is written "rel'ship". I asked her what that was about, and she said, "Oh, that's to remind us us to work on our relationship."

"That's amazing!" I said. "I love that you're conscious about it."

She laughed. "Well, yeah, but it's under 'haircut'."

Fair enough. Getting a haircut is easy.



(Misc. box photo compliments of Mike; box may or may not contain: a shower curtain, one shoe, a fork, half a bottle of wine, his peewee hockey championship jacket, some computer parts, a pillow, and his car keys.)

The Next Worst Thing

I hope this thing you're going through, that's so awful that you can't eat and you can't sleep and sometimes you can't even breathe - I really do hope this thing is the worst thing you'll ever go through.

You will experience trauma. You will experience loss. You will grieve. You will scream into your pillow. You will sob. You will fight it with every cell in your body, this worst thing. You will hold so tightly to your hopes and fears that you will sometimes become them and forget who you are.

People will try to distract you. You'll love them for it and you'll hate them for it. Maybe you feel like you deserve this worst thing, like you did something to earn it and this worst thing is your punishment. You will feel guilt and shame.

You'll read about forgiveness and not really understand it, maybe for a long time. You'll hold onto that guilt and shame, and it'll get so jumbled up with your hopes and fears that you won't even know which is which and who you are anymore. The guilt and shame (and even the pride) will keep you in the past, and the hopes and fears will distract you with the future, and you'll miss out on the present: The gift that is this very moment, where you are right now, in this body and this breath. Right now is who you are.

From this worst thing you'll emerge, eventually, it happens, I promise. Maybe you'll start to feel better, a little bit at a time, and then you'll remember this worst thing and feel sad and angry and hopeless again. Maybe you'll feel like you don't deserve to feel better. Maybe the times of feeling better will get a little bit longer, and the sadness a little bit less acute. Allow yourself that. Let it be a project.

And maybe, first in just one moment and then in a few of these moments strung together, you will start to wrap your head around this whole forgiveness thing. You will start to accept that we're all a bunch of human beings (yes, even you), and that we all make mistakes (yes, even you). You will start to trust. You will start to allow forgiveness.

I hope it's the worst thing you'll ever go through, this thing that you're going through right now.

The thing about this thing is, it probably isn't the worst thing. There was a worst thing before this one and there will be a worst thing that follows.

And every time you get through a worst thing, you'll be a little bit better at getting through the next worst thing. At accepting it, and forgiving it.

 It's a long, messy, wonderful life, full of next worst things. Fortunately, it's full of next best things, too.

Reset

I stopped.

After we moved back from Argentina, and settled in the ‘burbs, I stopped.

I stopped writing.

I stopped publishing.

I stopped connecting.

And sometimes, I stopped living, as fully and completely as I could have.

Even at the (previous) lowest points of my life, I was writing here. I told you, Internet, about my separation. I told you about my divorce, and my starting anew, and Beginnings and all of that.

I fell madly in love with an amazing human being. We shacked up then packed up and moved to South America and had crazy awesome adventures, some that even included naked-lady towels.

Then we settled.

My advice to you? Don’t ever settle.

It was fine, for a while. I had a job. We had a nice house with a lawn and a garage and a washer and dryer in the basement. We bought a hammock and I built some benches.

But still: We settled.

Seven years ago, almost to the day, I wrote this blog post. It’s still here, on the internets, for everyone to see. And my, how I wish I’d read it monthly – even annually – for the past seven years.

I didn’t, though, and in that seven years, I forgot some of the lessons I should have learned.

But now, in the immortal words of Britney, I’m back, bitches. I'm back with more honesty, more late night blogging and more blood, sweat, and most definitely tears. I’ve got them all in spades, and as of tomorrow morning, I might even have a new bachelorette pad here in the BK.

If that doesn’t work out, I might be looking to sleep on your couch. I’ll bring the bourbon and the Kleenex.

And you guys, please: Read on. Write on. And most importantly: Love on.

What I Did Over March Break, Part 1

Alternate Title: How to be Cool

I wrapped up the week before March (aka Spring) Break not feeling particularly spring-y nor particularly cool. Despite a few days of glorious above-freezing respite the weekend *before* March Break started, winter is a tenacious bastard, and as I sit writing this post on the official first day of spring, I am once again looking from the inside-out at a freshly-shaken snow globe. O, Canada, indeed.

A few weeks ago, in a fit of ambition inspired by multiple viewings of "Pitch Perfect" (and probably a glass or three of wine), I signed up for DJ camp at Off Centre DJ School in Toronto. A few days after I signed up, I received email from Laura at Ladies Learning Code about an application I'd previously filled out to mentor their workshops and camps for girls, and a few emails later I had committed to spending the mornings before DJ school mentoring girls at Girls Learning Code's March Break Camp.

First let's talk about GLC camp. These girls were all amazing, and the event's organizers, Laura and Ashley, killed it. On the first day of camp the girls were editing HTML and CSS to make Love Bombs. By the end of the week each group of 4-6 girls had created an entire website full of multimedia goodness, including a logo they created using GIMP, a stop-motion animation, and photos and a video that they shot and edited. The group with which I worked most closely made this website for their cause, "Operation Rescue: 911 For Animals." Did I mention they were seriously amazing?

Next up, find out how I learned to scratch, beat match, and that time I ate pie with a 2013 Canadian Junior Champion figure skater. (And you thought I was kidding about the whole cool thing.)

Sunnymail #2

From: Sunny To: Gillian
Date: Sun, 17 Feb 2013

Really like this little valentines gizmo. It's a neat invention . Sorry if I was more than stunned yesterday. Was very tired. 'twas good to see Denise so hope I was not too off the wall. How is Lolo? Love you. Xxx,loo.Sunny

The gizmo in question is a stylus, which seems to be facilitating much longer missives.

Sunnymail #1

Last Christmas, we bought Sunny an iPad, primarily to facilitate FaceTime convos with my brother in Toronto. It has not been used for that so much as for being the world's most expensive handheld Solitaire game. Recently however, Sunny (who is now 81) rediscovered email. I'm not quite sure what inspired her, given that the last email I received from her was in 2009, however, I'm glad she's honing her technical skillz. (Next thing you know she'll be on code.org. Maybe we can get her in a video with Will.i.am.) In short, her emails are too good not to share with the three of you who still have UFF in your RSS feeds.

From: Sunny To: Gillian
Date: Tue, 12 Feb 2013
Subject: Query

Just to find out if I can send a message. Think that's very clever huh ? Love Sunny

Last we spoke, I was 26 days into a 100 day project. Then, as usual, I had knee surgery and my life was derailed for a few months.

Now it's January and time for my annual three blog posts! This year I'm resolving to post once, in January. And, if you're reading this: RESOLUTION ACHIEVED. We're all very proud of me. (I'm also resolved not to have knee surgery this year. We'll see how that goes.)

I just returned from a week in New York, during which I drank approx. 8 bottles of wine, ate out at least 15 times, and partook of various Puerto Rican feasts, gracias to my/Ken's in-laws. In fact, the last night I was in town when I stopped by to say adios, the table was covered in food: Rice & beans, Dr. Pepper (!) chicken wings, and the most delicious roast chicken of all time. Even though I was on my way to meet friends for dinner, and at 9 a.m. the next day, I had to both try a wing ("It's just a wing!") and take a to-go container of food with me ("For breakfast!"). Frankly I'm surprised I didn't incur additional weight charges on the return flight.

Now that I'm back in the land of the ice and snow, I've resolved to cook more. I was feeling uninspired, but a quick Epicurious search yielded this recipe for Fracatelli with Pecorino and Mustard Greens, which looked both easy and cheap (even with ingredients from the nearby fancypants grocery store).

The verdict? Two enthusiastic forks up! I would be impressed if someone cooked this for me, and even more impressed to learn that it's possible to prepare a tasty homemade pasta dish in around 30 minutes for under $5 (I already had a hunk of pecorino and always have an ample supply of butter). I'd never heard of frascatelli before but it couldn't be easier to make, and if your pantry is better stocked than mine, you might not even need to buy semolina flour, which would bring your total down to under two bucks for the mustard greens. (I used chard instead, which tasted great, was still only $1.49 for the organic AND rainbow variety.)

Perhaps I should just resolve to cook once this year so that I could cross that one off too, and focus on avoiding trampolines and slippery floors.

Day 26: Easier Said Than Done

Two weeks ago, I pledged two things: To be more mindful while I'm eating, and to work on my to-bed transition time. I proceeded to eat dinner while watching TV. Then I stayed up too late watching more TV or looking at Reddit or playing Drop 7 (or some combination of the three).*

Lather, rinse, repeat for several days, until last week I consciously prepared a meal and sat down at the table, with no distractions, to eat. I hate to admit this, but it was uncomfortable. I wanted to finish eating quickly. I glanced at my phone sitting on the table next to me, and vaguely lamented that I had to use both a knife and a fork to eat and thus didn't have a free hand to check email. I even looked around for an easily-reachable magazine or newspaper.

I don't know why this was so difficult, but I kept it up for all of last week, when I was bacheloretting at home. I'm happy to report that it did, in fact, get easier. Look at that: Practice!

The bedtime transition has been another story. My first mistake there was discovering "Homeland," and watching all 13 episodes in just 4 days. So, uh, yeah, there were maybe a few late nights. Then Oktoberfest rolled into town, and all bets were off.

This week I'm traveling again, and plan to renew my commitment to a healthier pre-bedtime ritual. I'm also considering a fall cleanse so that I don't fall into hibernation habits like carb-loading and excessive couch-sitting.

Last week's inspiration: Trujoy Nutrition's Jenna Gass' suggestion via Twitter to eat 1 serving of raw vegetables with every meal (including breakfast!). I already throw a kale leaf or two in my morning smoothie, and subbing (or just adding!) raw veggies at other meals is working out well so far.

*I should note that I achieved my highest Drop 7 score while simultaneously browsing Reddit, so, you know, I'm not going cold turkey on that one.

100 Days of Practice: Day 13

One of my big ideas for this 100 Days of Practice project is awareness. I'm trying to observe, without judgement, my own reactions in day-to-day situations and interactions. And one thing I've observed is that I like to be very busy. I fill my days with work, house projects, and exercise. Even yoga is something crammed into the spaces, and always hot yoga. Intense. In the evening, more work, more exercise, and sometimes watching TV. I hardly ever just sit and breathe, or write. I'm always doing and planning. It's almost like I'm avoiding being with myself.

Thinking about this reminded me of something I read recently over on ejshea.com:

...I fall asleep every night with earbuds and an old episode of 30 Rock, but it also feels a bit, I don’t know, sad. Not pathetic-sad, more like frustrating-sad. Was it really so hard to be in my own head space, in the quiet of my own mind, for the duration it would or should take me to fall asleep?

I'm considering whether this need to be busy is similar to Erin's experience - do I really find it hard to be in my own head space?

As you may already have gleaned from the title of this post, today is Day 13 of my 100 Days of Practice. I haven't structured this project in any particular way, but it has occurred to me that effective practice is structured. When I played piano, I sat down to practice at about the same time each day. I spent roughly the same percentage of my practice drilling scales, learning new pieces, and polishing my current repertoire. When I trained for a marathon, I ran hills or did speedwork on Tuesdays, went for an easy short run on Thursdays, and spent Saturday mornings (and sometimes afternoons) adding miles.

In these first 13 days I've noticed two occasions at which I'm considerably less mindful: While I'm eating, and in the evening, when the day is winding down. Over the next few days I'm going to work on structuring my practice, focusing on these two situations.

First, I will practice paying attention to my food - to being mindful of what I'm eating, and how. To consider where my food comes from and how it is prepared. To notice how I feel while I'm eating, and to take my time, and let myself feel hungry sometimes, just enough to be sure that I'm eating because I'm hungry, and not because I'm happy or sad or bored or there's a really delicious cookie available. (OK, maybe sometimes that last one.)

Additionally, I will practice different ways of ending the day. I'm not sure yet what this looks like (good thing I'm still practicing!) and I'll try a few things - maybe a 10 minute meditation, or a short creative endeavour like writing a paragraph or drawing a picture. Regardless, pre-bedtime activities always include flossing, pillow fluffing, and lots of good night smooching.

Getting to Carnegie Hall

Last week I decided to start a 100 day project.

100 days is a pretty common timeframe for these things - politicians often talk about the first 100 days in office, and I've heard senior managers at companies talking about their 100 day plans.

At first the point of this hundred day thing was kind of nebulous. I wanted to do something longer than a 21 day cleanse, but nothing so big as a life list or even a New Year's resolution. Something somewhere in between. But I wasn't sure what.

Until I woke up at 3:30 a.m., on the morning I'd planned to start the countdown. Insomnia definitely wasn't part of the plan, but it worked out: While one part of my brain was admonishing me to get back to sleep already, another part was busy working it out. I woke up a few hours later to find scrawled in the notebook on my bedside table: "100 days of practice."

We practice to reinforce what we know. To identify what we need to improve. To perform exercises to target improvements. Practice involves drills, doing things repeatedly and regularly, and learning to gracefully recover from mistakes.

Robert H. Schuller, via the inspirational fridge magnet, asks, "What great thing would you attempt if you knew you could not fail?" For me, practice removes that fear of failure, because in practice, failures and imperfections are expected, and learned from.

So that's what I'm up to. 100 days of practice. 100 days of practicing awareness & authenticity, patience & compassion, gratitude, connection, solitude, getting things done, new techniques, fiscal awareness, responding, creativity & making things, fitness, organization & putting things away, moderation (in moderation), sexy times, commitment, and branding.

As part of my writing practice, I'll update here every 5 days or so. Stay tuned.

This particular 100 day notion was inspired by this video (via Ange at Sokoko Life, who is a total bastion of inspiration).

Spring Crush: Ikea

On Saturday, after two weeks of unseasonably warm and delicious weather, we returned to our regularly scheduled early-Spring programming with a chilly, wet day. I took the opportunity to make the hour drive to the nearest Ikea, in Burlington - ostensibly to return a shelf, but also, you know, to look around for a bit, especially since it was a solo trip. (As 30 Rock has so accurately advised, Ikea is not a place for couples.)

I didn't want to buy much, but used my new status as a free agent (read: someone who works from home in her pajamas) as an excuse to pick up a few things to spruce up my home office and surroundings.

Exhibit A: The Office

I admit, I didn't have anything specific in mind on this trip, but I like to keep an eye out for pretty things at Ikea that might also be there for a limited time, especially in the Marketplace. My absolute favourite of these on this past visit were these star-shaped napkin holders, which I've repurposed to hold papers that need filing:

I bought 3, at $3.99 each. Two hold these files, and another holds smaller greeting and index cards.

They're called NYSNÖ. Nice, no? (See what I did there?)

The pen holder on my desk is also from Ikea. In its former life it was a flower pot. It is lacy, and as such has places to hold broaches and single dangly earrings. Confession: I bought this on a previous visit so I don't know how much it cost, but I think it was around $6.

Exhibit B: The Executive Washroom

I found this vase in the plant/vase section (...duh), and almost bought 3. Then I decided it would be pretty all on its own. Now I realize it only cost $1.99 and I wish I'd bought 6. I guess I'll just have to go back.

The frame (for this print) is also from Ikea. Yes, the frame is too small, although I don't mind the print cropped this way for now. I'll add a larger one to my next Ikea shopping list. And that clock cost all of 99¢, and helps me be on time for work... in the next room, in my pajamas. (Perhaps now I'll have time to finish painting the trim in there. In my pajamas, natch.)

Exhibit C: The Corporate Nap Space

This happily-polka-dotted light blue tray was $3.99. It holds bits on my dresser, and makes me feel more organized than I really am (...shh, don't tell the boss!).

And finally, this little tea light holder, on sale for 99¢, now catches our spare change.

Full disclosure: Ikea wears me out, even when I don't have a boyfriend whose Ikea countdown timer is beeping loudly in my ear. On Saturday, as I wound my way through the Self-Serve aisles toward the checkout, my treasure-laden yellow bag digging into my shoulder, I texted Ken, "I officially want to kill." Then, at my weakest moment, I smelled them: The $1 cinnamon rolls.

Well played, Ikea. Well played.

One Week

I still haven't figured out how to tell people.

"Last Friday we had to make the decision," or, "We took her to the vet, and it was time."

We had to put her to sleep.

We lost her.

She died.

She's gone.

For as long as I can remember, I wanted a cat. My mom didn't like the hair, so we had poodles instead - but I coveted creatures of the feline persuasion. I collected All Things Cat: stuffed, ceramic, sticky - anything I could get my hands on. Finally, in 1997, having recently graduated and started my first Real Job, I decided it was time to adopt a kitty. My then-boyfriend Greg had friends outside Ottawa (where we lived at the time) whose cat had recently had kittens, and he arranged for me to have one. I didn't care if I got male or female - I just wanted the orange one.

 On the eve of Mother's Day at around 8 p.m., I drove out to the McDonald's on Carling Ave. to meet a man with a cardboard box in the trunk of his car containing a tiny orange kitten who fit in the palm of my hand. She came with a can of cat food and a note telling me that her birthday was April 1 and that they'd been calling her "Morris." As we'd recently visited Graceland, Greg & I decided on the name Memphis.

She was also known at various times as Mempher, Memipher, Memiflower, Memphy, Furball, The Furb, FOP (Furry Orange Pussy), Orangey (her bad-cat alter ego), Beast, Beastie, La Beast, Little Girl, Punk, Punker, Monster, Adventure Kitty (when she discovered our fenceless backyard in Brooklyn), as well as myriad variations on "Kitty LaRoux" (see: Purry LaRoux, Pesky LaRoux, and, in the later stages of her abdominal cancer, Lumpy LaRoux). She was deemed the "Softest Cat in the World" on more than one occasion.

When I first brought her home, no more than a tuft of a kitty, she tried to nurse from the inside of my elbow. She traveled with me back and forth from Ottawa to Waterloo, usually sleeping in her litter box for most of the drive. When we moved to California, she ate the pansies I planted on the deck. On one visit to Waterloo, I found her on Sunny's kitchen floor, rolling around hedonistically in a bundle of catnip that had been drying on the back of a chair.

Memphis co-opted many a lap of unsuspecting guests. She woke me at ridiculous hours. She once left a dead mouse in Ken's shoe. She was even Pet of the Week.

For the past year or so, Memphis greeted me almost every single time I walked through the front door. Ken said she'd even go downstairs when she heard my voice outside, and on more than one occasion reported that she waited on the stairs at about the time I'd get home from work. Even if she was ensconced on his lap, as soon as my hand touched the door knob, she came.

Since she's gone, there are physical gaps, like the spot where we used to keep a glass of water for her on the coffee table, and the nook in the kitchen where we kept her food bowl. I have weird brain gaps, like when I think about cleaning the litter or opening the curtain so she'll have that afternoon patch of sun. And then there are emotional gaps: Holding her, petting her, and talking to her were as much a part of my life as waking up in the morning, and oh-so-very happy-making. Having her curled up on my lap was massively comforting.

I loved her madly, and I miss her so, so much.

The Most Wonderful Time

Our furry friend Memphis, a mainstay here on Ultra Fine Flair, hadn't been feeling well, but I should have known something really wasn't right when I opened her bag in the exam room at the vet and she didn't hiss or growl or swipe at the vet (or me). This is a cat who had a "Caution" sticker on her chart at our vet in Brooklyn, and who generally required two vet techs with a towel and a pair of chainmail gloves to just listen to her heartbeat. This time, she placidly let the vet examine her eyes, teeth, and even take her temperature the, uh, old-fashioned way.

I really wish I could say that everything looked fine; that it was probably just a flair-up of her pancreatitis or her aversion to a recent stay with a couple of apricot poodles that was causing her to feel so down.

The sad news is, an x-ray later that afternoon showed a mass in her abdomen that is probably cancer.

At the ripe old age of 14, there isn't much we can do for this sweet girl, except love her to bits - a project that's well under way. With Christmas just a few days away and my preparations woefully behind, I still come home every day to this furry beast and feel madly grateful that she has been with me through thick and thin, for almost 15 years. And also, that she still promptly shows up at the door whenever I come home.

I'm also much more patient with the two - or three - nighttime requests for food.

Wild Wild West

A certain 80-year-old is in Alberta this week to join her nursing school classmates for their 55th-year reunion.

As KG was a huge hit at Sunny's birthday party in May, he's been invited to play backup to her lead guitar and vocals at Friday night's sing-along. (Between you and me, I think some of the ladies are also looking for another opportunity to touch his hair.)

We arrived in Edmonton last night, and tomorrow morning we'll pile ourselves and various guitars and cameras into classmate Barb's SUV and drive to Canmore, where two dozen or so graduates of the University of Alberta's School of Nursing's Class of '56 will gather to reminisce.

And with a subject this photogenic, obviously I will be taking lots of pictures.

Bushels

Somehow, I blinked and missed August.

It's solidly a summer month, and yet, yet, all of my summer fun ended before August even began.

California, Italy, and Chicago, came and went. Swimming and dogs and ice cream were all jammed into June and July, and by the time August rolled around, I was securing x-rays and buying crutches and making sure our stairs had the requisite railings. And with a mere few hours in the hospital I was fully committed to a season (or two) of braces and rehabilitation. There's no Ctrl+Z in real life.

And so, here we are, not even September and already my tan is fading. It was a good summer, if abbreviated. (Let's not forget that there are technically still three whole weeks left, even if Labour Day is always and forever the seasonal demarcation in my mind.)

Late summer is lovely in these parts for its abundance of harvest. This year, being in the know, we easily secured a half-bushel of crab apples (the good ones, in case you were wondering). Whilst at the market we couldn't pass up the peaches, green beans, and red peppers, all of which are currently available at ridiculously low prices. We brought all of these things home and then marveled: What to do with them?

Sunday Supper this week involved a tomato and red pepper tart, curried green beans, and a peach-blueberry cobbler. And that barely made a dent. With an overstuffed fridge, alternate preservation was obviously in order, so we fired up the grill to roast some peppers, Abel-style.

Abel is a porteño, and one of our first and best friends from Buenos Aires. When we had asados, or bbqs, with him, he made red peppers this way - grilled until charred, seeded, then layered, while still warm, with garlic, salt, and olive oil in a sealable jar. We added red pepper flakes, too, which might make up for our use of the gas grill instead of charcoal. The real secret of these peppers is to seal the jars, then turn them a few times a day for a couple of days. The peppers will be delicious wherever you'd use roasted red peppers (sandwiches, salads, pasta), and the oil will be some of the most flavorful you've had.

Best of all, they'll extend summer for a little while.

One year, nine posts

We've been in Canada for exactly one year, 28 days.

I've posted on Ultra Fine Flair exactly nine times (10, if you include this post) since we landed.

It isn't exactly that lots hasn't been going on - au contraire. Sure, there's been domestication, including the rental of a humble abode with a driveway and a backyard and a washer/dryer in the basement. But there have also been travels to New York, Amsterdam, Paris, California, Italy, and Chicago.

There were celebrations with friends, and two babies were born!

We celebrated a certain someone's 80th birthday with a weekend of parties. I could barely keep up with her.

I ate the best meal of my life, with one of my best friends. (I didn't take any photos of the food. I'm not exaggerating when I say that interrupting that meal to take pictures would have been akin to pausing during a series of multiple orgasms (18, to be exact), to take pictures.)

Some not-so-great stuff happened, too. My favourite cousin was diagnosed with breast cancer. She's totally prevailing, because that's how she rolls, but it's still the suck. And other things have happened, life things that aren't mine to write about. Suffice to say I'm blessed to be surrounded by some really strong human beings who are getting through some tough stuff.

Which brings us, as it often does, back to my knees. My third ACL reconstruction (second in the left knee) was two weeks ago, and was, according to Dr. Chris, successful. I'm taking it easy with this one, doctor's orders, and will hopefully be back in the figurative and literal saddle (bike, that is) come spring.

All that in a year and 28 days, and still, only nine posts. Hopefully I can improve that count in the next year and 28 days.

And The Livin' Is Easy

I recently went on a yoga retreat in California. Yes, that is as wonderful and outrageous as it sounds. In the morning after the fog burned off, there was a view of Santa Barbara and the Pacific Ocean. There were dogs and kids and a hot tub on a cliff. There was fresh goat cheese, and there were spectacular sunsets. There were upwards of five hours of yoga each day, taught energetically and lovingly by one Miss Kerri Kelly. There was a class with a dance party (featuring Lady Gaga, natch), and a class in a field around a nectarine tree. There was a class with a soundtrack of classic love songs, and 25+ spry yogis decked out in their Lulus enthusiastically singing along.

Unfortunately, there was also a trampoline. Scratch that: Unfortunately I decided to jump on the trampoline, and even more unfortunately, I landed on the off-bounce and tore the ACL graft I had repaired just last year. Wah wah.

But before we start wallowing about that, let's talk about the food. The yoga retreat was about detoxing, but that didn't stop us from enjoying homemade pear ravioli. Or wine-tasting in Los Olivos. No retox is complete without a stop at In-N-Out Burger for a cheeseburger, animal-style, and a superthick chocolate shake. Similarly, no California trip is complete without fresh salads (liberally sprinkled with bacon, of course) and sushi and a cocktail made with sake and watermelon and cucumbers and sweetly named the "Hello Kitty."

As for my knee, well, it looks like it'll be another summer of rehab fun. Thank god for wine and percocet.

The Break-Up

Dear Winter,

I don't know how to put this delicately, so I'm just going to come out and say it: I need to start seeing other seasons. I know, when we saw each other back in November after almost two years apart, I'll admit that after a few weeks together, I was smitten. As much as your fluffy white snow fell for me, I fell for you. I was infatuated with your crisp mornings and frosty branches, and I thought your insistence that I buy new boots just for you was charming. I even forgave the more challenging parts of our relationship, like the driveway-shoveling and car-window-scraping and the occasional slip on an icy sidewalk, because I felt that on some level they were good for me, that that stuff made me stronger.

But Winter, we've spent a lot of time together this year, and I really think we both need a break. What I'm trying to say is, you're getting on my nerves, and I'm starting to resent you. It all has to end: The snow, the scarves and sweaters and mittens, and even all that cuddling under cozy blankets. I know, I know, it's typical. The things about you that I found so novel at first now grate on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. That's always the way, isn't it? The other part of it is, you've been keeping me away from Spring and Summer, but it's time for me to see them again. They're good for me in ways that you can never be.

When we reunited this time we talked about it only being temporary, and frankly, you've overstayed your welcome. Please know that all of this doesn't mean we can never see each other again. I suspect it's inevitable that we'll spend more time together in the future; after all, we always rebound after Fall seduces me with her pretty leaves and then leaves me out in the cold.

Warm regards,
Gillian