Full disclosure:  Jon is better than I at most things.  One area, however, needs serious work.

The Scene:  Bedtime.  I am already in bed, teeth brushed and all.  Jon, who can go for hours without eating, decides that he needs a snack.

Him: (from downstairs)  Where did you put the leftover rice pudding?

Her:  It’s in the fridge, on the second shelf, on the right, at the back.

(seconds pass)

Him:  No, it’s not.

Her:  Yes, it is, Darling.  On the second shelf, on the right, at the back.

Him:  No it’s not.

(I’ll spare you the repetitions, which alter only in volume)

Him:  Could you come down and find it for me?

Her:  Okay.  (discouraged tone)

Her:  See — on the second shelf on the right at the back?  (tone which mixes superiority and annoyance in equal measures.

Him:  Oh.  I didn’t recognize it.  (light tone)

We all know that such a scene takes place in thousands of homes throughout the country, regardless of timezones, family income, or gender preference.  One person in every pair-bond arbitrarily designates the other as the official Finder.  And that’s that.  It’s a permanent position, as far as I can tell.

Now, if you think it’s no big deal to find something you carefully put away yourself, even if that does entail climbing out of flannelette sheets, remind yourself that existence of every gruntled Finder presupposes a Loser in active practice.  At the moment we have every tool from our basement workshop distributed throughout the rest of the house, which rings with “Have you seen my__________?” 

My darling is a card-carrying Loser.

Let me be clear.  These searches for objects I have not actually stored carefully take a hell of a lot longer.  What’s worse, they are often time-sensitive or all progress grinds to a stop.   Sometimes I enlist a flashlight to catch a tell-tale metallic glint but nothing really works except picking up every single thing but the piano and checking under it.   I’m a hearty eater and I now wonder if the only thing which keeps my weight under control is the constancy of high-pressure search-and-rescue operations around here.  Theodore has shown no interest in being handed the baton so Finder I shall be until one of us dies.  On the plus side, I do find items I myself have misplaced.  Last week produced a vase I had been looking for, 6 unmatched socks to add to my collection, 3 gloves of different colours and four dark chocolate bars.  Chocolate is a great consolation when seeking does not lead to finding.  

But take heart, fellow Finders.  As long as we have this job for life, let us choose to train our veteran Finder Brains on searching for things that spark joy  -- the gorgeous signed Inuit carving that winked at me in Value Village or the Haida copper and suede-lined humidor that showed up in a neighbourhood garage sale.  (Painters, take particular note:  it takes a veteran  Finder to come up with the odds and sods which populate a still life.  I am particularly fond of Rusty, my tin frog in the bottom right corner.  [I  Oh, gotta go.  It's okay, Dear -- let me help you find the....]).

Every Christmas I feel the urge to paint a pear or two. While all pears share their elegant shape, at solstice I become compelled to locate and immortalize the perfect pear--  that is, that rare store-bought edible with a glowing  blush, a striking assymmetrical stem with a leaf or two, and no bruises. And yes, I do know that most painters would simply imagine this pear but I am a realist painter (go ahead, say it:  I lack imagination), so off I must go to the fruit counter in search of The One. 

Now choosing the best pear at Loblaws is no job for an amateur: one has to select the finalists and then eliminate the runners-up one by one.   Last year after I had painstakingly chosen Mlle Poire 2013 (an absolutely gorgeous gal if I do say so myself), a man who must have been watching asked if I would let him have the second best.   I had to explain that Pear #1 needed an understudy (see "The Elusive Dollarama Blue"  7/7/14) and that I would probably end up by painting them both. He said he thought they already had nice colours. It went downhill from there. 

Being a painter isn't for sissies, although still life does allow you eventually to consume the sitter .

We're off now, Jon to the river for a few hours of teasing salmon and I for a walk with my camera in this gorgeous Scottish mist.  May you have a Christmas that warms your heart.