Three

I BOUGHT A pair of needles, a how-to-knit guide, and a gorgeous ball of deep blue-green wool—or, rather, a gorgeous skein of worsted-weight yarn. Blue-green: the colour of rebirth! Of hope! At least I think I heard that somewhere. Either way, I felt quite positive, even a little . . . excited. I was learning a new skill and meeting new people. I was going to make myself one of those romantic, chunky cable-knit sweaters, and a luxurious throw for the end of my bed. I’d knit adorable hats and scarves for all my family and friends. My Christmas shopping bill would be cut in half! Joining the stitch ’n bitch club was definitely a step in the right direction. Now, I just had to find a friend to join me.

My first thought—well, my only thought—was to invite my divorced friend, Mel. Her social life was even sadder than mine, if that was possible. It was almost a little . . . disturbing. Mel would often say things like “We’re going to stay in and have a movie night, just the two of us” or “We spent the weekend at the beach.” The “we” in these statements referred to Mel and her three-year-old golden retriever, Toby. If anyone could benefit from meeting new people and finding a new hobby, she could.

And it wasn’t like I was going to ask any of my coupled-up girlfriends. They would undoubtedly think my quest for a new hobby was cute. “Good for you,” they’d say. “It’s important to get out and meet new people and explore new interests.” But when I suggested they join me, they’d reply, “Oh, sorry hon, but Thursday night is the night Tom and I give each other pedicures,” or “Dwayne and I can’t miss Survivor! We have a running bet. The loser has to give the winner oral sex twice a week for a month!” I couldn’t bear it.

Luckily, I had a coffee date with Mel and Toby on Monday. As was our habit, we picked up our lattes at a nearby coffee shop, and then walked along the waterfront to a small off-leash park on the edge of the harbour. Mel’s and mine was an unlikely friendship. She was ten years my senior with two marriages under her belt, but we had bonded years ago when I interned at the community newspaper where she was the art director. Mel had taken me under her wing, and despite the differences in our age and life experience, we had remained close. I’ll admit that a small part of our friendship might be attributed to convenience. Mel had left the paper several years back. After investing her two divorce settlements in rental property, she now made a comfortable living as a landlady. As a freelance writer, I worked mostly from home, and often, late at night. Because Mel and I had similar schedules—well, no schedules, really—we were both free to socialize during the week. We needed our friendship: Everyone else was at the office.

“So . . . how are you holding up?” Mel asked as she unclipped Toby’s leash and watched, lovingly, as he scampered free. It was kind of her to ask, but I knew she was just being polite. Two failed marriages and a number of nightmarish boyfriends had destroyed any romantic notions Mel had of love. It was her belief that women should enter into relationships with the expectation of a heart-wrenching end. That way, they would be pleasantly surprised each day when it didn’t happen, and prepared when it ultimately did. She didn’t have a lot of patience for wallowing and healing. Mel was a stoic Taurus.

“Oh...you know,” I said breezily. “I’m doing okay. It was tough at first . . . moving out and everything...”

“Never get too comfortable . . .” Mel said, picking up Toby’s ball with a long stick-thing and winging it across the grassy field. “How’s the new roomie?”

“Ugh.” It came out before I could censor myself.

Mel looked at me, amused. “Is she that bad?”

“Oh . . . I’m just being a bitch,” I said, taking a sip of coffee. “She’s fine, really. I’m just not all that comfortable living with her. It feels like her place, you know?”

“Yeah, it’s tough moving into someone else’s space. You should get your own apartment.”

“I’d love to, but I can’t afford it.”

“Well...” Mel began to say something but Toby returned and dropped the ball at her feet. “Oh, you are such a good boy!” she said, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and shaking him playfully. “Who’s the best boy in the whole wide world? Who’s the best boy?”

“Umm . . .” I cleared my throat awkwardly. “He is?” It was likely a rhetorical question, but it couldn’t hurt to answer.

Mel continued to gleefully roughhouse with her beloved pet, who had now jumped up and was licking her face. While Mel was laughing delightedly, I couldn’t help but cringe. I mean, only a few minutes earlier I’d watched Toby licking his wiener with that tongue! Luckily, she didn’t notice my distaste. For the moment, she seemed to have forgotten I was there.

“Okay, you precious thing,” she finally said, in that drippy voice reserved for dogs and very small children. “Go get your ball now. Go get your ball for Mommy.” Employing the long stick-thing, she threw the tennis ball for Toby, who happily rollicked after it.

“So . . . I’d love to get my own place,” I said, in an attempt to pick up the stream of our previous conversation, “but rent’s just too much on my own.”

Mel, who had been staring lovingly after Toby, turned to me. “Have you ever thought of getting a dog?”

“Me? A dog?”

“Yeah.”

“Well...no,” I said, somewhat taken aback that she would even make such a suggestion. I was definitely not one of those women who could replace my human offspring with a little fur-ball named Mitzy. Of course, I didn’t want to offend her, so I said, “There wouldn’t be room in Kendra’s apartment.”

Mel shrugged. “You could get a little dog. The companionship and unconditional love you get from a dog is just so . . . powerful. Once you have that”—she took a sip of her coffee—“you realize you can do without a lot of things in life . . . like men.”

“But I don’t want to do without men,” I blurted. “I want to fall in love! Get married! Have kids and a house! I’ve always wanted that, since I was a little girl.” As soon as it was out, I realized how pathetic I sounded. My desire to have a husband and 2.4 kids made me sound like some throwback from the fifties. I mean, it was hardly my dream to become the next Mrs. Cleaver, staying home baking cookies in my housedress all day. I fully intended to maintain my freelance writing career and my hip wardrobe, but having a family was like some biological need beyond my control. It was old-fashioned and a little embarrassing, but I couldn’t help it if I had the mommy gene.

But before I could explain, Mel threw the ball for Toby, then said, “That attitude isn’t going to help you any.”

“Attitude? What attitude?”

“Beth...” Mel sighed heavily, as if she were trying to communicate with someone several IQ points below her dog. “Men are like cats. The more you want their affection, the more they’ll ignore you.”

I started to object, but stopped. That analogy was actually quite appropriate.

Mel continued. “Look at me for example . . .”

I did. My friend was dressed, as usual, in her purple waterproof Gore-Tex jacket, a pair of pilled, fleece tights, and brown hiking boots. Her sandy blonde hair was cut into a short bob with a thick, blunt fringe running across her forehead. Mel’s face was what you might call pleasant—not quite attractive enough to be pretty, but nice to look at, just the same. She wore no makeup, and her complexion had a ruddy glow.

“Not exactly Halle Berry,” she said, as if reading my mind.

“Oh . . . well . . . you’re very attractive in your own—”

She held up her hand to silence me. “I have men after me all the time. In fact, I have to struggle to stay out of a relationship.” This seemed plausible. When I met Mel, she was still with her second husband. Since their split six years ago, there had been at least a dozen boyfriends. “And do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t need them,” she said, taking a long sip of her latte. “Men can sense it. It makes them want to conquer you or something.” Toby returned and dropped the ball at her feet. Her voice instantly turned syrupy. “I don’t need those silly old men because I have my Toby.” She leaned in for a dog kiss. “My special, special Toby-Woby-Woo!”

Again, I cleared my throat awkwardly. “Yeah . . . I was going to ask you . . . I’m joining a stitch ’n bitch club. Do you want to come along?”

“Knitting?” she asked, throwing the slobbery dog ball.

“Yeah . . . We’re all going to learn together.”

“I know how to knit,” Mel said. “I haven’t done it for a while, but I’m quite good.”

“That’s great. It would be wonderful to have an expert in the group to help us.”

She took a long sip of coffee. “I don’t think so . . . Knitting, to me, is a very solitary act. Once you get into it, it’s really quite Zen.”

“Oh.”

“What I’m really interested in learning is spinning.”

“I took a spinning class once,” I said. “It was exhausting, and my ass was sore for, like, a week after.”

“Not that kind of spinning,” she laughed. “Spinning fur into yarn.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Fur?”

“It’s called chiengora.” She pronounced the word slowly: she-an-gora. “Turning dog hair into yarn.”

“Eww!” The word just escaped, but I covered. “I mean . . . gee, I never thought of that before.”

“Dog hair is very soft and extremely warm,” Mel continued, “Up to eighty percent warmer than wool, in fact. And it would be such a wonderful keepsake to have a scarf or a hat made from my Toby.”

I loved Mel, but she was really grossing me out. I looked at my watch. “I’d better get going.”

“Already?”

“I’ve got an article due for Northwest Life.”

“Okay... Give me a call next week. We still haven’t come by to see your new place.”

I highly doubted Kendra would be keen on Toby bounding around the apartment, drooling and sniffing everything. “Right. Okay. I’ll give you a call. Bye Toby.” In response, Toby stuck his nose in my crotch. It was the most action I’d had in months.