Suzanne Craig-Whytock's Blog, page 5

Squirrel!!

Last week, Ken’s 2011 GMC Terrain finally bit the dust. It had already had a complete engine rebuild a couple of years ago, but the repairs it needed now were too expensive to consider keeping it on the road. Thus began the search for another vehicle. We didn’t want something new—Ken used the Terrain as an all-purpose trailer-hauling, cargo-carrying, dog-transporting workhorse, so anything fancy was out of the question (and as an aside, let me tell you that we can’t even SAY the word ‘car’ in our house without Atlas losing his mind—he thinks going for a car ride, even to our local hardware store two minutes away, is cause for tremendous crying, leaping, and swooning. He’s adorable, and also VERY good. He always has a safety go before he leaps in, and once he’s actually in the back, he stays put. Also, a safety go is when you pee even if you don’t need to, just in case. I don’t know if men do that, but a lot of women I know, myself included, ALWAYS do it.)

Anyway, we had to start looking for another vehicle. We test drove one—a 2017 Terrain (but Ken was leery about more engine problems), and then we looked at a 2015 Chevy Traverse. We’d pretty much decided on the Traverse and headed to the car lot to move forward on it, but no one was around, so we headed next door to a different car lot. There was a fully loaded 2016 Dodge Journey there, and after test driving it, we decided it was the right vehicle. So on Thursday, we made an appointment to put down a deposit and fill in the paperwork. And that’s when the fun started. Because the guy who owns this lot—he’s fairly young, and very nice and smart, and COMPLETELY OUT OF CONTROL. This is what went down:

Car Guy: Hey, good to see you. I stink. My dad’s dog got sprayed by a skunk and my dad doesn’t smell so the dog went all over the house and do you know how to get skunk out of a suede couch because the dog was laying all over it and—hey, it’s really cold in here. (gets up and leaves the room). I don’t think the furnace is working, which is weird because it was fine yesterday, but who knows, anyway how much did you want to put down as a deposit?

Ken: We were thinking five hun—

Car Guy: (gets up and leaves the room and continues talking) Sometimes the thermostat gets stuck and you have to turn it off and then on again…oh wait, do you hear something, like it’s firing up? Once, I came in and it was like minus 5 in here. Wow, I really smell, sorry about that, but I couldn’t even put the dog outside because it’s so cold. (comes in and sits back down). So here’s the report on the Dodge. It’s pleasantly boring, which means it’s been well taken care of and I should probably be asking more for it but there you go. Did you want new plates?

Ken: Yes, the old ones are kind of peeling—

Car Guy: But it’s okay because I really rely on volume sales, which is why my cars are all so cheap, like I just LOVE buying stuff so if I can move things out fast, then I can buy more, You see that 2005 Toyota over there? I picked it up this morning, got two grand on it but someone will buy it—the mileage is only like 45 000k. Crazy, right? Hey, do you think the exhaust pipe for the furnace might be blocked?

(At which point, he and Ken go outside to investigate while I sit there shivering in my winter coat. After a few minutes, they come back and Car Guy is carrying an empty Tupperware container. It’s not clear why. It never becomes clear.).

Me: Did you find the pipe? (Ken shrugs).

Car Guy: No. Maybe. I’m not sure. Anyway, I think I’m just gonna have to put the dog in the shower with some of that stuff, whaddaya call it?

Me: Skunk Off?

Car Guy: Yeah, although that might smell worse than the skunk. Does it sound like the furnace is on yet? (leaves room to fiddle with thermostat). Anyway, let’s get that paperwork done (phone rings). Hello, Honest T’s. The Journey? Sorry, man, it just sold, like literally just now, but hey, I have a 2012, come on by and see. (hangs up). Wow, you guys have great timing. If you could just initial here and here and sign here…okay now we have to go into the other office where the debit machine is, but it’s warmer in there. I just have to go to the bathroom first because I’m seriously dying. Hey Ray! Can you get the ladder and go onto the roof to see if the furnace pipes are up there? Be right back guys.

We were there for over an hour, just to sign some paperwork. But I can’t complain because it was the most hilarious hour I’ve spent in a long time, just listening to him. We pick up the Journey this coming Thursday, so I’ll let you know if he still smells like skunk—and if he finally got the furnace going.

Un Bon Chien

Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?

I haven’t written too much about Atlas lately, but he’s really turned into a wonderful dog. He’s very affectionate and intelligent in a variety of ways. But most surprisingly, the other day we discovered that he speaks French. Yes, the language of amour, and he’s quite proficient at it. I was in the kitchen getting dinner ready, and I was speaking French to Atlas, as one does, because I like to practice every once in a while to make sure I haven’t forgotten the basics. I was keeping a running commentary of what I was doing— “Ah, mon bon chien, tu es très intelligent, n’est-ce pas?” and “Je vais faire des pommes de terre à la place du riz” and whatnot. And then I needed some salt, so I said to Atlas, who wasn’t really paying attention at this point, having given up on getting any cookies, “ Où est le sel, mon ami? Ah, c’est ici!”

And when he heard the word ‘ici’, he immediately ran to the door and started barking like a maniac, because ‘ici’ means ‘here’, and whenever he hears the word ‘here’, he assumes that someone has come to our house. I had to shush him and open the door to prove that no one was ‘ici’. But I was super-curious:

Me: Since when have you been able to understand French?
Atlas: Oh, you know. You pick it up here and there.
Me: And can you speak French as well?
Atlas: Bien s ûr. Je ne suis pas un idiot. Contrairement au pr ésident des États-Unis.
Me: That’s pretty good. Your accent is as solid as your understanding of current politics. Hang on—have you been spending time with that French bulldog on the corner? Is that who’s been teaching you French?
Atlas: Among other things, Maman. Ooh la la!
Me: Take it easy there, Loverboy. Stop drooling. Thank goodness you’re neutered.
Atlas: What does ‘neutered’ mean, Ma?
Me: Oh nothing.

Sigh. They grow up so fast.

In other news, my job shadow training at the radio station went really well. It doesn’t look anywhere near as difficult as I thought, and on top of everything, one of the authors didn’t show up so to fill in the time, the other host offered to let me read from my new short story collection, Dark Nocturnes, which is currently on Kindle pre-sale with the paperback being released on April 5th. I’m so excited about it, and the cover is incredible, thanks to Jane Cornwell, my publisher and artist extraordinaire. If you’re interested, you can find it by clicking here: Amazon

It’s already gotten some fantastic advance reviews but if you’d like a review copy when it’s released, let me know!

What?

It’s been a while since I shared some fun Facebook Marketplace ads with you, so given that not much has happened this week, aside from me taking on teaching a workshop series on writing short stories, getting ready to job shadow at the radio station, scoring the motherlode of designer bags to sell at the market, hitting 20 000 words on my new manuscript, and preparing to publish a fantasy novel Ghost Bride of Gum San by JF Garrard, a terrific Toronto writer, as well as the brilliant new poetry collection Smatterings of Cerulean by the amazing Susan Richardson of the A Thousand Shades Of Green literary podcast and Stories From The Edge Of Blindness blog—well, it’s actually been a busy week but none of that was funny enough to write about so here we go:

WHAT

Me: What? Ken, what is this?
Ken: What?
Me: Exactly. What.
Ken: What?
Me: No, what’s on first.
Ken: I don’t know.
Me: I don’t know is the short stop.
Ken: What?
Me: What’s on first.

I could literally do this all day. What is a fun game. That’s a statement, not a question. But seriously, what is what? An un-defrosted freezer for $100? Or…a coffin? What?

There are a couple of things wrong with this ad. First and foremost, the grungy tile with the weird still life of the coffee pot, mushrooms, and broccoli. Next, the ugly kettle—I mean, who would want a kettle like that on top of your stove for the world to see? And of course, calling it ‘the ultimate cooking companion’ is so pretentious. Does the oven talk, or like, help you with recipes? And ‘style’? Dude, it’s just a plain, white stove. There might be some other things wrong with this ad, but I think I’ve covered the big issues.

These chairs might be comfortable, but wouldn’t they sink into the sand? I can’t see myself under a palm tree, enjoying a pina colada, listening to the sound of the tropical surf while sitting upright on one of those puppies. Give me a hammock or a comfy lounger any day. Or maybe the island you live on is in the North, but then I would think you’d prefer a Muskoka chair (which is the proper name for Adirondack).  

This ad is an enigma, albeit a very angry one. 6 words (well, 5 words and 1 number) that absolutely seethe with fury. But here’s the enigma—who posted this? Is it the person in the photo, who is ashamed of marrying a fourth time to yet ANOTHER loser? Is it the person who recently got divorced from the person in the photo, and is upset about being the fourth victim of this errant woman? Is the photo being held for a $500 ransom? Has this woman failed to win the lottery four times? It’s a mystery. You really have to wonder about the mindset of someone who would post this publicly—I’ve seen similar types of ads, but they’re usually more tongue-in-cheek. This one just seems mean…and definitely not worth $500. I didn’t even bother to blank out the location because I don’t think the person who posted it really gives a sh*t at this point.

Finally, there’s this one:

This guy wants you to have absolutely NO DOUBTS, and has pre-emptively answered all your questions:

Is it for sale? Answered.
Are you the person selling it? Answered.
Is it in good condition? Answered.
Is it brand new? Answered.
Does it work? Answered.
What brand is it? Answered.
What size is it? Answered.
Is it for hoses? Answered.
Does it crimp things? Answered.
Can you repeat all that below? Definitely.

See? The guy thought of everything…or he thinks he did, because you know at least three people will respond to the ad with “Is it still available?”

And here’s the cover teaser for Smatterings of Cerulean. Look for it later in March!

Hold Your Horses!

I like watching television. If you’ve been reading this blog for a long time, you’ll know that I’m at my most blissful when I’m horizontal, glass of wine in hand, bingeing on a mystery. And this week was no different—Netflix told me that a show called “Missing You” was right up my alley, based on what I’d previously watched, and I was like, “Aw, Netflix, you know me so well!” It was a limited series with five episodes, so I climbed into bed, ready with wine and anticipation. The show began—the opening scene takes place at night. It is dark and stormy, and a handsome man dressed in a business suit is riding a horse that is galloping at breakneck speed across the moors of England. He looks terrified, and there are flashbacks of a beautiful woman that he is apparently madly in love with and desperately wants to see. Suddenly, the horse stumbles and the man is thrown off the horse, landing badly. Cut to daylight—the man is now hobbling down a country lane as fast as he can. A tractor appears behind him and starts to run him down. He falls—another man leaps out of the tractor and tasers him. You soon find out that the first man is the victim of a kidnapping. Intense, right? And it gets better—the main character is a female detective with a tragic past. She works in the Missing Persons Unit and she’s tasked with finding the man, as well as other people who’ve also gone missing. This show has it all—abduction, catfishing, a man called Leslie, a crazy-ass dog breeder and his puppies—you name it. It was really good.

Then I got to the end and something occurred to me, something that I just can’t get off my mind. And it’s this…where the f*ck did the guy get THE HORSE from?! They NEVER explain it! The detective traces him to a Bed And Breakfast in a town with nary a horse in sight, and he ends up at a farm—but NOT a horse farm—a DOG BREEDING FARM, again, with nary a horse in sight. And I have SO MANY QUESTIONS! Where did the horse come from? Whose horse was it? How come it already had a saddle? How did the businessman know how to ride a horse? Did he steal it? Was the horse reported stolen? Where did it go after it kicked him to the curb? All I could think was that there had been some very questionable decisions made in the screenwriting room:

Head Screenwriter: I have the best idea to open the show! Let’s put the East Indian guy ON A GALLOPING HORSE!!
Screenwriter 2: Where does he get the horse from?
Head Screenwriter: What? Who cares?
Screenwriter 2: People might wonder…
Head Screenwriter: NOBODY will wonder, STEVE. Besides, we can deal with that in the last episode or whatnot.

5 months later, at the premiere…

Screenwriter 2: I feel like there’s something we forgot to do…
Head Screenwriter: Are you going on about the horse AGAIN? I keep telling you, STEVE, no one will care!

Well, I care. And my OCD brain has been spinning, because Ken mentioned that I have a habit of falling asleep during TV shows and maybe I’d missed the very tiny reference to the horse. But I don’t think so, KEN. So if you happen to be watching “Missing You”, can you watch out for any horse references? Steve and I need to know.

Radio Gaga

You may all remember a few weeks ago when I was interviewed on a local radio show. It was a lot of fun and I posted pictures of the haunted factory building where the station is located. Well…earlier this week, I received a newsletter from the organization that runs the show. It turns out that the host is taking a leave for several months and if they couldn’t find a second host to fill in, the radio show would be cancelled. I thought about it for a minute—running a live radio program all by myself in a studio at the heart of a haunted warehouse? That sounded super stressful. So I did what any normal person would do—I immediately composed an email to say that I would be happy to fill in. Then I hit send…Then I had a panic attack. Was I going gaga in my old age? What was I thinking?! Didn’t I already have enough on my plate? So I poured myself a glass of wine, and consoled myself by thinking that probably a ton of people would have offered to do this—I mean, who wouldn’t want to be on the radio? They were probably inundated with emails for this very cool gig.

The next morning, I was feeling less stressed…until I got a reply. Yes, it would be amazing if I could fill in—I felt faint. But it’s only one afternoon a month, my logical brain reminded me. Then I talked to my daughter, whose equally logical brain reminded me that I’m a very competent person, and that I shouldn’t let my anxiety get the better of me. “Mom,” she said, “you’ve been a radio host before AND a club DJ—you can do this!”

Well, yeah, sweetie, but that was 40 years ago—believe it or not, my first actual DJ-ing job was at the exact same radio station when I was in university, a job for which I had to audition in their sound booth (which was located on the university campus as opposed to a building that could use a good exorcism). I did well enough for university radio—I’d been a club kid for years and was pretty familiar with that scene—and was given a position subbing in for a friend when she was unavailable—her show was called “Your Grandma’s Tractor”, and it was alternative music featuring bands no one had ever heard of. Then I was offered my own show. This might sound amazing, but they needed to meet some kind of broadcasting regulation, and they’d just lost their Classical Music DJ. Yep. Classical music. Luckily, I’d grown up on that sh*t, and my parents had enough albums to start their own record store, so “Symphonic Gestures” was born. I did that gig for over a year, putting together intro notes from the backs of record covers, then just letting the music play for the next half hour. I didn’t have any listeners per se—I know this, because one time, the radio station ran a contest during my show for prizes but the only person who “called in to win” was my Mom, to whom I’m forever grateful for making it seem like I had an audience. I was like, “Hey random caller, guess what?! You just won a five dollar gift card to Tim Horton’s” and she was like, “Oh wow! This is my lucky day!”

It was great experience back then, but being a DJ now is most likely very different from the days when I had two turntables and a microphone. However, I will be receiving professional training, and I’ll be able to job shadow the current host, so by the time I have to fly solo, it should be fine. More than fine, because I’ll be interviewing other writers and listening to them read their work, which is always a fun thing to do. And I’ll be in a super-haunted factory, so be prepared for some wild stories. And if you want to read more about my illustrious and DJ-ing history (and why I once shut off the music and walked out of the club), you can go to My Week 81: When I Was A DJ.

Recent Movements

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve been having a harder time getting over jetlag. I’m fine going overseas–I can stay up as long as I need to and then my body adjusts to a new clock. But on the way home–it takes weeks before I readjust. And a certain bodily function seems to have a clock of its own, one that takes forever to revert back to regular movement, and has been waking me up in the middle of the night, telling me it’s actually morning. If you don’t know what I’m talking, the following will soon make it clear.

Today’s topic is something that we’re all very aware of. We do it every day. We were fascinated by it as children—in fact, some children like to make art with it. As adults, we examine it, consider it, pretend it never happened, or fixate on it, but we rarely discuss it. It goes by many names: dump, turd, doodie, dingleberry, fudgebunny, rosebud, or in my own family’s case, trump (which makes sense, considering…) Yes, I’m talking about poop. Admit it—we all, in our own way, are interested in this subject, at least our OWN subject. Most people really don’t care to think about other people’s sh*t—well, their LITERAL sh*t anyway. In fact, most people are FAR too interested in other people’s figurative sh*t for their own good, and are always happy to express their opinions on things that never concern them.

At any rate, I’ve come to realize that I may just be weirdly interested in poop. It started years ago, when I was in the hospital after having major surgery. In the bathroom, there was a chart that had images of different kinds of poop on it, and descriptions of what each one meant. Like there was the “normal” poo that looked like a sleek log, then there was the bulky poo that looked like really long, dry cookie dough and was described as “a sausage shape with cracks in the surface”, which meant the person was somewhat dehydrated. (If you’re interested in more of this, just google “Bristol Stool Chart”—I know you’re saying out loud “No way”, but we both know you’ll secretly look at it). Then, a few years ago, I saw a giant poo in the doorway of a defunct sushi restaurant in town. Right away, I was like “Whoa! That’s the biggest poo I’ve ever seen! Also, its owner needs to drink more fluids.” Later, it was still there and I tried to point it out to a friend, but she was like “No! You need to stop. I do NOT want to see an unhomed person’s poop.” I realize some people are just really uncomfortable with random feces, but this was like World Record stuff—it literally haunted my thoughts for days, and every time I passed the doorway, even though it was long gone, I pondered the size, and diet, of its owner.

Sometimes it occurs to me that just maybe I should keep my fascination with poo to myself, but I can write about whatever the hell I want, and you can judge me, but you can’t argue with the fact that deep in your secret heart, you also think poo is, if not cool, at least interesting and informative. Seriously, nobody is watching as you nod and smile. Or when you look into the toilet in the morning to inspect your offering. The other day, I felt the urge, and afterwards I snuck a peek. My reaction? “Huh. Impressive!” Then I giggled a little, because I said it out loud, but no one else was in the bathroom to hear me.

And please don’t try to tell me that you have never passed judgement on your own sacrifice to the porcelain god, because we all do it. We’ve all gone, “Holy hell! What did I eat yesterday?” or “Why doesn’t corn digest like regular normal food?”, “Alcohol sure does a number on my bowels”, or just “Good one!” I think the world would be a much happier place if we all discussed our poop on a regular basis—after all, no matter what colour, gender, or religion you are, it’s something we ALL have in common. I was thinking last night about how best to use modern media to bring us all together via bodily waste and I came up with a TV show that would address the issue :

A beach scene. People in uniform milling around. A body lying on the sand. Camera pans to a large poo beneath a palm tree. Cut to Danny.

Danny: It’s not looking good, boss.
Horatio: Tell me what you’ve got, Dann-o.
Danny: Large male, judging by size. Probably a vegan, based on the amount of broccoli and self-righteousness smooth texture. Well-hydrated. Looks like the Number 2 Killer has struck again.
Horatio: (gazes sternly into distance). I’m making the Number 2 Killer my Number 1 priority. He won’t get away with this shit again. Let’s roll.

Camera cuts away and credits roll to the sound of “Squeeze Box” by The Who. The title appears: CSI: Excremental.

I know, right? There’s also a twist on the new Sherlock Holmes drama which I call “Alimentary”. It’s the same basic premise as CSI: Excremental, but with more deductive reasoning:

Sherlock: I’ve come to the conclusion that our victim is indeed a beet farmer.
Watson: How could you possibly know that?
Sherlock: For God’s Sake, Watson—look at the colour of his scat. That slight pink tinge is a dead giveaway. Have I taught you nothing?!

So the next time you secretly poke through your dog’s crap with a stick to see if he ate some tinfoil, or jump with joy at your baby’s ginormous diaper dump, know that you’re not alone. Here’s a vintage cookie jar for you that looks just like the poo emoji.

Third Time Ain’t The Charm

I’m finally back from my European adventure and what a time we had! The cities, the museums, the history—it was all incredible—except for the food. Now, don’t get me wrong—we ate on shore once in Amsterdam (because we were late back to the ship for lunch and they claimed they had ‘no more food’), and it was excellent. No, I’m talking about the food on the ship. Ken and I have done quite a few cruises and we’ve never had complaints about the food, but this time neither of us (and none of the people we talked to) were very happy about it. Let me start with the ‘Angus Ribeye’. It was neither a ribeye, nor was it named Angus. I’m not sure how to describe it. But if you know anything about me at all, you know I love a good steak, so the first night, I was dying to try it. It came—it was mostly fat, but I forgave it because the dessert was cheesecake and that was awesome. Three nights later, I ordered the Angus Ribeye again on the grounds that the first one was just a bad cut. Again, it was mostly fat. But the dessert was chocolate mousse and it was great. Most of the other nights, the food was blandly non-offensive, but on our last night, I was determined. We sat with a mother and son duo quite often and when the son found out I was going for steak number 3, he was appalled:

Ron: You’re not serious. You’re ordering it AGAIN?!
Me: It can’t always be terrible. Third times the charm.
Ron: Okay, but you’re nuts.

Ron was right. It was horrible the third time as well. Another passenger, a dirty old guy who was always a) talking non-stop and b) hitting on all the younger women in front of his wife, was shocked when I told him I thought the food was bad:

Dirty Old Guy: What did you order?
Me: The so-called Angus Ribeye.
Dirty Old Guy: Really? I had that the other night. It was great—at least the half I could eat was great…
Me: I rest my case.

The most notable and weird dish I was served was the Taco Salad one day at lunch. The menu said “Iceberg lettuce, crushed nacho chips, cheese, and salsa, with a Ranch dressing. I ordered it. A giant bowl was placed in front of me. It was an entire head of iceberg lettuce, sliced into 3 huge sections. On top of it was a smattering of nacho crumbs, no cheese, a tablespoon of salsa in the corner and a little runny dressing. I looked at it, then I looked at the waiter:

Me: I don’t know how to eat this.
Waiter: I know, Madam. I’ll get you the grilled salmon.

Anyway, aside from a few subpar meals, everything else was wonderful, but wow, am I ever happy to be home.

In other news, as promised, I have faithfully recreated one of the paintings that we saw in the Museum of Contemporary Art. Below, you’ll find a photo of my painting and a photo of the original. Which one is the copy? Bonus marks if you know the original artist:

I hope you appreciate my efforts—it took me almost an hour. I just wish I got the same kind of money for MY paintings as the original artist—then I could have Angus Ribeye every night.

Wherefore Art Thou?

Currently, Ken and I are sailing along the Rhine River on a river boat cruise. It’s certainly been an interesting experience so far. There are approximately 180 passengers on board, and a restaurant and lounge with 30 tables of 6, so exactly 180 seats. Which means you are FORCED to eat with strangers. I don’t like being in crowds at the best of times but it’s so much worse when you have no choice but to engage in small talk. And some of these passengers are people I would NEVER engage with in real life. Today at lunch, for example, we had to sit with an elderly couple and their daughter. When they invited us to pray with them before the meal came, we politely declined. That wasn’t the issue. The issue arose 5 minutes later when the praying lady started railing on about refugees being given US government money and how unfair it was, which seemed just a tad hypocritical. That left Ken and me pointedly ignoring her and pointedly pointing to things on the riverbank—“Ooh look, a factory!”—until she shut up.

But aside from having to smile tightly or attempt to ignore the many bigots on board, we HAVE had some lovely shore excursions. The other day we visited a palace in a city called Nijmegen where the artwork was incredible, in that I’ve never seen so many paintings of people who looked completely over it. In fact, I renamed the palace from Palais Het Loo to Palais What Fresh New Hell Is This? because of paintings like the following:

I’m not sure what’s happening here, and there were no titles on the artworks, but these people look absolutely done with whatever is going on.

Dude second left: I’m so sorry, my man, but the water is still water. No wine to be seen.

Dude in middle (presumably Jesus): Again? Are you freaking kidding me?! Come on, Dad—help a guy out!

Woman on right: FFS. I promised everyone a nice Chardonnay. You’re, like, the WORST caterer.

Dudes far right and left: Can you try again? We’re super thirsty and need to get this party started! Would it help if we prayed?

And then there was this lady—her portrait is gigantic, looms over one of the main bedrooms, and you know she’s looking at you like “Get the hell out of my house, peasant!”

It always amazes me that someone would go to all the trouble and time to have a portrait of themselves painted and have the artist make you look like you hate everyone and everything. I mean, it’s not like back in the day where you couldn’t smile because the exposure was so long that any wavering would make it blur—this lady could have just said, “Make me, an incredibly wealthy noblewoman with my own palace and literally nothing to worry about, look happy.”

And then, of course, we visited a Museum of Modern Art where, as is typical, you get to see amazing things, and then other things where you know you could legitimately done them yourself. For example:

These are shapes that are cut out of foam, spray painted black and stuck to the wall. I can’t remember the name of the piece—I think it might have been Ethereal Quantum Stardust or something equally bizarre but I just refer to it as the Penis Wall.

Then of course, there’s this stunning piece by Marcel Duchamps called Bicycle Stool. It’s a stool with a bicycle wheel mounted on it:

According to the plaque, Duchamps “declared it an artwork simply by the process of selecting it.” So with that in mind, here’s my sculpture, Table On Chair On Balcony, and someone better give me a sh*t load of money for it to pay for this cruise.

And if you don’t believe that I can make art just as good as some of these things, you can revisit my Paul Klee challenge where most readers thought MY painting was the real Klee, or you can wait until I’m home—I’ll be recreating another art piece and you can guess which is mine and which is in a national gallery. Until then, I’ll keep on sailing.

Deer Me

I’m feeling particularly lucky to be here right now after what almost happened to us last week. Ken and I were coming back from a family get together—it was dark and we were on a rural road, chatting and looking forward to being home. Ken was driving my little Sonic since he claims it gets “better mileage” but I think he just likes the turbo engine. There were no other cars on the road so we had the high beams on. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement ahead on the opposite side of the road and then I realized what it was and screamed “OMG, stop!!” But it was too late to stop, and as I continued to scream “Deer!!!F*ck!!!”, Ken slammed on the brakes and simultaneously cranked the wheel to the right. As we started to skid sideways towards the gravel shoulder, the head of the giant buck running across the road was next to our hood, so close that I could see the panic in its eyes, and as we slid past it, I could have sworn I heard its hoof click against my back bumper. The buck, and the doe following it, continued running and made it safely to the forest they were heading for. We sat there a minute, catching our breath—or Ken was, because I was hyperventilating so badly that I couldn’t breathe. It was TERRIFYING.

And here’s why I’m lucky. First, Ken had just gotten hearing aids. So when I initially screamed, he clearly heard me instead of responding by looking at me and asking, “What?” Let me tell you, these are top of the line, super fancy hearing aids too—he can answer his cell phone by tapping them, listen to music, and they even monitor his heart rate and the number of steps he takes every day. The problem is that HE can talk on the phone with them just fine, but for the person he’s talking to, usually me, it’s torture because they pick up the slightest noise and amplify it by a thousand. The other day, I called him from my car and we were chatting when suddenly this horrific noise almost split my eardrums.

Me: What the hell was that?!
Ken: What? And of course, I’m not asking you to repeat yourself, just asking what you’re talking about.
Me: That noise! What was it?
Ken: I just zipped up my coat…?
Me: Don’t do it again!

And the second reason why I’m lucky is that, when I screamed, Ken didn’t question it, didn’t hesitate for the fraction of a second that might have made the difference between surviving and ending up in the hospital with a car that would have been written off. And also, we didn’t kill any deer, which was also nice for the deer. I just hope Ken applies the same standard of behaviour the next time I need another glass of wine instead of saying, “What? Hang on a minute.”

In other news, Ken and I are leaving this afternoon for Germany. We fly out at 6 pm–let’s just hope we don’t encounter any reindeer. See you next week!

New Year, New Disposition

Happy New Year everyone! Hope you had as much fun as Ken and me, as we hosted our annual neighbourhood “New Year’s Eve In Newfoundland” party. Newfoundland is an hour and a half ahead of us here in Ontario, which means we blow our horns and drink a champagne toast at 10:30 then everyone goes home. That way, the younger people can still party on, and the older people, like us, can go to bed. We really do have the best neighbours, and even though my social anxiety and extreme introvertedness can be an issue in most situations, for some reason, I love hosting this gathering. And the belle of the ball was definitely my new miniature—a shadowbox bathroom that was conveniently placed IN the bathroom, where all the party goers could see it and ooh and aah over it, and no, it’s not quite finished because as you may have noticed, THERE IS NO CLOCK IN THE ROOM YET. But still, I’m really happy with it, and the tile I personally cut my damn self after buying a tile cutter on Facebook Marketplace for five bucks.

And speaking of Facebook Marketplace, a friend recently sent me this ad.

This is, quite possibly, the most Shakespearian piece of furniture I’ve ever seen. So I contacted the seller and went to check it out:

Me: That’s a really nice desk.
Seller: It is, for sure. It’s a little…dramatic though.
Me: What do you mean?
Seller: Have you ever read Hamlet?
Me: READ Hamlet? I only taught it for 25 years.
Seller: Then you might appreciate—
Desk: Ahem. I have of late—but wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of
exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, is a sterile promontory.
Me (gives desk a shake): I don’t know about sterile—your frame is pretty solid. But the mirth thing? I get that. 2025 seems like a dumpster fire already.
Desk: Seems, madam? Nay, it is. I know not “seems”.
Me: Sure, sure. (to Seller) Is this an antique piece?
Seller: Well…you say tomato…
Desk: Antic. I have an antic disposition.
Me (to Seller): I’ll take it.
Desk: Frailty, thy name is woman.

In other news, I never make New Year’s Resolutions. If I can’t do something whenever it occurs to me, it sure ain’t gonna happen due to some arbitrary date imposed upon us by the Gregorian calendar. But other people in the house aren’t quite so hardcore.

Me: So, are you planning on doing anything different this year?
Atlas: What do you mean, Ma?
Me: Like, a resolution. Where you promise yourself to make a change in your life for the better.
Atlas: But I like my life. I get lots of treats, and pets, and walks, and treats.
Me: But isn’t there anything you could do to make it better?
Atlas: I could stop licking my butt so much, I guess. And stop chasing that skunk you keep in the house.
Me: Again—it’s not a skunk. That’s Ilana. She’s a cat.
Atlas: But she looks like—
Me: A CAT.
Atlas: Says you. How about if I snuggle you more?
Me: Best resolution ever.

In other news, DarkWinter Press had a great year. Here’s the link to our end-of-year post, in case you’re wondering what we got up to in 2024:   https://www.darkwinterlit.com/post/thank-you-for-an-amazing-2024

And while 2025 might already seem like a dumpster fire, at least DarkWinter Press has some great books coming out.