A heated towel rod.
Living somewhere that winter really means *WINTER*, not just six inches of snow atop four inches of ice and then it's gone by Wednesday.
Bonus to the above: Max was *so happy*!!!11!!ponies!! when it snowed this year, he could hardly stand it. His arthritis didn't bother him a bit.
Learning Capoeira, or whatever that Brazillian martial art that requires lots of upper-body strength is.
Singing again. My singing voice went from okay (pre-surgery) to fucking fantastic (six weeks post-surgery) to fucking bloody awful (today) because of the reaction of my head to the prosthetic palate.
Radiant heat under my wood floor, varnished trim with white walls, and a set of doors that are all a foot wide and as tall as the room, that I can open to let the air in. Curling up on the world's weirdest cotton mattress, under a down comforter and a fucking REINDEER SKIN, in Denmark, with the door open so I could watch foxes run past in the back yard of a suburban house, is one of my favorite memories. The tea they had for breakfast, not so much.....but the foxes? Pure bliss.
"Oh, there's a fox" Renate said. "A fox?" I thought. Apparently foxes are not that big a deal in Birkerod.
Not having to think about my palate.
A new palate. Please, God, let somebody design and make a new palate that works like the old one, some time within the next twenty years, so that I can have my palate back.
No more cancer.
A date. Seriously.
Max would like a week free of his collar, a new chewy bone ($14.95 at the local grocery), and nails that don't need to be trimmed by the Horrible Trimming People Of Doom at the vet. He would also like a neighborhood free of the ice cream guy, but only because he's getting tired of chasing him.