Suzanne Craig-Whytock's Blog, page 3

The Butler Did It

Big news first! A few days ago, I finished my new manuscript, the one I got the grant to write. It’s called Murder Most Novel, and it’s a humorous murder mystery. All I need now are some good blurbs and a publisher, so if you know anyone who likes funny books about people getting killed, let me know! Oh, and the title of this post has nothing to do with MY book—there wouldn’t be much point in writing a whodunnit and then telling everyone who did it!

And now onto something completely different. A while ago, our air conditioning unit in the attic leaked and ruined the ceiling in our upper hallway and landing. Ken decided to repair it himself, which meant clearing all the furniture and accessories out. We have a very large flat-to-wall cupboard up there where we’ve kept some of Kate’s favourite childhood books. Ken finally finished the renos and we thought it might be a good time to cull some of the stuff that we had in the landing area. I started going through the books, reminiscing about Molly and her new washing machine, and the hours we spent playing I Spy, which was a popular series of books when Kate was little. And then I found a book called Dinosaur Bob And His Adventures With The Family Lazardo. I couldn’t remember ever buying it or even reading it to Kate when she was little, so I started flipping through it. Here’s the gist of the story: An American family named Lazardo goes on safari and finds a dinosaur which they bring back to the States and it causes a lot of issues but in the end, (spoiler alert), the dinosaur helps their town baseball team win a big game. And that explanation is only slightly longer than the title of the book. But that’s not the weird part. The fact that they go on an AFRICAN SAFARI with their small children and find a dinosaur isn’t even the weird part. No, the thing that absolutely confounds me is this. On the cover of this book (which was written in 1988 by the way) and on almost every page, there is a man wearing a regimental uniform and a turban. He is briefly described on the first page, when the family initially encounters the dinosaur, thusly: “Jumbu, their bodyguard, said nothing.”

Okay, first, why the hell does this family need a bodyguard?! And why is he some kind of Sikh warrior? But then things get even weirder because based on the illustrations, it turns out that he’s not really their bodyguard—he’s actually their MANSERVANT, and on the second page, the Lazardos are lounging on the dinosaur’s back in their swimsuits while Jumbu is in some kind of ceremonial beachwear and he’s SERVING THEM ALL DRINKS. This book was published by Scholastic and can you imagine the pitch meeting?

Author: So there’s this white family and they find a dinosaur…
Scholastic: Like, dinosaur bones?
Author: No. A real dinosaur. And they bring it back to the United States to play baseball for their hometown team.
Scholastic: Interesting. Are there any quirky unexpected characters?
Author: Well, they have an East Indian manservant–
Scholastic: Manservant? That might be perceived as racist. This IS 1988 after all. Better call him a bodyguard.
Author: Oh, okay.

Throughout the entire book, no one talks to him, no one mentions him, even though he’s on almost every single page serving drinks to the family, playing catch with the kids and whatnot, and no one even thinks to ask “Hey Jumbu, you’re a bodyguard, right? Do you think it’s safe to bring a dinosaur back to the Unites States to play baseball?” Because I’m sure all the chaos could have been avoided by letting Jumbu do his damn job. The only time we hear about Jumbu again is on the last page where the family is celebrating the big baseball game win and “Jumbu brought out the musical instruments” so the family could sing and dance. But then it felt like there was some ominous foreshadowing because right at the very end, it says, “Jumbu smiled.” I’ll bet he did. And the sequel to this book is called, Jumbu Gets Even.

Over Rated

Ken and I began doing jigsaw puzzles during the pandemic when we were super bored and found one in a cupboard that belonged to Kate. It was Niagara Falls, all lit up, and by the time we were finished, we were hooked. Up to that point, I’d never done a jigsaw puzzle in my life and scoffed at the whole notion. Now, it’s rare not to see the puzzle board set up on our kitchen island. But good puzzles can be pricey, so we quite often get them second hand, and do swaps with my parents, who are masters at the puzzle game.

Last week, they came over with a stack, which I tucked in the closet until I was done with my latest, a 1000 piece Ravensburger that’s no longer available but that I was obsessed with. It’s called The Sanctuary of Knowledge and I’d been looking for it for ages. I finally found it on Facebook marketplace and drove quite a way to get it. I put it together, only to discover that it was missing FOUR PIECES. All that effort and no payoff. So I went to the closet and pulled out a nice 300 piece that I could do for a quick dopamine hit. I opened the box, dumped out the pieces, and saw this:

And there are so many things to unpack here. First, “Ken and June” (and I feel even more salty about the dude being named Ken because MY Ken would never do this), you two BOUGHT the puzzle. “Too short”?! Did you not see the GIANT “300 PIECES” written on the box? How long did you THINK it was going to take?

Second, who exactly are you rating this for? You gave it to a THRIFT STORE—was your intention to convey to random strangers who will never meet you that you are sophisticated and world-weary puzzle aficionados? “Ah, yes, you plebians at Goodwill might be satisfied with a mere 300 pieces, but to us, it was a waste of our precious time. We crave the chaos of frustration; give us not the ease of rapidity.”

Also, the rating was on the INSIDE of the box, so it wouldn’t even help a potential puzzler make a decision.

And what kind of rating system IS this anyway? You docked the puzzle THREE WHOLE POINTS for taking exactly as long as a 300 piece puzzle should take? That’s like me getting a 1-star review for my first novel, which very clearly states on the cover that it’s about a sixteen-year-old girl, from a 70-year-old man who didn’t like it because it was about a sixteen-year-old girl. SERIOUSLY.

But despite the terrible rating from “Ken and June”, I did the puzzle anyway, and really enjoyed it. Then I got to the end and no, there weren’t any pieces missing this time; in fact, there was one EXTRA piece that didn’t even belong to this “short” puzzle. I just hope Ken and June didn’t give the puzzle it belonged to a 10 out of 10, because they’ve lost the little credibility they had left:

Puzzle person: Ooh, I can’t wait to do this 2000 piece puzzle…what’s this written inside the box? “A masterful creation, complex and time-consuming, but well worth the Herculean effort. 10 out of 10”, signed “Ken and June”. What a ringing endorsement!

Four days later…

Puzzle person (staring at completed 2000 piece puzzle with one piece missing): Curse you, Ken and June! Curse you straight to hell!

Dem Bones, Dem Bones

One Saturday morning last fall, Ken said to me, “Hey, let’s go to the Christie Antique Show.” I did what I always do and immediately said, “Yes! Let’s do that.” Then I did the next thing I always do and immediately had second thoughts and regrets, especially after looking on the website which said that there were free shuttle buses from the parking lot to the show site. All I could think of was the line-up to get into the parking lot, the line-up to get on the bus, and the obvious huge crowds of people that would be there. So I said, “Maybe let’s not go after all,” but Ken was insistent, even when I was all sad and whiny and like, “I don’t wanna go to the antique show. Don’t make me go to the antique show,” but he made me go anyway on the grounds that “it will be fun.”

Before we left…
Me: I’m taking my wristlet. I don’t want to lug a huge purse around with me.
Five minutes later…
Ken: I’m taking my camera.
Me: You always take your camera. Why are you telling me this?
Ken: Oh, I just thought we were announcing things to each other.
Atlas (from outside): Here’s my annoucement. I’m taking a dump in the back yard! This is fun!

In the car…
Ken: Why are you staring at me like that? Is there something wrong with the way my outfit?
Me: I wasn’t staring at you. I was looking past you out the window.
Ken: No, you were looking at me.
Me: How would you even know that?! I’m wearing dark sunglasses. Besides, you look fine. You’re wearing your red plaid shirt and lime green T-shirt. What could possibly be wrong with that?

A moral dilemma…

Me: Did you see that video on Facebook about the job interview question?
Ken: The one where you’re driving in a lightning storm and you see three people at the side of the road?
Me: Right—“You see your best friend who once saved your life, a beautiful woman, and a sick elderly lady standing by the side of the road in a lightning storm, and you only have one seat. Who do you take?” It was easy. I solved it right away.
Ken: What do you mean, “you solved it”? Did you watch the video to the end?
Me: I didn’t need to watch it to the end. The old lady sits on my lap in the driver’s seat, my best friend sits in the other seat, and the beautiful woman sits on HIS lap.
Ken: You’re not allowed to do that. You only have one extra seat.
Me: I can do whatever the f*ck I want. It’s MY ethics. I’m the Kobayashi Maru.
Ken: No, in this situation, you’re Kirk. But it doesn’t matter. That’s not the right answer. Why don’t you EVER watch videos to the end? The CORRECT answer is: You give your keys to your best friend because you trust him to take the old woman to the hospital and then come back for you.  This leaves you alone with the beautiful woman. Then he comes back and—
Me: This is starting to sound suspiciously like that logic problem where you have a rowboat and you have to take a bunch of animals across a river. It’s a MORAL DILEMMA, not a logic problem, Ken. Also, why do I want to be alone with the woman?
Ken: So you can hit it off with her.
Me: A) She’s not my type and B) That’s why my solution is more ethical. I put the woman on my best friend’s lap so that HE could hit it off with her. I’m self-sacrificial as f*ck. There. I win. ALL THE MORALS ARE MINE.
Ken: Sigh.
Me: Hey! What if my best friend, the beautiful woman, and the elderly sick woman are ALL THE SAME PERSON?
Ken: I can see that. I mean, you’re MY best friend, you’re beautiful, elderly, and you were sneezing yesterday so you MIGHT be sick…
Me: I’m ELDERLY? Your outfit sucks.

Then we got to the antique show, and it wasn’t as bad as I thought. We had no problem getting parked, got a bus right away, and made it into the showgrounds less than 5 minutes after arriving. But then we realized that there were 100s of dealers and we needed a system, which was basically to wander down one row and back up another, saying, “Have we been down this aisle before? Oh yeah, I remember the giant elephant statue.” We have a friend who had a booth, and we finally found him. He said he was having a pretty good day, selling quite a bit and whatnot, when Ken pointed to a large box of bones at the front of his tent. They were priced at $5 each. When we asked about it, he said that last month, a guy came into his store with this big box of bones, wondering if he’d buy them. He was skeptical at first, but they sold like hotcakes (if hotcakes were all dirty and decomposed). So when the guy came back with another box, he bought that too, and brought them to sell at the show.

Friend: People are going nuts for them. I’ve already sold most of them. Quite a few people have been teachers, you know—want to use them in their classrooms.
Ken: What kind of bones are they?
Friend: Cow bones. I think.
Me: Cow bones?
Friend: Probably.

I don’t know if I want my child in a classroom where the teacher is like, “Hey kids, check this out! It LOOKS like a human femur, but the guy told me it’s probably just a cow bone.” And the weirdest thing was, he wasn’t the ONLY dealer selling bones. There were so many of them that we lost count. There were skulls, antlers, jaw bones, full skeletons of small rodents, you name it. We walked past a booth where a guy was showing a woman a skull that was on top of a log with a branch going through the skull’s eye socket. He was actually saying this: “Sometimes when animals die in the forest, they do it on top of logs and such, and then they go into rigor mortis there. So I’ve arranged the skull and log like this—kind of like a nature scene.”

And while this may seem like a one-off, at the antique market where I currently work, there’s a dealer who has glass vials full of chicken bones, and they also sell like crazy. Go figure. I guess I should have kept last year’s Christmas turkey carcass–I could have made a fortune.

That’s Not My Name

It’ll be a quick one today—I’m up to my eyeballs in things to do and of course, today is radio show day. Last month was better, and I’m hoping I make it through the whole show without any glitches—I’ll keep you posted. And of course, I just got back from an overnight stay at a hotel, because Ken and I were at the wedding of our lovely neighbours. I do love a good wedding and I always say, “Meh. I won’t cry.” And then the bride comes walking down the aisle, and the groom lights up, and my eyes fill with tears every time. My favourite part of the ceremony, aside from the joy in the eyes of our neighbours as they tied the knot, was the officiant, who was pretty laid back. She had a microphone that kept cutting out a bit, but at the point where the rings were brought out, she very clearly said, “Ooh, nice box!” And it WAS nice, being velvet and all. Then there was the reception at a local winery. The groom’s uncles were the MCs and they were hilarious, as was the best man—it was a fantastic comedy show, and I don’t think I’ve ever laughed that much at a wedding reception—not even my own.

Then of course, we had to stay overnight at a hotel because it was a bit of a distance from our house. It was an interesting hotel, and by interesting I mean, I will not stay there again, because our room was on the main floor and it had a floor to ceiling window with only a thin window blind separating us from the restaurant patio where several many people were drinking to loud music—I could have stepped out of the window right onto the dancefloor. It was freezing in the room but we couldn’t open the window because of THE PEOPLE RIGHT OUTSIDE IT. But the music shut off around 10:30 and I actually had a decent night’s sleep. In the morning, I got out of bed and the room was still freezing despite the fact that I had turned the A/C completely off. So Ken pulled up the large blind and I opened the window to get some warm air in, and literally 10 seconds later, this old guy yells, “Hey Emma!! Is that you?” And I’m standing there in the window, wearing a shortie nightie, my hair all frizzled from the humidity, bare legs, boobs hanging out, and this old guy is WALKING TOWARDS MY OPEN FLOOR TO CEILING WINDOW. He’s like five feet away from me and staring at me and again, he yells, “Emma!! Is that you?” I yell, “NO, IT’S NOT!!” and slam down the blind. It was like that scene in Life of Brian where he gets up, completely naked, throws open the curtains, yawns and stretches, then a whole crowd screams his name. But instead of thinking I was the messiah, this guy just thought I was his friend.

And I ask you—if you have a friend staying at a hotel, why would you EVER assume that the one person standing in the window of one of over 60 rooms MUST be your friend? All I can hope is that when he DID find Emma, she was fully clothed.

It Is What It Is

To begin, it’s Father’s Day here, so a heartfelt Happy Father’s Day to my wonderful husband, Ken, who’s an amazing dad, and same to my own awesome father—I love you both so much! And now, on with the show!

As you all may or may not know, I currently work in a bookstore on the weekends. It’s an absolutely beautiful little store, with lots of light, custom shelving, and the best part? All the books, of course. The people who come in are equally lovely, but I have noticed some common quirks among the customer base. There are many things that a bookstore IS, but there are also some things that a bookstore is NOT. So here, for your humorous reading pleasure is a list of the Top 3 things a bookstore is not:

1) A bookstore is not a thrift store. Regularly, people come in, look around, gesture expansively, and ask, “Are these all new?” And yes, KEN, I know that some bookstores carry second-hand books, but I don’t walk into Old Navy and ask the sales clerk, “Have all these clothes been worn by people before?” And when I answer, “No, these books are all new”, people often look quite sad or disgruntled because they were ‘hoping to find a copy of X’. The chances of you finding a copy of X in a second-hand bookstore is GREATLY less that you being able to ORDER a copy of X in a new book store, and why would you want a copy of X that someone else pawed over with their greasy hands anyway? (Sorry, that’s just my OCD talking). Once, a guy carrying a large box on his shoulder, swooped into the store and announced, “I have books for you!”

Me: Are you the Purolator guy?
Guy: What? No, I have books to give you.
Me: (confused) What kind of books?
Guy: USED books! I have a ton.
Me: I’m so sorry, we don’t sell used books.
Guy: But they’re in really good condition—see? (Takes old paperback out of box).
Me: Again, I’m sorry but we can’t take them.
Guy: Meh. (leaves)

2) A bookstore is not a library. However, a lot of parents seem to think that it’s perfectly fine to bring their kids in, grab a book off the shelf, and read it to them. Now, I have no issue about parents reading to their kids in the store—in fact, we have a small kids’ table and a comfy chair just for that. But we ALSO have a very nice selection of ‘store copies’ of books for kids to read while their parents wander around ignoring them.

Me (to toddler who has taken a copy of Stephen King’s The Shining off the shelf): Oh sweetie, I think that one might be a little too old for you. Here’s a nice stack of books for you to read. Do you want to sit at the little table?
Child: NO! I WANT THIS ONE.
Me: But look—here’s a book about Corduroy The Bear. How about—
Child: NOOOO. (grabs another book off the shelf and rips out a page).
Father of Child: Sigh. I guess we have to pay for that one?
Me: That’ll be $29.99.

And in the same vein: a bookstore is not a daycare. Please do not send your small children in while you wait in line for a loaf of bread at the very popular bakery next door. I love small children, I really do, but I don’t know YOUR small children and I don’t feel it’s my place to take them to the bathroom because you need carbs. And of course, the worst thing is when people bring their kids into the store, let them look at all the books, read to them, get them all excited, and then won’t buy them anything. I’ve had my heart broken a couple of times by a child crying because they thought they were getting the book they’d been carrying around for half an hour, only to have the parent say, “Maybe another day,” while simultaneously buying THEMSELVES the latest 900 page romantasy. And I get that some people maybe can’t afford new books, but again, the library is literally 3 blocks away. And you CAN take those books home.

3) A bookstore can’t help you remember the book that you know literally nothing about:

Customer: Do you have that book about the guy, and that woman, and there’s an island, and a storm?
Me: That’s maybe like half of all the mystery books in here. Do you know the title?
Customer: No.
Me: Do you know who wrote it?
Customer: No.
Me: Do you remember what the cover looks like?
Customer: I think it was blue.
Me (pretending to search on the computer): I’m not seeing it in our system, sorry.
Customer: Okay, thanks.

So yes, it has its quirks, but I really do love working there. Surrounded by books? That’s living the dream.

In other news, I’m pretty sure why this guy is looking for wood fence panels. We’ve been lucky this year, and I hope I’m not jinxing anything by saying that Atlas has yet to be sprayed, unlike last year where he was 0-5 against the skunk that took up residence under our shed. This year we just have a lot of rabbits, and they’re adorable, especially the tiny ones. I only wish they wouldn’t eat my lupins. I’ll have to find out where TJ gets his fence panels from…

Euphemistically Speaking

I belong to a Writers’ Group that meets twice a month. I don’t always get to go because my schedule is nuts, but they’re really nice people so whenever I can, I attend. It’s always fun—everyone gets to share what they’re working on, and do a little reading out loud if they like, which is good for getting feedback. This past week, I showed up, and there weren’t that many people sitting around the table (the group meets at a library that has cozy seating AND a fireplace so if that isn’t reason enough to attend, I don’t know what is—the only thing better would be cocktails). We did a little attendance check, i.e. So-and-so can’t be here because she’s on vacation; Bob isn’t here because he had an appointment, and whatnot. Then someone said, “Oh, Mary’s not here because her Irish uncle is visiting.” And I was like, “That’s a new one—what’s it a euphemism for?” because all I could think of was those other sayings/excuses about visits, such as ‘I can’t come because my Aunt Flo is visiting’, or ‘I need to visit the little girl’s room’, and it occurred to me that maybe ‘a visit from your Irish uncle’ meant you’re drunk or hungover or something. AND I’M SORRY, because I KNOW that’s a terrible negative stereotype and that overall, I’m sure Irish people don’t drink anymore than the rest of us. But still… At any rate, the person who said it responded, “No, her uncle from Ireland is at her house right now,” and that clarified it a little bit, although it could STILL be a euphemism, and all I could think of was Mary, prone on her sofa, waving a glass of wine merrily and yelling “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya!”

And speaking of things you WISH were euphemisms, on Saturday, I was in a store looking for body lotion that DIDN’T contain coconut or aloe vera because I’m allergic to both. A sales woman was helping me scan the shelves. She pulled out a pump bottle that said, “Rice Lotion.”

Saleswoman: I think this one would be okay. It’s made in Korea, and the base is rice.
Me: (checks ingredients) It looks like it would work.
Saleswoman: Here’s another from the same company. It says ‘Snail Lotion’.
Me: What’s in it? (checks ingredients). It says…snail mucus.
Saleswoman:
Me:
Saleswoman: Um…
Me: Pass. I’ll stick with the rice.

Because I’d need several visits from my Irish uncle before I EVER slathered snail mucus all over my body.

Speaking of my body, I got a new tattoo to commemorate the publication of Dark Nocturnes. One of my favourite stories is Landscape With The Fall Of Icarus. I’m so lucky because I have an amazing tattoo guy who did this for me, and I love it:

Ode To The Smelly Chair

You all know how much I love a good bargain but sometimes, it can be a problem. In the past, I’ve been given the eyeroll by my daughter at the grocery store when I buy 30 rolls of toilet paper just to get the extra points. And I only ever buy something from Lancome if there’s a “gift with purchase”, which means that I have more eye make-up remover and sample size mascara than I could possibly use in one lifetime. But sometimes, my love of a bargain has its downside. Well, downside mostly for Ken:

Me: I need you to go into Ayr tonight around 7 o’clock.
Ken: What? Why?
Me: I bought a 7 foot column.
Ken: What do you mean a column?
Me: You know, like, a pillar. It was a really good price.
Ken: What do you want it for?
Me: I don’t know yet. But it’s awesome, and I told them you’d be by around 7. Here’s the address.

And the column WAS awesome, even Ken agreed. Right now it’s in the corner of my office, but one day, it will be used for something really cool, like a super-tall pedestal for a bust of Shakespeare, or to hold up a low ceiling or something. I do this to Ken all the time, and I’m glad he’s the kind of guy who sees into the future for this stuff. Last week, I made him go and buy a vacuum cleaner hose for the central vacuum cleaner upstairs. He gave me a hard time, which is par for the course, but he later agreed that for $30, it was worth the drive to Cambridge so that he didn’t have to drag the downstairs hose up the stairs anymore. See, I’m always thinking of ways to make his life easier.

I’ve gotten many amazing bargains over the years, but I’ve learned some lessons the hard way. Like, don’t buy furniture from chain smokers. Several years ago, we were looking for a certain kind of chair for in front of our fireplace. I was on Facebook, and I saw the perfect chair: dark brown leather, tufted back, recliner—perfect for Ken after a hard day, and very match-ey with the rest of the room’s motif. So I called the owners, and arranged to go and see it. When I got to their house, I was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of cigarette smoke. I looked at the chair, which was gorgeous, but told them I’d have to talk to my husband first and would let them know (because I didn’t want to buy it, but also didn’t want to be mean to this nice old couple who were, apparently, well on their way to lung cancer). Well, when Ken saw the picture of it, he fell in chair-love. “Their house reeks,” I said.
“It’s leather,” he replied. “We can just wipe it down.”
Well, OK then. So we drove back out, paid for it, and loaded it up. He kept saying things like, “See, it’s not so bad,” to which I would reply, “It’s on the trailer and I can still smell it.” But we got it in the house, and it looked amazing. “See,” said Ken, “it’s perfect. And it hardly smells at all.” So we went to bed that night, feeling pretty good about our great deal. Then in the morning, I came downstairs. My living room smelled like a BINGO HALL. I kid you not, it was like a bunch of emphysemic senior citizens had set up shop with their cards and dabbers in front of my fireplace. The chair spent the next three days out on the front porch.
After three days, we brought it back in. It became immediately clear that the problem had NOT been solved, so out came the leather cleaner and the Febreze. Day after day, I cleaned and sprayed that damn chair with a variety of floral and geographic scent-sations. One night, Ken was so simultaneously sad about the smell, but happy about the comfort level of the chair that he spread a blanket over the entire thing to mask the odour and fell blissfully asleep in it. At this point, I realized that no matter how much the chair smelled, Ken loved it like a child—a smelly, poorly behaved child—and I could never convince him to part with it. Over the years, the smell has faded to the point where it’s completely undetectable, unless it’s particularly warm and humid outside and we haven’t turned the air conditioning on yet. And we still call it the Smelly Chair. But it was a great deal, and if nothing else, I’m all about a bargain.

In other news, I’m getting this post ready early today, Saturday, because I’m doing a book fair until 8 pm as DarkWinter Press. It’s an outdoor book fair. The current temperature is 8 degrees Celsius (about 46 degrees Fahrenheit), it’s overcast, and it’s windy. Do you know why that is? Because we’ve gone past False Spring and are now in the Second Winter of Our Discontent. I really hope I sell some books before I freeze to death.

As I Was Saying

The other day, I was out shopping, buying designer purses and vintage lamps, as one does.
When it came time to pay, I had a couple of coupons but wasn’t sure how to use both of them for the transaction. I asked the store worker at the self-checkout, and she said, “It’s easier if I do it for you; it’s like killing two birds with one shovel.” I immediately did a double-take, first because things seemed to have escalated quickly from talking about thrifting coupons to violently murdering birds, and second, because as far as I know, the original saying is “Kill two birds with one stone” and where the hell did the shovel come from?! I mean, the original saying is bad enough—I suppose it means accomplishing two things at once, but who was the sadist who thought the best metaphor for that was the slaughter of our avian friends with projectiles? And now we’ve upped the game to some bizarre game of stealth, because there’s no way you can bludgeon two birds with one shovel unless you have the reflexes of a ninja (and the soul of a serial killer). And it got me thinking about other weird sayings:

1) A bird in the hand is better than two in the bush

Is it really though? Have you ever actually tried to hold a bird in your hand? Those little f*ckers get pretty pecky. I’d much rather have two birds merrily singing in a bush than one of them trying to bite my damn finger off.

2) Eating crow

This saying is interchangeable with “eating humble pie” and let me tell you, I’d much rather eat pie than a crow. Is the crow IN a pie, like in that weird song about some king eating 24 blackbirds? And how is crow best served, anyway? Personally, if I was forced to eat a crow, I’d like it in a stir fry, smothered with spicy peanut sauce and served with a side of rice noodles. Or I could just not eat it at all, because according to the first idiom, I would have to kill it with a stone. Or a shovel. Neither of those options sounds appealing.

3) Throwing the baby out with the bathwater

Were old-timey people really this villainous, with their birdicide and baby neglect? I used to think that this expression meant one thing, but apparently I was wrong:

Me: So throwing the baby out with the bathwater refers to someone being stupid, right? Like “He’s so dumb, he threw the baby out with the bathwater.” And then he had to go get the baby and give it another bath because it was all muddy and whatnot?
Ken: No, it’s an old saying from when people only bathed once a week. First, the grandparents had a bath, then the parents, then all the kids. By the time the baby’s turn came, the water was so dirty that no one realized the baby was in the bathtub.
Me: So the person who was bathing the baby was like, “Yawn, think I’ll go have a drink” and just forgot about the baby? I suspect my initial assumption was right.
Ken: No, it means losing something you really like along with something you don’t.
Me: Well, I like babies. I’m changing this to “throwing the pearls out with the jewelry box”.
Ken: Random, but OK.

4) Like taking candy from a baby

This expression is SUPPOSED to mean that something was really easy, but it’s completely inaccurate. Have you ever actually tried to take candy from a baby? They will scream and pout and generally make your life miserable. I wasn’t even allowed to dip into Kate’s Hallowe’en haul without being accused of grand larceny. Seriously. Just TRY taking candy from babies. They will cut you.

Of course, the current popular expression around our house is “What’s for you won’t go by you” which is something my dad always says, and which I take to mean that if something is meant for you, then fate will find a way to make it happen. I’ve been saying this a lot lately as there are a few things on my wish list. If only wishes were horses, then birds would ride…no wait…I’d be as happy as a bird in sh*t…no wait…it would be the best thing since sliced birds…no wait…

A Million Ways To Die (Or At Least 60, Or 23 I Guess)

For at least 4 years now, I’ve had a piece of paper on my desk that I can’t bring myself to throw away. On one side is some official receipt to do with my pension, but that’s not why I can’t just toss it in the trash. No, it’s because on the OTHER side, there’s a complete mystery. On the other side, it says the following:

60       
9 in a boat
1 bound and gagged
5 in tunnels or caves
4 peeking in windows
IIII in or with a plane

Now, you know I love a good mystery, and if you’ve followed me for a long time, you’ll be familiar with topics like The Mystery Of The Tip Sheet On The Table, A Salty Mystery, The Mystery Of The Box Of Porn On The Porch, and A Mouse-y Mystery, among many more complex and globally vital cases. Most recently, I penned Within A Month, where I tried to solve the mystery of the piece of paper stuck to my sandal that read “One month from July 25th”. Never did solve that one—August 25th came and went without any major catastrophe OR windfall.

But this—this piece of paper on my desk stymies me for a variety of reasons. First and most baffling? It was written by ME. How can I NOT remember why I wrote this series of statements? I mean I KNOW I wrote it, mostly because it seems to be in my handwriting, which is terrible, and the addition is completely wrong, which is very true to my mathematical prowess. 9+1+5+4+4 does NOT equal 60. I know that because I used a calculator to double check. And I KNOW it was a long time ago, but I can remember my student number from university in 1985, and I can recite a variety of poems and Shakespearian soliloquys, so why can’t I remember THIS?

Second, it’s written on the back of a receipt from 2021. What the hell was I doing in 2021 that would have compelled me to write out this list? I’m obviously keeping track of something—I thought initially that it may be some kind of criminal activity, given the number of people who are bound, gagged, trapped in tunnels and caves, set adrift at sea, or dabbling in voyeurism. But then there’s the plane. IN a plane, sure, but WITH a plane? Like, someone was killed when they wandered onto a runway? Ooh, maybe the person who was killed was a pilot and the murderer tampered with his plane. Or maybe the killer bludgeoned someone with a toy plane—or a wood plane. And why does my mind go IMMEDIATELY TO MURDER?? Well, have you met me? You could show me a picture of a flower, or a lawnmower, or gardening gloves (you can probably guess what I’ve been focused on now that the weather continues charming), and I would without hesitation begin mentally creating a short story where something terrible and twisted happens. I mean, the list on my desk could be completely innocuous, maybe about puppies getting up to hijinks, if it wasn’t for the fact that, if true, one of the puppies was “bound and gagged”, and I don’t think that EVER happened in Four Little Puppies.

He’s both in and with a plane.

So for wont of a rational explanation, this mystery will remain unsolved, unless one of you can understand what it all means. Or maybe I’ll remember why I wrote all of this down on August 25.

And speaking of mysteries…

I cannot in a MILLION years figure out why anyone would think this ad is a good way to sell a couch. A couch that SMELLS WEIRD. If your couch needs to be reupholstered because it looks like sh*t, and it also smells like sh*t, maybe you shouldn’t be asking $100 for it, FRED. I know lots of men with “mancaves” but they all have higher standards than that. Mostly because their wives won’t let them get away with having such an appallingly horrible smelly piece of furniture in there. I’ll have to add that to my mystery list—“1 on a couch”…

Skin Game

Before I start, I’d just like to say a huge thank you to a couple of people. First to D. Wallace Peach of Myths of the Mirror, a wonderful writer and supporter of writers who just posted an awesome review of my new short story collection Dark Nocturnes, which you can read here. And second, to Susan Richardson of Flowering Ink and A Thousand Shades of Green, also a wonderful writer and supporter of writers, who’s been reading stories from Dark Nocturnes out loud every week on her podcast. The way she reads them gives me chills, and I WROTE them! You can listen to her podcast here.

I’d also like to say a huge thank you to the universe, because after receiving some disappointing news last week while I was out thrift shopping, I thought maybe the universe hated me, but then no less than 20 seconds later, I turned around and saw this:

The universe loves me. And understands my obsession with drippy, impressionistic paintings of Paris. Thank you, universe. Now off we go…

Not long ago, I had to renew my health card. For those of you who don’t know what a health card is, it’s the card we have here in Ontario that you show at the doctor’s or the hospital or whatnot, and then you don’t have to pay for anything. Everyone in the province gets one at birth and it’s funded through income tax paid by residents and businesses. And for some reason, it’s one of the few things that can’t be renewed online anymore, which meant I had to go into a Service Ontario office (similar to the DMV) and stand in line. I went in the afternoon, and when I walked in, there were only 5 people ahead of me, and the three at the counter were finished quickly. But the next guy in line didn’t know what his exact mailing address was and insisted on looking at Google maps and stood at the second counter calling three other people to figure out the best place to mail him something, and then the woman at the third counter just WALKED AWAY. Which left one poor woman available for the rest of us. But still, she was very efficient, and about twenty minutes later it was my turn. She looked at my health card and said, “No problem. Your driver’s license is coming due at the same time—do you want to renew it now as well?”

And that seemed like the smart thing to do since I was there anyway, so I said, “Sure.”

She filled in some information on the computer, then looked me straight in the eye and said, “Do you want to be an organ donor?” And I was really taken aback, having an actual person ask me this, instead of just ticking off the box on the back of my license, and I froze.

Me: …No?
Woman: Really? Are you sure?…OK.

And then I felt terribly judged and also remembered that I’d had laser eye surgery and now my eyes were pretty good and might help someone else, and also that my kidneys and liver had passed their latest tests with flying colours, so I said, “Wait! I changed my mind. Yes, I’ll be an organ donor.”

She kind of sighed, and said, “It’ll take me a minute to get back to that screen. Hang on.” Then, after a few minutes, she asked this bizarre follow-up question, and my blood froze. “Do you want to donate only for life-saving procedures or also for medical research?”

MEDICAL RESEARCH?! Like I’d be one of those cadavers that medical students experiment on? Would they give me a terrible nickname like Gangrene Greta or Basic Body B*tch or take selfies with me? No thank you, ma’am and I told that woman the same in no uncertain terms, but while in my head I sounded determined, it came out a very whispery “Just the first one.”

Woman: OK, no medical research. Now, are you good with everything, or do you have any exceptions, for example, would you like to exempt your eyes, your lungs, your kidneys, blood plasma, your bones, or YOUR SKIN?
Me:
Woman: Great. Now I need to get a picture so stand over there and don’t smile.

Don’t SMILE? You just told me that when I die, someone is going to flay me and then steal my skin and bones. The license hasn’t come in the mail yet so I haven’t seen the picture, but I’m sure I look absolutely horrified in it. Like, imagine this scenario:

Cop: Do you know how fast you were going? Can I see your license and registration please?
Me (gives him my new license): Sorry, Officer, I—
Cop: (returns my license and backs away): I didn’t mean to add to your trauma. Have a nice day. (whispers to himself) Poor woman. Must have been the ‘skin’ question.

When I got home, I was really disturbed and told Ken what had happened. “I didn’t know what to say! She asked me in front of everyone and I didn’t have any time to think about it. But I don’t want them to take my skin! Don’t let them take it!”

And I know I sounded like a big baby but Ken laughed and reminded me that as my survivor, he had right of first refusal over all my body parts.

Ken: Besides, there’s no need to worry about it. You’ll be dead.
Me: YOU DON’T KNOW THAT, KEN!! And don’t forget, if you let them have my skin, you can’t have me stuffed and put me in the living room.
Ken: I wasn’t going to do that anyway.
Me: You’re so mean.
Ken: It’ll just be one small empty urn on the fireplace mantle…
Me: You better hope I die first.