D and I finally got together and exchanged Christmas gifts.
I was totally unimaginative, and gave her a restaurant gift card.
She gave me a huge, soft, snuggly blanket scarf in gorgeous taupe and pink plaid and a box of Purdy’s chocolates. (She hit the gift selection out of the ball park this year!)
After gifts we had a pub lunch. (Extra points if you guessed I had the natchos–hold the olives!) Then we enjoyed some light après Christmas shopping.
Lately I’ve become obsessed by the way clothes feel. No matter how pretty, if it doesn’t feel good I won’t wear it.
As luck would have it, Roots had cuddly sweaters and warm touques half price. Not only were they easy on the eyes, they were super soft.
Waiting for the ferry home, I realized I was carrying a big bag of cozy…and chocolates.
Other than wine, what more does one need on a cold winter day?
I enjoyed the most relaxed Christmas ever: I spent a couple of days with N, one of my oldest friends. (We met in junior high when we were put in the same same homeroom because our surnames began with the same letter.)
N lives in a fairytale forest across from the ocean.
Our Christmas consisted of good food (N roasts a mean turkey), so so movies and a constant battle to keep one elderly Chihuahua from pissing off three feisty and athletic cats.
It was my first Christmas without my Boy, and I was all set to be miserable, but N saved the holiday.
Today, I’m grateful for kind friends, pets and family.
Tomorrow, I can get back to worrying about everything 2018 has in store for me.
Since learning the hard way that blondes do NOT have more fun, I decided to get back to my roots–the brunette ones that is, not the grey ones.
I’d forgotten my natural colour is SO dark.
I’m still in the stage of gasping every time I pass a mirror…then involuntarily looking over my shoulder to see if some stealthy brunette is lurking behind me.
New year…new colour…new improved life? (That’s my hope, anyway.)
For now, until I adjust to the change, the word of the day is yikes!
As you’re no doubt aware, I haven’t been on the naughty list for ages. I don’t ask for much, but there are a few things on my list this year. I understand you’re somewhat busy making toys for deserving children, but hopefully with all your elfish resources, you’ll be able to grant my Christmas wishes.
- “Permanent” hair colour that’s actually permanent. I know you and Mrs. Claus have embraced the grey, but not all of us are there yet. Surely your beauty elves can develop a hair colour that lasts. (While we’re on the subject of hair, how about a product that actually tames frizz??? Having seen you at various shopping malls through the years, I know this is an issue you struggle with, too.)
- Downton Abbey. C’mon–bring it back for another year or five! TV just isn’t the same without Carson and the gang.
- A divorce. Please, please, PLEASE bring this never ending sh!t show to an end. I can’t do another year of this!
- Wine in a can that tastes good. I’m enchanted by the concept of wine in a can, but surprisingly, it always disappoints in the taste department.
Another night mooching around the cottage watching Netflix with the dog (season two of The Crown–I highly recommend it.)
I’d almost nodded off when Claire Foy’s clipped vowels were interrupted by music (loud music!) from outside. Since I’m morphing into a curmudgeon, I grumbled to the dog about the disturbance, then looked out the window.
I was surprisingly enchanted by what I saw! Boats, dripping in Christmas lights, sailing past my cottage, Christmas carols a-blaring!
I wish I was a more capable photographer, with a better camera than an iPhone. You’ll have to take my word for it–my pictures don’t do the scene justice. It was lovely!
The best part about this surprise sail past? My frosty heart felt a smidgen of Christmas spirit!
Catastrophizing: You believe that what has happened or will happen will be so awful and unbearable that you won’t be able to stand it.
I’m on a long and lonely path towards personal growth, self-awareness and (hopefully) happiness.
It’s not easy because my personal life is such a shambles, and I’m prone to a touch of anxiety.
I’ve been told I catastrophize. Never having heard this term before, I was impressed how closely it seems to fit me and my thought processes.
They say knowledge is power. Maybe, just maybe, now I’m aware I do this, I can learn to control it.
I sure hope so, because if I can’t chillax, I’ll probably give myself a heart attack and die a horrible death long before I ever collect my pension. And the dog…with her separation anxiety, she’ll waste away without me, and it’ll be my fault.
I’ve been in my little seaside cottage for a couple of months now–long enough to really appreciate the creature comforts I need to live comfortably. Here they are in no particular order:
An actual kitchen with, you know, an actual oven and maybe even a dishwasher. The “snack” kitchen isn’t working for me any more. I dream of homemade chocolate chip cookies and gooey roasted vegetable lasagna, neither of which are doable on a two burner hot plate.
Onsite laundry facilities. I’m so over travelling off site to use machines I have to pay for. In addition to the inconvenience, I can’t stop wondering what went into those machines just before my own gently worn duds. Ugh–I hope it wasn’t anything too gross!
A bath tub. I used to look forward to my nightly soak, but I’ve come to dread my daily shower ordeal.
Reliable internet. It’s often okay, but when the other cottages are occupied the internet gets sketchy. I guess it’s because so many of us are sharing the same beam? Whatever the reason–I want my own internet beam!
A lively Chihuahua to cuddle and love. Although she has some interesting quirks and is often a pain in the ass, I truly don’t know what I’d do without my darling.
I guess one out of five ain’t bad.
I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.
This morning I took myself to The Basted Baker for what’s become my fave breakfast–The Kid’s Plate.
The star of the show is a single perfectly poached egg. (How does the chef keep the white together like that??? I end up with a soggy mess that looks like it shot out of a seagull when I try to poach an egg.) The supporting players are a scoop of chunky guacamole (mmm!) and a toasted biscuit. (I order mine without butter.)
Accompanied by a piping hot Americano, The Kid’s Plate is a hearty start to a day mooching around with my little hairy friend.
What’s your favorite breakfast?
I’m off work on a medical leave. I’ve been told to do things that are good for me.
Yoga was recommended.
Since I’m an expert at following directions, I signed up for a class.
I haven’t yoga-ed for a few years, so I was a bit nervous until I learned it was a class for “mature” people.
I arrived early, and unrolled my mat to wait for the instructor–in my limited experience, they’re always lithe young women with meaningful tattoos and gorgeous, glowing skin.
There were a few other early birds, and I scoped out the competition–some leathery women and an old man in an ancient track suit with mad scientist hair.
I started to feel confident about keeping up with this group…until I saw track suit guy do some kind of advanced yogic handstand! He did several other, equally athletic poses.
I panicked. If this was what the seniors did to warm up, what would the actual class entail?
I was trying to figure out how I could gather up my things and slip out before the instructor arrived when track suit guy came over to me.
“Welcome to the class,” he said. “I’m Jan, the instructor.”
It was a good class, and Jan’s a strong teacher, but the most important lesson I learned had nothing to do with yoga.
I will not judge a book by its cover.
I picked up The Suspect by L.R. Wright at the Salvation Army Thrift Shop. I was excited to read it because it’s set on Canada’s Sunshine Coast.
Unfortunately, the best part of the novel was all the familiar place names–Gibsons, Sechelt, Davis Bay…even my beloved Powell River gets a mention!
Now for the not so good.
The Suspect is a murder mystery without the mystery. The murder takes place on the first page and the murderer is revealed immediately. I read and watch lots of mysteries, and this technique isn’t something I’ve seen before. It doesn’t work for me. Knowing who dun it takes the fun out of reading a murder mystery.
The protagonist is RCMP Staff Sergeant Karl Alberg. He remains calm and collected through the murder investigation, but panics when he discovers the stray cat he’s been feeding is pregnant. Obviously, police training doesn’t cover unplanned feline pregnancies.
I had high hopes for The Suspect, but only give it meh out of five stars.