I appear somehow to have dropped a can of tuna behind the furnace.

How in the world did this happen, you might ask? Well such are the wonders of living in a basement apartment. No one actually DESIGNED the space, it just kind of IS.

So one wall of my pantry shares a wall with the furnace. Up at the top of that wall on the  top right hand shelf there is a hole.

Why is there a hole? I have no idea. But there is.

So as I went to put “Jackie’s little toolbox” up on that top shelf this evening I heard a clatter.

Dammit.

I did some investigating and found a can of tuna had dropped through the hole, in-behind the furnace.

I tried to rescue the poor can of tuna with a broom and accidentally pushed it further behind the furnace.

I tried again… AND THEN IT BURNT ME.

Clearly the furnace is very hungry and/or has bonded with the can of tuna.

Screw them both. They deserve one another. I, on the other hand am maimed for life.

And down a can of fish.

Also? What happens when a can of tuna reaches 30 degrees Celsius? It looks like it’s really cozied up in there.

It’s the one I had made for me the last winter I lived there. It’s far too big now, and I feel like such a spectacle when I wear it, but it’s warm. And the fur hood cuts the wind, as it should.

It’s funny, when I got my coworker Betty to make it, I told her I wanted it to be a “light” jacket, so I could wear it down south when I left.

Now my “lightest” jacket in Rankin is probably my “warmest” jacket in Kelowna.

And just for fun – the most hilarious weather-related article I’ve read in a long time. Yes, people in B.C (the southern half at least) are giant weather wussies.

But a point of clarification: we in the “interior” like to think we’re better than those guys “on the coast.”

I have this longstanding rule that if I know a movie was inspired by a book, I have to read the book first before watching the movie. It’s for this very reason that to this day I’ve never seen the Lord of the Rings movie. 

Now when The Hobbit comes out, I’ll be “allowed” to watch that. 

I just love reading, generally. I love using my imagination to dream up settings, to create character mannerisms — with the guidance of a skilled author, of course.

Besides once you see a director’s vision of a story, or an actor’s interpretation of a character, you can’t erase that. 

But the worst part of Christmas this year… was…

The wine.

Yes, the wine.

Specifically, the lack of GOOD wine.

This is not in any way a slight on my parents taste in fermented grapes, but much more a comment on how terrible the Canadian wine distribution network is.

It’s such a shame. We have two excellent burgeoning wine regions in this country, but if you go to the Canadian section of the liquor store wine section in Eastern Canada, you get Jackson Triggs and Peller Estates.

Don’t get me wrong, they do an okay job, but there are so many many many good little wineries in Niagara and the Okanagan, and only a handful do any distribution.

Some of it is their size; some of the Okanagan wineries, for example, really can’t satisfy much of a larger market than they already accommodate (for example my three favourite releases last spring were completely sold out by the end of June). Some of it is they can’t afford to.

There’s also a federal prohibition-era law that makes it illegal to move alcohol over provincial borders (and wineries say it’s easier for them to ship to the states than to another province).

Admittedly I don’t have much of a social life (I vow that’s about to change as I prepare for another play and strike up the “single gals supper club”), but I’ve found it hard to get to sleep at the ideal time of 9 p.m. — my work shift means I should be up 5ish.

So I went to bed early last night, and had a dream. I’m pretty sure the dream was inspired by an episode of “Party Down” where the catering team work a pathetic 20-year high school reunion (thanks, Danielle).

I suddenly developed a crush on the guy who had questionable math skills, but was still elected student council treasurer in our graduating class. Who knew stand up comedy was the key to winning an election?

In any case, I was at my 20-year reunion and I falling fast for the former treasurer with questionable math skills. Then, suddenly, I ripped my nose ring from my face.

Except that part wasn’t a dream.

I floated out of my dream to semi-consciousness, and debated what to do next: interrupt my night of perfect sleep OR wake up and find the half-centimeter-long piece of metal I had just torn from my nose.

I didn’t like the second option but knew if I didn’t do it right then and then, it would be lost in the bedsheets forever.

So keeping my eyes closed I flapped through the covers a bit, running my hands blindly over my tangle of duvets, sheets, comatose dog and pile of pillows.

Somehow I found it, poked it back into my face, and passed out again.

I thought the whole thing was a dream until these evening when I couldn’t figure out why my nose was a bit sore.

My Dad used to say my sister and I couldn’t find our butts if we were looking for them with both hands.

Well guess what Dad? I can find that AND a near-microscopic piece of tin with the lights out, my eyes closed and in the middle of a sleep cycle.

Booyah.

They were neon pink and hideous.

Now I own leg warmers as an adult in the 2010s.

They are Fairisle print and spectacular.

And I wear them over my Blundstones.

Give me five years and I’m sure I’ll regret spending the $5, and refer to 2012 as “The year I wore skinny jeans and leg warmers in the desert.”

I have a couple really small carvings — including my legendary “leaning Inukshuk.” It’s probably the saddest soapstone carving in the history of the world, but I could afford it.

When I left Rankin Inlet, my coworkers had a little going-away potluck for me. They pitched in and got me a nice little bag, sewn by a relative.

Afterwards, Betty — the coworker I was probably closest to — took me aside. She pressed a small grey velvet box into my hand.

Inside was this: 

The photo doesn’t do it justice. It’s a beautiful Inukshuk brooch, about two inches high. I’m not sure if it’s soapstone or ivory, but it’s lovely. I nearly cried. It was totally Betty to do something like that. Go the extra mile, but without expecting anything in return. She’s one of the most generous women I have known.

For two and a half years, it’s sat in my jewellery box. I would take it out and admire it from time to time, but never knew how to wear it.

This Christmas my mom lent me a festive penguin to pin to my coat while I was home.

After I returned it to her, my jacket felt naked. Too plain.

This morning, it dawned on me. The Inukshuk. The left hand breast pocket. The perfect spot.

The long and short of the story is a particularly ornery service agent took issue with the size and weight of my dog (who, admittedly, has always been just on the border of the size of animal allowed to travel in the cabin). He was the right weight on the way to PEI, but while there he had gained 5 lbs.

With less than an hour left until the plane was to leave, I was told he was NOT allowed on the plane, and the lady basically told me I was screwed. She said I wouldn’t have enough time to go buy a kennel to check him, and she wasn’t about to allow him on board.

Anyway, after much drama, she finally decided to let him on board if I bought an Air Canada-issue kennel at the low price of $80 dollars.

Ever since I get a little bit anxious leading up to any flight I take with the pup. I put him on a strict feeding diet so that he’ll meet the weight requirements, no easy task after a week or two with the parents.

My mom’s parting words to me before I went to bed last night was “If you see that lady at the counter, avoid her at all costs. Run. Away.”

Easier said than done.

This morning as I wound my way through the check-in line, I spotted her. I had a one-in-five chance that she’d be my agent.

I won the jackpot.

I considered faking a “my phone is ringing, you go ahead of me” but decided to suck it up and accept my fate.

In my tried and true way, I was ultra friendly and tried to make her like me. She struggled to process the payments for checking the dog on board and an extra checked bag. It probably took a good 15-20 minutes to get me through the line.

But she didn’t say anything about my dog. She obviously didn’t remember me (and with a last name like mine, that’s actually a bit surprising) and didn’t’ care how chubby my dog was (actually, we would have been fine — four days running the beach in Tignish did him good).

And to my surprise, as I boarded the plane, she passed me a new boarding pass with a smile, and said “I changed your seat. You’re in executive class!”

So I flew in first class from Charlottetown to Montreal. The seats are like La-Z-Boy chairs, that you can curl up in. You can get all the beverages you please (in real glasses, no less) and they feed you breakfast — for free. I even spread my whipped butter on my lemon-poppyseed bread with a real knife.

And the flight attendant smiled.

It was so refreshing.

Kind of makes me consider upgrading (if it didn’t cost an arm and a leg and my first born child) for future long-haul flights.

Those chairs were amazing.

Right.

I’m much better at small, incremental changes. They may sound silly or insignificant, but  generally they have larger reverberations.

This year, I’m going to try to wear pants.

Real pants.

Real pants on the weekend and after work.

Okay, what I really mean is I am going to try to get in the habit of waking up on the weekend, taking a shower and putting on real clothes. Even if I have zero plans for the day. Schmooping around in pajama pants all day long is fine if you’re hungover or sick or whatever.

But there’s no excuse for acting and dressing like a sad sack all the time.

Ultimately it’s a self respect thing. Get your ass out of bed, be a grown up and put on a pair of pants.

Be ready to greet the world when it knocks on the door, rather than scrambling around trying not to look like a schlub who hasn’t showered in the past week.

So today? I have no plans to leave Danielle’s cottage. I’m not wearing any makeup and am hardly ready for any impromptu photo shoots, but I’m wearing pants. And even a cardigan.

And I don’t feel like a total bum.

For people who don’t know what a donair pizza is, you’ve never lived. It’s amazing. It’s pretty much the best use of donair sauce I can imagine.

But I digress.

I have been hiding out at her cottage in North Cape, PEI for the past couple of days. It’s just outside the grand metropolis of Tignish (not Tigernish, as my autocorrect would like you to believe). Tignish is population 800. There is a Co-op store that closes at 6 p.m. and apparently everyone hangs out and drinks coffee in the parking lot at “Eugene’s” (?) — the local convenience store.

In any case, it’s got a rustic beauty, great for inspiring the pseudo-photographer in me, if only the wind and snow would let up a bit so I could actually play with the settings on my camera. Danielle jokes that my photo subjects are very “American Beauty”-esque, and she’s probably right. I do tend to be drawn to a “beauty in everyday things” sort of theme.

In any case, this makes me think of an ice puddle inkblot diagram.