So Happy Christmas...
I'm sipping a some Sailor Jerry's Rum mixed with Coke, while listening to some lounge-muzak. As with previous years, and despite annual resolutions, there are more Christmas cards undeservedly decorating this place than cards sent. Dallas, freshly bathed and looking especially shaggy, waits to dry. Kate last-minute wraps presents she appears nervous about giving. All my gifts were actually bought, wrapped and mailed on time, or are all tidily addressed and decorated under our blinking, gaudy as all get-out tree. Yes, the pumpkin-lights have made their annual appearance, looking for all the world like bright oranges running up the spindly spine of our Grand Fir. A jaunty miniature santa-cap subs in for an angel at the tree-top. From my perspective- all is right in the world.
It is a sunny beautiful day here- you wouldn't know it's not summer. The grass is green, the breeze is mild, and the sun shines down with warmth enough for any dark heart to forget its alone. Dallas marks her 13th Christmas beside me. There are presents under the tree. As we've aged together, our mutual understanding has matured. Over the last few months- shockingly- life-long food rules have been abandoned. She let me now that the premium kibble (so valued for the dental benefits, not to mention the tiny amounts I must scoop up...), so long gobbled up without question... is now passé. She approaches with obvious distaste, sniffs, looks at me sadly, and turns away. Our new world order- she now gets wet-food mixed with kibble, and left-overs galore. I've actually offered the remains of an ice-cream tub for her consideration. After no deliberation whatsover, she shoved her face in like she'd discovered religion. In my more delirious moments, I have considered the hilarity of ordering her own pizza (with no slices), and just opening the box, and letting her blow her mind licking up a vegetarian special. Life is not long enough, nor love so debilitating that even I would consider a meat-lover's.
Her age has other benefits. She is slower and lazier- so in our more sentimental moments, we can clobber her with love. She can't physically manage a retreat from our embraces. She only flinches a little, and then suffers our hugs, our drapings, and our cavorting. It practically takes a bomb to get her up. This has its advantages, since we live on the third floor- she has to really want to go before she'll trudge all the way down, and back up again. Her eyes are getting blue and cloudy, but she can still detect the faint splash a ball makes in the waves 20 feet out. It doesn't mean she'll be coaxed into going for it every time... She knows we can't be sure when she saw it and when she didn't, so a battle of wills may ensue if she's feeling lazy. Just yesterday, another hockey-ball floated off to be eventually rescued by another inevitable ball-loving dog. Strangely, she seems somehow pleased by the thought that there's another 69 cents of mine wasted. After chasing her though the house with a water bottle poised to splash water on her anus, I can't hold this seriously against her.
Kate read an article about how men around 35 exhibit certain characteristics, such as moving over to the cult of Mac. She's been not-so-secretly pleased by the last 2 years of me mooning around Apple stores nationwide, deliberating which model to buy. I swear I've been in there 6 times this month. I know exactly what I want, and I still can't justify it. It seems when I was 35, I made the wrong decision, and bought a high-end HP PC, and now I can't justify $3,000 for what amounts to a spiffy OS and a better monitor. So I reluctantly trudge home after each visit, returning to my previously sexy, top-o'-the-line tower and 19" Samsung, and wait malevolently for it to die. We eye each other, and I try to think loyally, imagining how another 2 GB of RAM might spice things back up for us.
I also jones over new HD videocameras, and invent reasons why I need one. I swear I know better, but 11 years in IT have chipped away at my better sense. But despite all this moaning, I have resisted. My birthday presents may have had a statistically significant percentage of mountain-bike videos among them, but my own dollars have been reserved for more sensible things. And miraculously, my granola retains a taste of Guelph- and my yoghurt has a measurable and concerning amount of acidophilus.
so happy christmas.
