illustration by Yelena-Bryksenkova

It was just off Roncesvalles, the main street in the west-end Russian and Polish neighbourhood. I've been living close by for the last eight years and it's always been one of my - if not my very - favourite place in the city. A mix of gentrification and old school holdouts, the strip alternates between chi-chi cafes and boutiques side by side with drugstores, butchers and bakeries that have been there forever. The houses that fill the subdivisions on either side alternate traditional and majestic - their tenants comprised of aging eastern European immigrants, young yuppy families and renters. It suits me.

I wasn't really expecting anything from the apartment. I didn't have a chance to anticipate and, though I was the one who found the listing, I couldn't remember anything about it. One of the owners, a woman, greeted us at the door. She was out of breath and laughing. She instantly launched into some story about standing on the newel post to change a light bulb. She ushered us in out of the cold and left us on the landing to wait for her husband. A man in his forties with light hair and an open expression jogged down the stairs and shook our hands.

And then we went in.

What can you say about those old converted houses? They are always odd, always particular to themselves. The front door opened up into a large room of indeterminate function. "You could use it as a dining room," the man said, "or an office, depending on what you need." To the right, separated by French doors, was a small living room with a big picture window facing the street. Above, the transom was the original stained glass in dark reds and blues and greens.

The man turned left and led us along a short hallway. He pointed to the right with a grin, "That's our retro bathroom." I looked inside to find (to my delight) a blue toilet and tub. The kitchen was next; painted a garish yellow, it was big enough for a table and had a nice substantial window. "You can do whatever you like with the colours." I smiled apologetically and evened out my expression. 

The last room was the bedroom. After all the hardwood, it was the only room with carpet. I only thought about it for a second before I was distracted by the sheer size of it. The current tenants' queen-size bed looked inconsequential. The dresser and crib (the latter indicating the reason they were moving) didn't seem to cut into the floor space at all. 

And finally, at the end of the bedroom was a door to a mudroom - a perfect place to for extra storage and bikes. It led to a tiny deck and "shared" garden.

C was wary of living under the landlord. He worried about whether or not we could afford it. All I could think about was what the colour scheme should be and how I could show those campy blue fixtures to their best effect. I tried to decide which table would be best in the kitchen and how we'd augment the closet situation. (No matter how perfect a space, I have learned there are almost NEVER enough closets.) I pictured the office-den I would create, imagining my brown chair next to my big bookcase. Maybe I'd put it in the corner between the narrow window and the old radiator for winter reading. Of all the places we'd seen, this was the one I wanted. It caught me completely off guard.

So we filled out the application.
Now we wait.
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illustration by Garance Doré

Since the weekend's blowout with the landlord, I am a woman possessed. Relocation is all I can think about.

We went to see two yesterday. The first was very much like hotel. It was in a stately old Victorian in my favourite Toronto neighbourhood (which explains why we went to look at something so expensive). Walking in, though, it was not at all what I expected. All the charming unevenness, the odd angles of an old house were gone. In their place were modern neutrals and some sort of stone finish in the bathroom. The fireplace was inoperative and very very clean with a large mirror above by way of ornamentation. There were, in fact, an astonishing number of large, expensive-looking mounted mirrors. I felt like I'd walked into an excellent hotel. 

We took our time looking through the place. There was absolutely no doubt it was nice. To start with, it was warm. I'm in the kind of head space where, if you presented me with a really big mitten I would probably consider moving in. I am sick of shivering. The kitchen was small, galley-style, but with plenty of cupboards and counter space. Whoever had put it in considered the space well. All the fixtures were against an interior wall with a cut-out facing the big, open living room. There was a decent space to the left that could have been a dining room or office. There was - randomly, inexplicably - a 7' mirror on the wall. The bedroom was quite separate with a large and neatly remodeled closet enrobed in floor-to-ceiling mirrors. I wondered if every day would be an exercise in fleeing my own reflection. I started trying to work out how I might hang curtains to cover them,  like a Victorian in mourning. The windows were on two sides and absolutely enormous. When I took a closer look I realized they didn't open.

I stood in the kitchen imagining a living room full of people. It would be a beautiful place for entertaining. Too bad we don't. I tried to picture where I'd put my favourite, $80, second-hand, brown velour armchair and couldn't find a single corner that wouldn't make it look ratty and cheap. The space was too slick, too modern. It was actually a bit snobby. 

We left - crestfallen. I had pinned a lot of hope to that place. We'd seen so much middle-of-the-road crap; tiny "spacious suites" with "Juliette" fire escapes, oozing with we-can't-be-bothered-to-fix-it-properly "character." I'd assumed giving in to a higher price meant instant success. (How have I not learned that lesson a thousand times over?) We went to a coffee shop to get warm and talk. I told C that I could go either way but it didn't make my heart sing. C said for that price he wanted a fireplace that worked. 

We'd both thought this would be The One. When it clearly wasn't, C mentioned there had been another rental on a street close by that he'd made arrangements to see. We could still call and confirm - did I want to? Why not, I said, since we're here...

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illustration by Lulu

illustration by Sandra Suy

Honest-to-goodness snow. I woke up to a winter wonderland, as the hoary old phrase goes. Every roof is covered and cars glide silently along our unplowed street. It's as beautiful as only snow can be and, for a moment, I don't care about the cold apartment or work or anything. Snow!

I finally got down to making fruit cakes yesterday. I should have done it weeks ago. Fruit cake is an interesting thing. The mention of it inevitably leads to a grimace or some terrible doorstop joke - and there are very good reasons for that. Most of what passes for fruit cake is an insult to cakes everywhere: ill-considered bricks of red and green maraschino cherries (the most carcinogenic food on earth!) bound by damp wads of too-much batter and imitation brandy and almond extract. And that's the quality kind.

When I was a kid our neighbour brought us her own version of a Christmas "fruit cake" every year. It was a white pound cake full of jujubes. I shit you not. I remember slicing it open like a science-class frog and marveling at the candy colour bleeding out in pastel rings, each piece a crumbling swatch of Marimekko. There was no question of eating it: as instinct should indicate, chewy candy and dry cake are not complimentary textures.

The fact is, most people have never tasted a good fruit cake. And I make a very good fruit cake.

Mine is filled with pecans and cranberries and currants. The dark, fragrant batter is all butter, brown sugar, eggs and brandy, heavily scented with cinnamon and cloves. It's rich, but there's only just enough to bind the fruit. Once it's baked and after it cools, more warmed brandy gets drizzled into tiny holes on top. The cakes are wrapped in liquor soaked linens and packed away in air-tight containers. In the cool and dark, slowly slowly, the fruit absorbs the spice and alcohol. 

The smell when you unwrap those linens (which are now utterly dry) is magic. The taste is... Christmas.

This year, for the first time, I made the full recipe rather than halving it. (There is never enough to go around.) The instructions were written in weights (2 1/2 lbs raisins, 2 lbs pecans, etc.) all of which required some rather sketchy conversions. I didn't realize until much too late that none of my mixing bowls were even close to big enough to stir batter that demanded 15 eggs. Eventually I had to unpack my 20 qt chili pot and scoop the mixture into bread tins with a stew ladle. Necessity and invention and all that.

And today the apartment smells like heaven and there are five brown loaves on my counter.

And snow!
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illustration by Laura Laine

It drifts past my window, lazy and sparkling. I'm hoping turns into something more. There is so much promise in the first snow - a clean slate for a new season. And it's all tangled up in the holidays, too. Maybe, as adults, it's the last Norman Rockwell expectation we can count on. 

We had a terrible, awful fight with the landlord yesterday. He is quite literally insane. He accused us of sabotaging our own living spaces just to make him miserable. I have to get out of here. That psychopath is getting way too much of my brain.

In nicer news, I made my first batch of Christmas cookies. They were absolutely average (as the first try tends to be). It doesn't matter. The novelty will carry the craft and they'll be eaten in a couple of days. And now that I remember how to conjure this domestic magic, the next batch is bound to be better.

I plan to test this theory today.

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illustration by Belinda Chen

I've grown so accustomed to sleeping with the lights on, or the TV. When C stays over he turns everything off before he goes to bed (which, I suppose, is normal). It inevitably leads to my waking before dawn.

I lie in bed while my mind races through the silence. It roams unchecked by distraction, free to take any shape in the dark. I start to think about the landlord and what to do about the heat. I think about work. I think about my depressingly unformed future and dad and bills and Christmas is coming up so fast. I still haven't put up the fruit cakes and they will not be anywhere boozy enough if I don't do that Now. I should see dad next weekend. I should call him - is it too early? When's the last time I paid the phone bill? If they lay me off at the end of March I should make sure to try to pay things well in advance. I should do that Now.

I lie still for a while and pretend I might sleep. Eventually the cat comes and lies next to me, purring. He likes having someone awake as his own night winds down. I crawl out of bed, shiver, put on my slippers. If it's before seven I go into the office and work; after, i put on coffee.

Now it's eight and I hate that I'm up, but the laundry opens in an hour so I may as well start my day.

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illustraton by Sabine Pieper

Inside. Again. Part of me doesn't care anymore, part of me is furious. There is zero heat in the bathroom and I have to change my towels every other day because they just don't dry.

I need a vacation desperately. I know I am complaining too much these days, but I feel so intensely exhausted. I can't seem to find comfort anywhere. Every day when my thoughts start to wander, I run away - from everyone and everything - and just starting somewhere else. (Yes, yes, it's not terribly original.) I feel as though, if things keep on this way with dad and the cold and money and work, I'm just going to fall apart. I can't find my reserves and it frightens me.

Ages ago I pre-ordered a copy of a new Isabella Blow biography (there are three out this month alone). I thought it would be a nice surprise to have it sent in November when I'd forgotten all about it. (Success, by the way - it had completely slipped my mind.) It was very exciting. C was out for the evening so I had the place to myself. I changed into my warmest, comfiest clothes and my extra-soft moccasin slippers. I got my glasses, put on some tea and settled in for a juicy read. 

"But now she was gone and it would be up to [Philip Treacy and Alexander McQueen] to decide which combination would be the last to adorn her. Some of the items on the rails in her flat were easily discounted. The Givenchy suit with the glowing pinstripes came with a power source to light the stripes, which might explode when it came time to cremate her."

Are you serious? After a "thank you" introduction that reads like the Queen's Christmas card list (and involves no small measure of sycophantic flattery) and pages of "the cast of characters" (the literary version of a film voice-over and a very lazy device), the book opens with some of the most affected, effusive, and awkward prose I've ever read. I didn't get through three pages before I chucked it and turned on the TV.

What the hell is wrong with people? Can we no longer tell a story without editorializing it into some unrecognizable pulp? Isabella Blow is one of the most eccentric and interesting figures of our age. What an incredible decision for a writer to ignore that completely in favour of vulgar toadying and maudlin sentiment.

For shame, Lauren Goldstein Crowe, for shame.

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illustration from a short story entitled "No Girl is Different"

I must have something to prove. I just spent the last few minutes working a ring back into my septum which, miraculously, has not closed over. C is going to hate it, but it couldn't be helped. There is this part of me that feels like the world is swallowing me up - consuming the person I used to be. 

So much of my day demands passivity and patience. All around me are people who've succumbed to expectation, powerlessness and absolute boredom. I watch them eat fast food and listen as they complain about commute times and property taxes. I keep my mouth shut and smile and nod, but rebellion bubbles up in my chest. I will not be you. I know combat boots don't a revolution make, but at least it's something. I need a little more Fuck You in my day. 

I remember when I first got this ring, how sort of shocking it was. I think my parents were worried I'd never be gainfully employed, that it would make me a socio-economic pariah. Once, I stood very still in a drugstore as a very small, old woman marveled and inspected. She even reached out a tentative finger to touch it, as though it was some wonderful alien growth. Now it's nothing at all - an extra bauble, Play Punk. The Beloit College Mindset List states that kids graduating university in the next couple of years have never lived in a time when visible tattoos and piercings weren't acceptable.

Jesus - no wonder I'm freaking out. I'm having a midlife crisis.
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illustration by Amelie Hegardt

I picked analog because I thought it would be gentler. It is absolutely a four-star gold-plated bad idea. It's also done. 

Today is the second day of rain. There's less cliche in it, now that it's December. I confess I like the dim light these last few days. I feel less pressure when everything is grey. Sunshine is demanding.

And I am clearly not up to any challenges.

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illustration by Wolfgang Joop

It's slow going, this writing business, but I woke up this morning excited at the prospect of sitting down at my keyboard. It's been a long time since I felt that way without a specific agenda or project. Today it's all about rejigging the blog structure. I've decided to use the first line of every post as a title. I think it will be a good exercise in First Lines - which are almost as important as titles anyway. 

When we were sitting in the interview on Friday, I was talking about how visuals and structure are huge motivators for me. My editor laughed and rolled her eyes. "You should see her apartment," she said. "Everything is just so." And she's right. Though I'm quite the opposite of one of those minimalist clean-surface people, and though on first look my apartment looks like a friendly chaos, it's all very carefully put together. There is not a square foot that doesn't have some little diverting object. I arrange my world so that my eye can always find something lovely.

As we talked to the reporter I told him about my new glasses, which were sitting on the table in front of me. "They just make me happy," I explained. Even though I didn't have to wear them in that moment, I didn't want to put them away. The lines were so perfect and the tortoiseshell so rich - having something like that to look at made me feel happier. 

He laughed and said something about "design freaks."

Yesterday I sent the writer a quick note to say thanks for the interview (and the tab he'd picked up). I told him I'd just started reading Alain de Botton's A Week at the Airport (excellent so far). He responded with a quote from Patricia Highsmith's The Price of Salt: 

"Or perhaps it was nothing but happiness, Therese thought, a complete happiness that must be rare enough, so rare that very few people ever knew it. But if it was merely happiness, then it had gone beyond the ordinary bounds and become something else, become a kind of excessive pressure, so that the weight of a coffee cup in her hand, the speed of a cat crossing the garden below, the silent crash of two clouds seemed almost more than she could bear. And just as she had not understood a month ago the phenomenon of sudden happiness, she did not understand her state now, which seemed an aftermath. It was more often painful than pleasant, and consequently she was afraid she had some grave and unique flaw." 

Sometimes people surprise the hell out of me.

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