Suzanne Craig-Whytock's Blog, page 14

Water, Water, Everywhere

On Tuesday night (or was it morning? —it was dark), I woke up to yet another pounding rainstorm. I immediately had a panic attack, because we live in a very old house, built in 1906, with the grossest basement you could imagine. For the last 17 years, the basement occasionally gets damp in the spring but then dries out in the summer and we’ve never had a flood—until this spring when the sump pump stopped working and suddenly there were several inches of water. Ken fixed the pump, but the constant rain here has made the basement even wetter than normal, causing me to go into Worst-Case Scenario mode, thinking the whole house was going to come down around our ears thanks to a crumbling foundation. I lay awake for a while, tossing and turning, until eventually Ken woke up:

Ken: What’s wrong? Why did you wake me up?
Me: The basement. It’s going to flood again.
Ken: No, it won’t. The sump pump is running. It’s an old house; there’s nothing we can do.

Oh really?! The gauntlet was thrown. I immediately began planning exactly what we were GOING to do first thing the next morning, which was a) buy a rain barrel so that the excess moisture didn’t sink into the ground, and b) plant more plants in the garden to replace the ones that Ken killed last year by insisting on “breaking the roots apart” when he planted them, thereby leaving large gaps where the water wasn’t getting absorbed by flora and roots and whatnot. And then I insisted on telling Ken the plan right then and there, causing him to groan and whine about “needing to sleep.” Well, I’m sorry KEN, but this is our equity, and I won’t have it ruined by stupid rain. And the climate gods were with me, because we set out the next morning to buy a rain barrel, which are relatively expensive, and we came across a yard sale that had one for 5 bucks. We installed it, and planted some shrubberies (the kind without deep root systems that might damage the foundation) and it all looked very nice. Later that day, there was an absolute deluge, but Ken had fixed all the downspouts so they went into the rain barrel instead of into the ground next to the foundation. And everything would be great if it would just STOP F*CKING RAINING because now I keep having to empty the rain barrel and find something to do with all the water that’s accumulating BECAUSE OF THE F*CKING RAIN.

So in between stressing about the rain ruining my house and dealing with Atlas, who got sprayed by the same skunk AGAIN, it’s been a hard few days. But then, yesterday morning, the sun came out again for the second day in a row (gasp), and I decided it was time to mow the lawn. I’d been putting it off based on my previous experience on the John Deere Death Machine, but not being one to give up easily, I decided to try again. This time, I wore a better bra and went a little slower, and it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the first time. I think I only screamed twice—once because I went down a hill more quickly than I’d intended and second because I badly misjudged the clearance on a group of very sharp spruce boughs. Later, I was talking to my mom:

Mom: What did you do this morning?
Me: I mowed the lawn.
Mom: You did WHAT?!
Me: I mowed the lawn.
Mom: Are you okay?!
Me: Yes, except for a few scratches on my neck. But my boobs are fine.
Mom: Oh good!
Me: And it was lucky too, because it’s supposed to rain all afternoon.
Mom: I’ll bet the lawn looks great.
Me: Thanks, Mom.

She really is the best mom—if only she could make it stop raining…

Again?!

On Thursday night, Ken got up around 5 am (is that night or morning? Either way it was still very dark out and I had been, until that moment, fast asleep). “What’s wrong?” I asked. His back was twinging a bit because he’d been carrying our new deck furniture, a gift from my brother, up and down a ladder, to put it on our balcony because it was too big to take through the house.

“I’m going downstairs to read,” he said.

“Take the dog with you,” I said. Imagine at this point that there was ominous thunder rumbling in the distance. There actually WAS thunder—I guess I should have paid more attention.

I fell back asleep quickly and I was just in the middle of a lovely dream involving clocks and puppies when my subconscious sensed that something was terribly, horribly wrong and I sat bolt upright. I breathed in deeply, smelled that familiar noxious odour and knew that my subconscious was correct. I leapt out of bed and ran downstairs yelling, “Don’t let the dog out!!” Ken was standing in the brightly lit kitchen, mixing up something in a plastic bowl. He stared at me.

Me: Did you let the dog out?
Ken: Yes, but he’s back in now…
Me: Please don’t tell me he got sprayed by a skunk!
Ken: I can’t tell you that because he got sprayed by a skunk.
Me: Again?! OMG, is he okay? Where is he?
Ken: I locked him in the bathroom. I’m mixing up the peroxide, baking soda, and soap.
Me: F*ck. I was really hoping you’d just made coffee.

Alas no. The palpable stench was not from the devil’s brew; it was from the nocturnal demon that Atlas had decided to chase and confront at 5 am. After he’d been washed with the skunk remover, showered, and dried, I had a word with him:

Me: What were you thinking?!
Atlas: I thought Ilana had escaped. I was just trying to help.
Me: She hasn’t been here for weeks! What the hell is wrong with you?
Atlas: IT WAS DARK. I WAS TIRED.
Me: Well, you’re still a stinky pants.
Atlas: Smells just like coffee. MMMM.

He’s lucky he’s adorable. Smelly and dumb, but adorable.

Creative Wednesdays: DarkWinter Press Has Launched!

It’s official–DarkWinter Press, the brand new publishing arm of the DarkWinter group, which includes DarkWinter Literary Magazine and DarkWinter Designs, is open for business! I couldn’t be any more excited and I give tremendous thanks to everyone involved in its inception. When I started DarkWinter Literary Magazine over a year ago, I never dreamed it would be as successful as it’s become, and I can only hope the same for DarkWinter Press. We’ll be looking for the best in novellas, novel-length manuscripts, short story collections, and poetry collections to publish in both paperback and e-book, so get to work! The website has been revamped and you can see it and read the submission guidelines here!

What Any Normal Person Would Do

First, I have very exciting news. After a lot of time spent and a lot of trial and error, I’ve finally published the test book for DarkWinter Press. It’s called What Any Normal Person Would Do, and it’s basically a compilation of some of my early humour posts. I found common themes, divided them into chapters and made the whole thing flow more cohesively. Then I had to figure out Kindle Direct Publishing, which I did with help from friends, watching a lot of YouTube videos, and calling their support line a couple of times. The cover was especially hard to do—I don’t have any of the “pro” versions of Canva, Photoshop, Gimp and so on, so I resorted to Microsoft Publisher and found an awesome walkthrough about how to use the KDP cover template in that program—you can see the result below.

I finally uploaded everything on Thursday, and on Friday I got notification that the paperback and Kindle e-book are now both live and available! So I’m super-excited because now I can launch DarkWinter Press and start to publish other people! So if you want to help me out and order either the paperback or the Kindle e-version, that would be awesome, and a lot easier for you than trying to read through all 489 posts starting from 2014 until now. Here are the links if you’re interested: Amazon.com and Amazon.ca. It’s also available on all the other Amazons.

Over the next few days, I’ll be meeting with my web developer to figure out how to incorporate DarkWinter Press and DarkWinter Lit, and then I’ll start accepting submissions. I can’t wait!!

In other news, this past week I once again had to pull out my McGyvering skills when Ken went to stay with his mom for a couple of nights, leaving me alone in a very large old house with a very nervous young dog. Things would have been all right if we weren’t also babysitting Kate’s cat, my beautiful Ilana, and it put the dog on high alert—or even higher alert than normal. The lock on our bedroom door was painted shut years ago and I kept asking Ken to fix it, but in the meantime, we’d installed one of those sneck hooks that kept the door somewhat secured BUT NOT COMPLETELY. So on Tuesday night, I finished snuggling Ilana then shut her in the back part of the house, and enticed the dog upstairs with cookies. And when he came, I hooked the door:

Atlas: But there are things I need to do downstairs.
Me: It’s 11:00 pm. It’s time for sleep.
Atlas: I’m going to stand by the door and boof it.
Me: Stop sticking your nose in the gap. Get on the bed or no more cookies.
Atlas: I AM feeling pretty sleepy. Where are those cookies again?

All was well and good until 5:30 am when I was awakened by Atlas losing his shit, standing on the bed, hackles raised, and barking and snarling at the three inch space between the door and the jamb. I was TERRIFIED. I couldn’t detect any movement in the hallway, or see any moving shadows in the hall light, and after a few minutes, I steeled myself. I grabbed the baseball bat that I keep by the bed and yelled, “Okay boy—get ‘em!” I opened the door and Atlas went charging out, me following close behind with the bat. We searched the whole house and nothing.

Atlas: Maybe it was a bad dream. Or a ghost.
Me: You’re staying downstairs.

I finally fell back to sleep with the bat on my pillow, only to be awakened again by someone hammering on the door down the hall. This time, it was the cat, wanting to be fed. I’d had enough, and spend the next three hours reading because there was NO WAY I could get back to sleep after that. On Wednesday afternoon, in preparation for Ken being away again, I examined at the lock. Our bedroom has its own bathroom, as well as a balcony that I could use in case I needed to escape—if I could only get the lock working, I could lock me and the dog in, and ghosts/intruders could have a f*cking field day but I’d be safe in my own little panic room. Using only a chisel, a hammer, and copious amounts of WD40, I managed to:

1) Chisel off the paint on the lock.
2) Chisel the edges of the lock.
3) Use the skeleton key to wiggle the lock.
4) Spray WD40 into the lock.
5) Hammer the lock until it finally pops free.
6) Realized that the lock plate is too small.
7) Use the chisel as a screwdriver and unscrew the lock plate.
8) Chisel out a larger hold so that the lock will fit.
9) Lock the door.
10) Yell “Haha!”

That night, after I’d snuggled the cat, Atlas and I retired to the bedroom, me with wine and him with cookies. I locked the door behind us, and we both slept soundly until morning. It’s what any normal person would do.

A Spoonful Of Sugar Helps The Vitamins Go Down

I love vitamins. I know that sounds weird, but you probably need to know that most of the vitamins I take are gummy vitamins, and it’s like starting your day with candy. Candy that’s GOOD FOR YOU. And yes, I’m a “past-middle-aged” woman (unless I’m going to live to be one hundred and fourteen) and I’m too old to care if you mock me, because they’re delicious. Every morning, I come downstairs and start my day with fruit-flavoured multi-vitamins, orange vitamin C, citrus-y Vitamin D, strawberry-vanilla Biotin, and multi-berry collagen. I take two of each, not because I have to but because I WANT to. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever cared about vitamins—even The Flintstones couldn’t tempt me to chew the grape sawdust that passed for a treat when I was a kid. Of course, I was an extremely picky child—you know how some parents puree vegetables into spaghetti sauce to disguise the taste? I wouldn’t even eat spaghetti sauce. Or pasta. In fact, the bulk of my diet was peanut butter on white bread and plain hamburgers. As an adult, I have a wide palate, and I’ll try, and eat, almost anything. I still draw the line at beets and peas, but everything else is fair game. Yet, like a child, I still need to have my vitamins disguised with copious amounts of sugar and gelatin. The only thing better than gummy vitamins would be if there was some kind of vitamin powder you could put into white wine, then I’d be the healthiest lush on the planet.

But despite my passion for vitamin candy, there IS one thing I hate about vitamins, and that’s shopping for them.

1) It doesn’t matter what time I go, or what store I go to, the vitamin aisle is always crowded by at least half a dozen people, all perusing the selection like they’ve never seen vitamins in their lives and are astounded that they exist. I’ve seen people take less time at art galleries or puppy parties than they do in the vitamin aisle. (Slight tangent—wouldn’t the world be a much better place if we could go to puppy parties once a week? How many puppies would we need? I’m thinking 6 minimum). Anyway, there I am, trying to find my vitamins, surrounded by people who are like f*cking ENTHRALLED by Magnesium. Even though most drug stores are now literally department stores, with electronics and groceries in addition to the actual “pharmacy section”, the vitamin aisle is still the most popular hangout in the place. The other day I went grocery shopping at a virtually deserted drug store, and SIX PEOPLE were in the vitamin aisle, blocking my way to delicious health. Seriously, go look at margarine. That’s where the really big decisions need to be made if my recent experience watching people scrutinize margarine tubs is any indication.

2) There are way more brands and types of vitamins than are necessary. The vitamin aisle at my drug store is over 50 feet long and four shelves high. You’d think it would be alphabetical but it’s not, at least in no way I can discern. Some places group them by brand, some places by purpose, some by colour, some by flavour…

Vitamin Shelf Stocker: Where should I put the Vitamin C?

Vitamin Overlord: Next to the Echinacea.

Vitamin Shelf Stocker: Why? Shouldn’t it go next to the B12…?

Vitamin Overlord: Echinacea and Vitamin C are both immune system boosters, and they both have the letter C in them. Put them on the bottom shelf where no one can find them because the letter C is stupid. Screw your immune system, Brad!

Vitamin Shelf Stocker: Who’s Brad?

Vitamin Overlord (mutters): No one important.

See, and this is why the vitamin aisle is always crowded, because no one can find anything thanks to Brad.

In other news, my new novel The Devil You Know has been released–well, at least I got MY COPIES. It’s the sequel to The Seventh Devil and I’m really happy with it–well, at least with MY WRITING. It’s available for pre-order on Amazon but apparently it’s not actually available until October 15 which doesn’t make any sense, but I’m planning to place a few copies in the vitamin aisle and create a buzz.

What Kind Of Person Do You Think I Am?!

I ask this question only because I’ve been getting some very strange ads in my social media lately. I don’t mind the run-of-the-mill exhortations to buy hot tubs/swim spas, funny t-shirts, and retirement planning. I don’t even mean strange like Amazon recommending my own book to me, which happens all the time. No, I mean strange, like “I don’t have a f*cking clue what this thing is and I have no idea why you think I’d even want one!”

The other day, I saw this ad that was so bizarre I didn’t know what to make of it. It was “recommended for me”, and I did a double take:

The headline says “shop our selection of power a…” and the rest is cut off, I assume for decency purposes, and my immediate thought was that it was some kind of bondage gear. I examined it closely, trying to decide how, exactly, one would wear it and for what purpose. I was befuddled. I finally got up enough nerve to click on the description, worried that I’d be in for some pretty explicit content, only to discover that the item in question is, in fact, some kind of complicated tool belt, and I don’t mean that as a euphemism—I mean it’s actually for tools, like if you have a bad back and a lot of heavy hammers, you can use this device to relieve some of the stress on your spine because it distributes weight evenly. And then I was even more confused because why the hell would this be recommended for ME? In what world am I hammering drywall and looking for an ergonomic way to construct a small room? (Although if I WAS going to construct a small room, it would have a door that looked like a bookcase, and then when you pushed the bookcase, there would be this awesome room full of clocks, and it would be hidden so no one could bug me about having more clocks).

But as if this wasn’t bad enough, a couple of days ago, I got this ad in my feed from Canadian Tire, which apparently sells a LOT more than tires, and this was listed as a “Must-Have”…:

It’s called a Banzai Monster Munch Unde…and I’m assuming the rest of that word is “underwear”? because it looks like either the skeeziest pair of undies that one could imagine or it’s the strangest condom I’ve ever seen in my life. And I can understand a lot about this product, like it’s stretchy, it’s roomy, it’s designed for someone who’s fairly well-endowed…but I just don’t get the f*cking GOOGLY EYES!

In other news, we went to Kate’s graduation this week—she graduated with distinction from her Registered Veterinary Technician Program and we’re so incredibly proud of her.

In other, other news, I’ve been working hard on a Mydangblog novel so that I can work through the process of publishing something. If everything goes according to schedule, I’ll be launching DarkWinter Press in July and I’ll be looking for submissions. Keep me in mind!

Owning It

Last week, I was out and about, having gone to one of the big box bookstores to see about doing a book signing in the fall. It was a strange experience because I hadn’t been in that particular bookstore since before covid, when I’d done a book signing for The Dome. The change was remarkable–there were very few actual books in the store and the vast majority were from ‘big’ corporate publishers, a lot of floor space was taken up by home décor, there was no local author section, and the terminals were all shut so if you wanted to look anything up you had to scan a QR code. I spoke to the manager—the earliest I could book anything was September, which actually suited me, but when she said, “People are just starting to come back—it’s been very slow,” I really wanted to say, “Maybe that’s because there isn’t much to come back FOR, unless you have a fetish for scented candles.” But I consoled myself because I was close to a large thrift store that I hadn’t visited for a while. I went in, not expecting much, but wouldn’t you know—they’d just had a huge donation of silver, and I scored a couple of beautiful silver candelabras for $5 each, as well as a few other great bargains, including a stained glass lamp for $15. I went to the check-out and the woman in front of me was trying to use her debit card but the machine was acting up. “Don’t worry,” the young cashier said, “it’s just being temperamental. Some days it works; some days it’s like an an immovable object meets an unstoppable force.” I laughed to myself and then called out, “You’ve got Schrodinger’s debit machine there, I think.”

The cashier’s eyes lit up and he said, “It’s simultaneously working and not working.”

I laughed again and felt like I’d finally met a kindred spirit. When I got to the counter, I put my items down and said, “You guys still have the 10% Senior’s Discount, right?

He nodded “We sure do.”

Me: Do you need to see ID with that?
Cashier: No. I just need you to say it.
Me: Say it?
Cashier: Say it out loud for me. Come on.
Me (rolls eyes): I’m a Senior.
Cashier: Hahahaha! I made you say it.

Now before you think I was offended or something, I WASN’T. Because a) it was actually super-funny and I laughed my *ss off, and b) I got 10% off all the stuff I got so when I sell it, my profit margin will be even better. He also told me that he didn’t always make people say it, just the ones who looked like they’d be cool about it and think it was funny. And I did.

In other news, I am so happy because I just accepted the position of Summer Writer-In-Residence for a local library system. Starting in July, I’ll be running programming, mentoring writers, and participating in writing groups. And as an extra bonus, as if this wasn’t already awesome, they’ll be hosting the official book launch for my new book, the sequel to The Seventh Devil, called The Devil You Know, which is supposed to be out late June/early July.

It was worth it.

Being Taken For A Ride

You may or may not remember that, in the past, I’ve waxed eloquent about my love of heavy machinery, specifically forklifts. I used to think the pinnacle of existence would be to tool around my neighbourhood, rearranging picnic tables, delivering pallets, and rescuing those who had had pallets fall upon them mostly (because my stacking of said pallets wasn’t quite up to snuff because I’M JUST LEARNING). But I’m in my late 50s now and it occurred to me that I might have to give up the forklift fantasy. I was initially very sad, but then something ostensibly even better happened. Our neighbour, small engine mechanic extraordinaire and Ken’s boss (as a retirement gig, he does paperwork and deliveries for the mechanic) messaged to ask if we were interested in the John Deere riding lawnmower that he had just refurbished. INTERESTED?! I didn’t even ask how much money he wanted. I just ordered Ken to text him back immediately before he sold it to some other late-middle-aged agricultural aficionada. Ken and I were, of course, about to embark on our European adventure, so we agreed that we would take possession when we came back, which gave me plenty of time to anticipate the day I would ride the majestic Deere like the gardening guru I longed to be.

So when we got back from holidays, Ken went to work and came home later driving the lawnmower (the mechanic lives directly across the street from us), and I was a little upset because I wanted to be the first to drive it. But I forgave Ken immediately once I saw the shiny green and yellow vision ensconced on the front yard. I was dying to mount it as one would a gallant steed and carve perfect diagonal lines into my lawn; alas, rain was in the forecast for the next few days. But last Monday, it was a glorious morning, the grass was negligibly long, and we were having company, so I begged Ken to back the dear John Deere out of the garden shed where it was being housed. Why didn’t I do it myself, you ask? Because I don’t reverse well. Obviously.

The shiny new-to-me lawnmower was now perfectly positioned, facing the correct way and ready to mow. I hopped on—the seat seemed comfortable. I turned the key, with Ken looking on jealously.

Me (yelling): Holy f*ck! That’s loud!
Ken (yelling back): Do you have any headphones to protect your ears?

I hadn’t thought about that. I turned the machine off and went into the house to source some headphones, which I found tucked away in a drawer. Now, I was REALLY ready to mow. I started the engine again—the sound was nicely muffled. Ken explained how to put it in gear, lower the deck, engage the blades and whatnot, and off I went. Ten minutes later:

Ken: How’s it going?
Me (yelling because I’m wearing noise-cancelling headphones): OH MY GOD, I F*CKING HATE THIS.
Ken: Huh? Why?!

Because our lawn is lumpy and I had just spent the last ten minutes bouncing up and down on a lawnmower seat and the vibrations had caused a histamine reaction in both my butt AND my boobs, and I was so itchy I could barely stand it–that’s why, KEN. Also, I was having difficulty gauging how low-hanging our tree branches were and managed to whack myself in the face numerous times whilst simultaneously knocking my stupid headphones off.

Ken: Oh, is that why you kept screaming? Do you want me to finish the lawn for you?
Me: No, I do not. I’m a grown-ass woman and I will do it.

And I did it. Every minute was torture. The only saving grace is that when I was finished, I got off the demon machine and observed the property. There was a noticeable lack of diagonal lines; in fact, most of the lines were circular and criss-crossed each other haphazardly, but the grass was now a respectable length and everything looked quite pretty.

Ken: Did you want to do the weed-whacking as well?
Me: What do you think, KEN?

And then I went into the house and poured a glass of wine. Yeah, yeah, it was only 11 in the morning but I deserved it. And if Ken ever wants me to mow the lawn again, he’ll have to install a cup holder.

The Cleaner Part Deux

You may remember a few weeks ago, I wrote about how the owner of the antique market where I work had hired a cleaner, and he looked exactly like a ‘cleaner’, which is to say, someone who cleans up after assassins and whatnot. He’s been cleaning one day a week ever since, and he does a very thorough job, almost like he’s used to a VERY DEMANDING CLIENTELE, if you know what I mean. He doesn’t speak much, just the normal good morning, or “where do you keep the Windex” and up until now, I haven’t had any actual conversations with him, which I realized last week was probably a good thing.

I usually take my lunch around 1:30 in the small breakroom we have for staff, and last week, as I was beginning my lunch, The Cleaner was finishing his. I sat down at the table and we exchanged pleasantries. I started eating. And then he started talking:

The Cleaner: So do you think Covid is over?
Me: Huh? Oh. I don’t think so—I know a lot of people are still getting it.
The Cleaner: Do you believe that it was created in a lab overseas by the governments of the world so that they could kill off a lot of the world’s population? Because the world is very overpopulated.
Me (chewing food): Uh…no…
The Cleaner: There’s a large proportion of the world’s population who are old, and this way the government could kill them and then they wouldn’t have to pay them their pensions.
Me: That sounds like a very complicated and strange conspiracy theory.
The Cleaner: It was definitely created by the world’s governments.
Me: I don’t believe that. Anyway, do you think it’s going to rain later?

And while the conversation was bizarre, the weirdest thing was that the whole time he was talking, he was staring out the window, like he was lost in thought and musing, almost wistful. And then he smiled, and he only had four teeth.

In other news, right before Ken and I went away, I needed to buy more underwear, so I went to Winners, a fairly big department store, and wasn’t I thrilled to find not only a 6 pack of really nice underwear but the brand was LUCKY BRAND and every pair has a 4 LEAF CLOVER embroidered on it, so now every day is a lucky day.

And in other, other news, I guess the lucky underwear panned out, because I’ve just accepted the position of ‘Summer Writer-In-Residence’ for our local county library system, dividing my time between four different branches this summer, running writing workshops, hosting guests, and mentoring other writers. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, and it really is a dream come true. Thanks, Lucky Brand.

There’s No Place Like Home

As I write this, I’m sitting in the lounge at the Barcelona airport, waiting to board our very long flight home, and reflecting on the last ten days. It’s been a wonderful time all in all, with really too much to capture here, but of course there were the requisite weird things. Here are some highlights:

Vatican City: It was super-crowded but we were supposed to be on a very expensive “Small Group Special Access” tour, which I had assumed meant we’d get some special privileges, like saying Hi to the pope and whatnot. We did not. We saw pretty much everything that all the other tourists saw as they shuffle-stepped shoulder to shoulder through the narrow hallways of the Sistine Chapel. We did get to tour the pope’s gardens—they were gorgeous and there were, randomly, a lot of large turtles. We also got into the Basilica without lining up for 2 hours. And the coolest thing in there was the actual corpse of some guy, an ex-pope I guess, and he was coated in wax to preserve him. Obviously I needed a picture of that—I mean The Birth Of Man is one thing but a preserved corpse?! And the best and weirdest part is the the clear case he’s lying in is BULLETPROOF. Just in case. In case of what, I have no idea. Also, we discovered that you have to read the shore excursion descriptions very carefully. For example, when it says “Gaze in wonder at the Uffizi Art Gallery where the Statue Of David resides”, it means you can look at the Uffizi from the outside but you don’t get to go in. And some of those gazes cost a pretty penny, so we learned to interpret correctly.

We toured France, Spain, and Italy. In France, nobody said anything about crime, but in Spain and Italy, every single person, from the hotel concierge, the tour guides, the bus drivers, and restaurant staff would tell us, “Keep your bag in front of you and put your wallet in your front pocket.” How bad is the pickpocketing situation when the citizens of a country are like, “These are my people but they WILL rob you blind. Trust no one, not even our children.” Strange endorsement. Ken, of course, insisted on keeping his wallet in his back pocket on the grounds that “it had a button flap”. As if that would stop a pickpocket, KEN. So I had to stand behind him all the time, guarding his butt.

Valencia. This is one of the most whack places I’ve ever been to. We took a tour called Valencia: City of Flowers, but there didn’t seem to be any more flowers there than anywhere else in Spain. And not once in the 3-hour tour did our tour guide tell us why Valencia is called that. Although apparently it SHOULD be called the City of Fires because most of the tour was him telling us about this bizarre festival they have every year where people carve giant wooden statues, some 20 storeys tall, some costing $800 000, and then at the end of the festival, THEY SET FIRE TO THEM. One of the guys on our tour asked, “Is it like Burning Man?” and the tour guide said, in a very deadpan way, “No. No, it’s not. Not at all.” Then he took us to a museum full of some of the statues because every year, the statue that’s voted the best one is saved from the fire. And if you’re thinking these statues were like Greek or Roman statues, or even Renaissance style, you’d be wrong because they weren’t and they were TERRIFYING. My particular favourite was the one of the babies all eating each other.

On the way back to the boat, we passed a park, and the tour guide said, “If you look over there, you’ll see a statue of a dog on fire. This park is very nice, for the children to come and play.” And those are two sentences I never thought I would hear back to back.

One of the best things about cruising though is that you see a lot of the same people each day, and sometimes you get to know a couple of them well enough to become friends. That happened to us with a few fellow travelers: Dee and Joe from Buffalo (she talked exactly like Joan Rivers), and Dontae and Lisa who were both in the military and were taking their first vacation in years before being stationed in Tokyo. They were our partners in the wine blending challenge and our concoction, aptly called “Dontae’s Inferno”, took second place and won us bottles of wine. And then there were Glenn and Kanya, two of the loveliest people I’ve ever had the fortune of meeting. We sat together for lunch on an excursion and immediately felt like we’d known them forever. Glenn was a trivia king, but not hardcore like some people, who took the promise of a “life-changing prize” a little too seriously and were severely disappointed when they found out it was a pop socket. The running joke became that our trivia team was called “Glenn From Vancouver” because, despite the fact that he was clearly Australian, Ken mistakenly introduced him to Dontae and Lisa as Glenn from Vancouver much to everyone’s delight. I hope we see them again one day. But for now, it’s good to be home. I know Atlas missed us–well at least one of us:

Me: Hey Buddy, we’re back!
Atlas: Daddy!!
Me: I really missed you. Did you miss me?
Atlas: Meh. DADDY!!!!

Still, it’s good to know that we can leave him in the care of our dogsitter (as well as my parents and our neighbours who helped out as well), and he’s not traumatized. And now the only thing I need to do is get over the jetlag…