Little Things I Really Really Like.   List created on 2-23-01. Updated 6-6-01
In reverse order of when I thought of them—i.e., new ones on top. Read it backward.
       
      Figs. The fragile soft texture of their skin; their exquisite colours (outside and in); the astonishing beauty that's revealed when you open them up. Their taste, of course. My sudden gasp of excitement when I see the first fresh figs of the year for sale. Their scarcity and extravagance. The crunchy little seeds. How great they are dried, too.

      The unspeakable high I get from a new obsession. How the smallest detail can make me helpless with laughter. The way I can't stop thinking about it with utter bubbling delight. And how it can make me cry.

        Being licked on the hand by a cat. (Although I'm allergic to them.)

My old friend and bear, Teddy.

The narcissist photo my brilliant niece Jan took of me staring out the window of my new apartment, a few days before my wedding.

Wearing my black leather jacket.
And wearing my bright aqua reflect-y Canadian jacket.

      The lingering smell of campfire smoke in my hair.

Sitting in the dark quiet beside the campfire with my husband at our land, and hearing the frogs sing.

Everything about my tea room: the rug, the colour of the carpet, the big window and glowing wood blinds, my black modernist buffet and matching tall china cabinet with super-cool handles (my two favourite pieces of furniture), the contents of my china cabinet, the vanilla-y smell, the Delaunay print with its perfect frame, the retro black phone and little arch clock, the white Italian marble lamp and black-and-gold lampshade, my grandmother's mauve velvet 1930's couch...

Things at my new house: my wonderful abstract purple/mauve/camel/green living room and tea room rugs, the sleek Loch Ness monster-looking kitchen faucet that my husband put in for me, my shiny metal bath cart, and my white thing.

        Watching rain run around on moving car windows.

Listening to my dad sing "By the Light of the Silvery Moon," in the car at night when I was little.

Listening to my mom sing "Silent Night" in German (while everyone else sings in English) at a candlelight service on Christmas Eve.

Going sailing at the lake with my father, lying in the warm sun on the bow of the boat in front of the sail, feeling the red boat moving and the sound of the water along its side.

Driving really fast and steady and smooth, late at night, when I have the road to myself.

Putting up the Christmas tree!

      Inhaling the smell of a purple hyacinth.

        Christmas Day.

        That squeaky sound guitars sometimes make.

The buzz I get from finishing writing a story.

      The wonderful strange taste I get in my head, right where the jaw connects, after the perfect number of gulps of Grand Marnier. It's a really odd cool thing, impossible to describe. Beyond just a mouth taste. Very delicious. It doesn't taste the same as Grand, but it's similar—more of a Grand-afterglow, like the smell of lying in a grassy field in springtime.

Getting mistaken for a 13-year-old.

The way Richard Manuel looks in this picture.

When kids (especially girls) get all excited upon seeing my New Beetle.

        Watching snow fall.

Driving alone and opening my moonroof (the act of twisting that dial...) on a sunny warm day, just under 40 mph so it's not too noisy, with a favourite CD playing loud, singing along uninhibitedly and involuntarily smiling.

      The rare pleasure of someone actually making me a really good dry vanilla cappuccino: not overly sweet, hot but not tongue-burningly so, the espresso not weak but not unpleasantly strong either... and, most importantly, with tons and tons of really thick delicious foam—at least two inches tall and stiff stiff, milky tasting with a hint of vanilla, and long lasting, so it's still there to be licked up (out of the cup, and off my fingers) after I've devoured all the liquid.
       
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