Suzanne Craig-Whytock's Blog, page 6

Not A Good Read

So I’m currently in a metaphorical battle to the death with “Tevin” from Goodreads. For anyone who is blissfully unaware of what Goodreads is, let me enlighten you. It’s a website where people can read a book and then post a review about it. I’m on there as an author—authors can have a “dashboard page” where all your books are listed, and this is where the fun began. Last January, the publisher of both my short story collections apparently had a chat with God, who advised him to stop being a publisher and “unpublish” all his company’s titles (and I’m not sure why “God” told him to do that—if I was having a conversation with an invisible deity, it would tell me that if I wanted to stop publishing, I should at least keep the active titles available instead of crushing people’s hopes and dreams, and also drink some wine and get a therapy kitten). Anyway, the one particular book is still on my author dashboard and I don’t want it there because it NO LONGER EXISTS. In addition, I WROTE IT and I HOLD THE COPYRIGHT. But try telling any of this to “Tevin” who has been insisting that it’s impossible to remove my own book from my own author page. His rationale? It is “crucial that our members are able to find books they may have read or been interested in reading.” No, Tevin. It’s “crucial” that homeless people don’t freeze to death in parks, or that we take care of the environment before climate change kills us. It is NOT crucial that “Danger Kitty” can read my non-existent book and post a random review. And that’s the other bizarre thing about Goodreads—there is no consistent system for book reviews. It’s a free-for-all, with everyone and their brother/sister reviewing other people’s writing in the most nonsensical way. Here’s an example:

Book That Was Written By Someone

Review 1: Bob gives this book a rating of 3 out of 5 stars and says “It was a great read. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Review 2: Frank gives this book a rating of 3 out of 5 stars and says, “I didn’t enjoy this book. It was poorly paced.”

Review 3: Danger Kitty gives this book a rating of 1 rubber duck out of 5 slices of cake and says, “This is the best book I’ve ever read in my life.”

(Side note: Danger Kitty reads and reviews approximately 1 book every 2 ½ days, so I have my doubts about the integrity of their opinion).

Another example: my first book, Smile, was a Young Adult novel. It has two 5 star reviews, and a 1 star review. The 1 star review is from a man in his 70s. Did it occur to him as he began to read the story of two weeks in the life of a 16-year-old girl struggling to come to terms with her father’s death that he perhaps might not be the target demographic for this novel? Yet, he persevered, and went to the trouble to give it a bad rating. Also, his profile picture is right there next to the rating, and it’s SOMEONE I KNOW. One day, I might mention it to him, but honestly, given the random nature of Goodreads, it could mean that he adored it. Who the hell knows?

But back to “Tevin”, who claims to be a Goodreads Expert and who simply cannot delete my non-existent book from my author page because “it wouldn’t be fair to the readers.” So I went in and edited the book description to “This book no longer exists.” And now I have to wait for a “Librarian” to approve the change and you just know this person will NOT be an actual librarian, just like a “Pet Detective” is a dog food salesperson (I found this out the hard way when I saw the job ad, got super-excited, and clicked on the link, only to be bitterly disappointed.)

At any rate, just for the record, I give Goodreads 0 out of 5 llamas.

Update: I kind of won. It’s a bitter victory though.

It’s Secret For A Reason

Working at a bookstore, especially around the holiday season, is really interesting. A lot of people come in looking for gifts, and personally, I think the gift of a book is pretty cool. On Friday morning, a customer asked for a book recommendation because they were participating in a Secret Santa gift exchange at work, and isn’t that the nicest thing? Or maybe not, depending on who you get as your Secret Santa and it reminded me of the most bizarre Secret Santa gift exchange I’ve ever been a part of. In fact, I’ve had more than my fair share of the short end of the Secret Santa stick–participating in this one left a bad taste in my mouth. Mostly because the things that I got tasted bad.

It happened in a previous workplace many years ago (long before I worked at the secret agency). We pulled names—I got someone I knew quite well, but I didn’t know who had MY name, which apparently is all part of the ‘fun’. I’d never done a Secret Santa before, and I was really excited about finding things for MY person that matched what she had put on her list of likes and dislikes. On my list, I had put the following: under “likes”, I listed the colours black and purple, hot chocolate, white wine, any kind of book (but preferably funny), and a couple of other things which I can’t remember now. I wasn’t being demanding—this was all in accordance with the instructions, as in “colours you like to wear, food you like to eat, alcohol you like to drink”, etc. On my dislikes, I simply put dark chocolate and coffee. I also mentioned that I was unable to eat gluten.

That weekend, I went shopping for my person, and was thrilled to find a handknit scarf, a book of short stories, a little box of specialty teas, and a couple of other things she said she liked, all staying fairly well within the $10 budget. I had a bottle of wine for her Friday gift which put me slightly over, but hey, it was Christmas, and it was apparently a tradition for the last day’s gift to be alcohol. On Monday, the first day, I got there early and put my recipient’s first gift in her mailbox with a cute note. There was nothing in MY mailbox. (I should probably clarify at this point that MY Secret Santa was NOT the same person that I was giving gifts too.) By lunch, there was still nothing in my mailbox. Partway, through the afternoon though, I was downstairs, and I saw something sticking out of my mailslot. I reached in and was a little dumbfounded—it was a single, crumpled package of hot chocolate with a broken candy cane scotchtaped to it. It looked like it had been shoved into the mailbox rather hastily. Well, it was the thought that counted, and it was hot chocolate that I liked. In fact, I had an ENTIRE BOX OF THE EXACT SAME HOT CHOCOLATE PACKAGES on my office desk. There was no note—but it was only the first day. Maybe the rest of the week would prove to be more Santa-y and cute. Despite my optimism, I was a little let down:

Tuesday: A small package of two pieces of VERY dark chocolate. The box said, “Compliments of Jackson Triggs”. That isn’t a person’s name—it’s a winery. I’ve been there; they give out those chocolates when you buy their wine. I couldn’t eat the chocolate, but it occurred to me that if I was getting old chocolate from a winery, perhaps there was a bottle of well-aged wine not far behind. I gave the chocolate to a colleague who reported that it was ‘rather stale’. So maybe REALLY well-aged wine. Still no note.

Wednesday: Partway through the afternoon, I discovered what seemed to be a single Christmas placemat, rolled up and secured with an elastic band, in my mailbox. It looked as if it had been used previously, judging from its wrinkled aspect and what appeared to be a gravy stain on the corner. Oh well, I could toss it in the laundry and then use it…somewhere. Still no note.

Thursday: A small bag of coffee, such as you might find in a hotel room. It occurred to me that maybe my Secret Santa had recently gone on a wine tour and had stayed at a cheap hotel. Well, my parents drink coffee—I could always give it to them.

At this point, I started wondering who exactly my Secret Santa was. At first, I had a very stereotypical thought that it had to be a man, given the lack of cutesy notes, and the apparent indifference to my list of like and dislikes. But then I remembered the last time that Ken had been a Secret Santa, and the way he went above and beyond to make his recipient feel special. I knew it had to be someone from a different department—if you’ve read this blog in the early days, you’ll know that the people I worked directly with in my previous workplace were very unpleasant. (If it was one of them, it would have gone something like this:

Colleague: This is for you.
Me: A lump of cold poison. Thanks?
Colleague: Are you being sarcastic? Oh my god, could you TRY to be a little nicer? You’re so passive-aggressive!
Me: But you gave me cold poison.
Colleague: I don’t believe you. Just wait until I tell EVERYONE how you just acted.

Two days later:

Mediator: I’ve asked you here today because you hurt Bob’s feelings over your “I don’t like cold poison” attitude. You should try to be less authoritative and kinder.
Me: But he gave me cold poison and then told the rest of our colleagues that he was hoping it would make me very sick.
Bob: You don’t want to be Facebook friends with me. You’re so mean. If Steve had given you cold poison, you would have been nice to him.
Me: What?! That doesn’t even make any—
Mediator: I think you need to respect Bob’s social boundaries and not provoke him. Now let’s hug it out.
Me: Oh my God, I can’t even.)

So, no, definitely not an immediate colleague. Which only left around 60 people. Guess I was going to have to wait for Friday. Then Friday came and went, with nothing in my mailbox. Other people were ooh-ing and aw-ing over their gifts—alcohol mostly, by the looks of the smiles on their faces. I felt sad and a little neglected. But on Monday morning, I went to my mail box, and lo and behold, there was a little bottle with a note attached to it! My Secret Santa hadn’t forgotten me after all. I put my reading glasses on. The note said, “Enjoy!” Then I looked at the bottle carefully. It said “Margarita Mix”. I asked the person next to me, “What is this?” and he replied, “Oh, you add it to tequila to make a Margarita. They attach them to the necks of the tequila bottles at the liquor store as an added bonus. It tastes really good.”

“Do you want it?” I asked.
“Sure! Thanks!” he replied. “Merry Christmas!”

I never did find out who my Secret Santa was, but I learned a valuable lesson, based on my colleague’s reaction to the Margarita mix–it’s better to give than to receive.

Need Versus Have

The other day, Ken and I were doing ‘Fun Thursday’, where we pick an interesting place to visit and go there. It used to be ‘Fun Friday’, but then Ken got a job, and he was too tired to do anything for the rest of the week, but now he’s unemployed (it’s okay—he’s retired and has a pension). I currently have a job at an amazing bookstore, but I have much more stamina when it comes to doing things during the week, even though I’m several months older than Ken. Anyway, we were on our way to Chiefswood Historic Site, which is this really cool mansion built by a hereditary Chief of the Six Nations, and on the way there, I reminded Ken that he needed to finish cleaning out his office:

Me: Taking 10 year old hydro bills out of one binder does not constitute ‘cleaning up’.
Ken: When was the last time YOU got rid of stuff?
Me: I donated an entire bag of purse straps to Goodwill YESTERDAY, KEN.
Ken: Why did you have so many in the first place?
Me: Because I live by that timeless adage, ‘It’s better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it.’
Ken: Good point. I might need those hydro bills.
Me: YOU WON’T. Although I’m starting to worry about the purse straps…

But then we began making a list of things that it was good to have and not need, than to need and not have:

1) A generator. Occasionally, our power goes off. Like if it’s mildly windy, or slightly snowy, or the rain is falling at more than a gentle trickle. And once, it snowed quite a bit and we lost power for three days, at which point, we went out and bought a generator. We haven’t used it since, but still…

2) One lime. I can’t even count the number of times that I’ve suddenly needed a lime for a spontaneous dish that required a shot of citrus, and didn’t have one. Luckily, we have a lot of neighbours who like Margaritas.

3) Kittens. I have often needed a therapy kitten but didn’t have one. Now, I have a wonderful kitty and while I don’t always need her, I have her at my disposal. On Friday, after we drove and hour and a half to the airport to pick up our daughter and her boyfriend at 5:30 in the morning, only to discover that they weren’t flying in until Saturday, and then had to drive the hour and a half home again, I came into the house, got back into bed, and Ilana settled herself across my chest and fell asleep with my arms around her. I definitely needed that. Dogs also fall under this category. I always have a dog. And I always need one. Atlas is like a therapy dog, if your anxiety is soothed by someone else racing around like a maniac, trying to chase the cat and yelling, “Ma!! A skunk!! It’s a skunk!!” But at night, if I offer him a little wine, he WILL snuggle me.

4) Oil of oregano. Trust me, it’s much better to have this sh*t and not need it. And if you need it, you’d better make sure you have a wine chaser. In the same vein, it’s much better to have wine and not need it, than need it and not have it. I regularly need some wine and I’m lucky that my dad and I regularly bottle A LOT of wine so I always have it.

5) Snow tires. I just got my summer tires swapped out. I’d never had snow tires until 2014 when I got the car that I’m still driving. My previous car was made out of plastic but even still, it never needed snow tires. The first time I drove my current car on a snowy day, I almost ended up in the ditch and I did what any normal person would do—I called Ken:

Ken: What’s wrong?
Me: This car is STUPID!!
Ken: Why?
Me: I HATE IT.
Ken WHY?!
Me: It won’t drive in the snow!
Ken: You should get snow tires.
Me: WHERE IS MY THERAPY KITTEN?

6) Husbands: I’m pretty self-sufficient, but still, sometimes I need Ken. Like for reaching up high, or taking the lid off a jar, or driving me around in the dark because my night vision is sh*t, or massaging my shoulder when I’m in pain, or generally just being super-supportive of everything I do. Like last week, I was on the radio again, and after, I did what any normal person would do—I called Ken:

Me: How did I sound?
Ken: You were amazing. I’m so proud of you!
Me: What did you break?
Ken: What? Nothing!…
Me: Did you hurt yourself with a power tool again?
Ken: No! I just really love you, and I’m so happy I’m married to you!

Yeah—I have him AND I need him. He’s better than a lime, that’s for sure.

It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like…?

We’re officially into the festive season now, and maybe it’s just me, but everywhere I go, things seem to have taken a dark turn. First, there is the incredible abundance of giant inflatable figures that always seem to be either drunk or on the verge of dying. From the Santa on his back on the neighbour’s front lawn, to the Snowman who’s half in the bag, to the Vixen that looks like it’s trying to hump Rudolph, the town’s decorations have decidedly gone over to the dark side–or to OnlyFans. And it’s no better online. After perusing Facebook marketplace for some cool deals, I discovered that even there, people are having a bleak midwinter. Case in point:

Why would ANYONE hang something like this on a tree?! Talk about Silent Night, Hole-y Night. But then there are the wings, which are so pretty and delicate, like someone STAPLED DEAD BUTTERFLIES to these creatures…I guess there are some goth families who’d love to decorate like The Nightmare Before Christmas, but me? I prefer vintage blown glass to a bony ass.

And of course, why dress up as Santa Claus and bring joy to the children when you can put on a Skibidi Toilet costume?

I read the description and yes, it seems to be in English but I’m unfamiliar with many of the terms so I had to look them up. “Skibidi” can mean either “good, cool, bad, or evil” according to the interweb. I’m going to let you decide which one it is in this context but you can probably imagine what I’M leaning towards. “Rizz” is apparently “charisma”, and I’m not sure how charismatic you can actually be with a toilet on your head. And please, I’m begging you–don’t look up Dom Dom. I did, and both Atlas and I are scarred for life. Finally, I think the person selling this isn’t very confident that people will understand it’s a costume and not HIM because the ad uses the word “inflatable” or a variation thereof, FOUR times in one short ad. Yes, we get that it’s INFLATABLE. And either child-sized or one size fits most…

And finally, here’s the most terrifying thing of all. When you think of the choir eternal, does this ever cross your mind?

Whatever happened to winged cherubs, or lovely children in choral robes? No, this is what we’ve come to–a choir of robot babies who all look like they’re about to feast on your flesh instead of the fruit cake you’ve been diligently soaking with rum for days. Why the hell does ANYONE have this many baby CPR dolls and WHAT ARE THEY SINGING?! It’s most likely a cacophony of screams from one of the circles of hell instead of O Hole-y Night.

And speaking of the bowels of hell…

Last week, as if it wasn’t enough that I was interviewed on the CBC (Canada’s national network), I had the honour and privilege of doing an interview and reading on Reader’s Delight, a local radio show. And while the show is terrific, the radio station is in the bowels of a derelict factory building that is most assuredly haunted. Here are some pictures of the halls.

Just around the corner though, is a clothing store and I can’t even imagine who shops there. But if you want to hear me read from my new work-in-progress, Murder Most Novel (the one I got the grant to write), you can listen to it here!

Knocking It Off

One of the nice things about having an antiques and collectibles business is that I get to go shopping frequently. Thrift shopping to be exact. I’ve always been a thrifter, ever since I was a teen and the trend with my friend group was vintage 50s clothing done up in ‘New Wave’ style. The only place to get things like that was, of course, second hand shops. There were some good ones locally, like The Recovery Room, and then of course, there were more than you could count in Toronto, particularly in Kensington Market. One of my favourites was a place called ‘Courage, My Love’, even though I could only make the trek there by Greyhound once in a blue moon, living an hour and a half away from the big city. Now of course, I can go wherever I want, being a grown-ass adult with a car. And also, there are a lot more thrift stores now than ever—Goodwill, the Sally Ann, Talize, and of course, Value Village. A lot of my buying and selling lately has been around vintage and designer handbags and accessories, so wasn’t I THRILLED this past week when I went over to the showcase in Goodwill (the showcase is where they put all the stuff that they THINK is valuable—often it’s not, but it’s still worth taking a look) and lo and behold, there was a set of Louis Vuitton baby clothes, brand new, in the original box for only $14.99! Did I buy it? You’re darn tootin’ I did. And I was feeling pleased as punch with myself for finding such a treasure, even though I was pretty sure it was a knock-off set. But then, I always price things very reasonably and never make the claim that anything is REAL Louis Vuitton unless I can validate the date code. The baby set though—who the heck would ever know? It was adorable, and looked real in every way…until I closely read the description of the articles contained therein:

Now, Louis Vuitton is a French brand, so I can imagine that they could afford proper translations of their products. I mean, ‘trousers’—okay, that’s what some people MIGHT call them, but ‘Jacket For Body’? I was starting to suspect that this set was produced somewhere other than France. By the time I got to ‘Mankerchief’, I was 90% certain that hands rather than les mains had produced this set. ‘Bip’ proved to be the death knell for my excitement. Then I looked more closely at the box (Narrator: she finally put on her reading glasses instead of squinting) and in the bottom corner of the box, there was a small logo that said, ‘Turkey’. And I don’t know whether that meant the set was made in Turkey or whether a turkey reverse-engineered the descriptions into English, but either way, the re-sell price dropped significantly. Still, someone out there isn’t going to care about the packaging and will dress their baby, or their dog, or their teddy bear, in a really adorable mankerchief, body with coordinating jacket for body, and beret, and everyone will say, “Ooh fancy!” Or “Ooh, with a whirl way!”

In other news, I have to go into work early to help set up the Santa Photo Booth (for all ages including pets) so I’ll catch up with you later and yes I love my job. Then I’ll be on the radio reading from my new work in progress, Murder Most Novel. I just received a grant to write the rest of it so I better get cracking!

I’m Not The Problem

Last Monday, it was my birthday. I’m at that age now where I don’t need to celebrate too intensely—in fact, some days I’d rather just forget about it, no problem. But my family is wonderful and makes sure that it’s always a memorable occasion, and this year was no different. However, based on my gifts, I’m starting to think that maybe everyone ELSE thinks that I have a problem.

It started on Saturday, when my parents came out to visit and brought me a gift. It was a lovely bottle of wine. On Sunday, because Ken and I were going to Toronto on my actual birthday to attend a poetry reading by one of my wonderful authors, Bill Garvey, as well as an upcoming poet Paul Edward Costa, we had my birthday party. I got home from work at my new weekend job at the best bookstore in the province, the Riverside Bookshelf, and Ken announced that he, Kate, and Max had prepared a Scavenger Hunt for me, Clue style. I started in the kitchen with the following clue:

The ‘smallest rooms’? Obviously one of the bathrooms, but I was immediately chastised:

Me: There’s nothing in this bathroom—let me check the other one…
Ken: Bathroom?! It says ‘smallest ROOMS’! Come on!
Me: Oh wait—my miniatures!

Sure enough, there was a present there on the shelf between my conservatory and dining room—a lovely bottle of wine. Then I got the second clue:

I ran up to our bedroom and sure enough—a lovely bottle of wine was nestled against my pillow. Carrying two bottles of wine in hand, I ran to the cat tree as per the next clue:

…and Ilana was snuggled against yet another lovely bottle of wine. The Scavenger Hunt continued for 3 more clues, each culminating in increasingly more lovely bottles of wine. Total so far: 7 bottles of wine. (We also played an actual game of Clue, and I finally won—it was Mrs. Peacock in the dining room with the wrench) and by the end, I was quite tipsy.

The next day, we headed to Toronto to my brother’s house with the intention of leaving our car there and taking the subway to the poetry reading. My brother, who has a Ph.D., wasn’t home, but he messaged that he’d left my birthday present on the counter in his kitchen. We arrived, and I went straight for the gift bag, which contained…3 lovely bottles of wine. Final count: 10 bottles of wine.

Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. I LOVE wine, and I was THRILLED by my gifts, and that is no lie. I will drink them over the next few weeks and silently thank each person for understanding me so well. But is it TOO WELL? I asked Ken:

Me: Am I that much of a wino?
Ken: Of course not—people just know what you like.
Me (taking a sip of lovely wine and sighing): They really do.

And then of course, it was Thursday, and I did what any normal person would do—I bottled a batch of wine with my dad. Cheers!

In other news, yes, I recently started a weekend job at a local bookstore so I’m living the dream. Except for the part where I have to leave the delightful coziness of my bed on a Sunday morning and go somewhere. Still, it’s a bookstore, so there’s that.

It Takes A Village

One thing about sites like WordPress is the sheer amount of spam comments that never seem to end. My spam folder used to be full of bizarre folks telling how intriguing my site was, offering to detail my RV, and providing unsolicited medical information that looked like it was lifted out of textbooks. I finally managed to come up with the right keywords (or WordPress tightened their security), because I rarely get more than 3 spam comments a week now—the rest just go straight into the trash. But the other day, I was worried that I’d inadvertently deleted a follower’s comment and went to the trash to find it. I didn’t find my follower’s comment but what I discovered there was incredible. Apparently there is a village that people travel to every day, and MY BLOG is on the recommending reading list! People go to this village to visit their sisters, brothers, grandparents, and friends, and on the way there, which is a 1 to 2 hour trip apparently, all they want to do is laugh at the madcap antics of mydangblog. I have to say, it’s a true honour—like doing a reading event WITHOUT the crippling anxiety.

But it’s not even on the WAY to the village—once there, people are enjoying my content while they watch the beautiful evening sunset with their sisters, cousins, and grandfathers, increase their knowledge with my ‘solid content that is also solid’, go into the city to shop for clothes with their uncles and although that is extremely boring, amuse themselves with my outstanding content. I wish I knew how to locate this village where I am apparently a literary goddess because I have so much to tell them. For example, I’m sure they will be fascinated by the fact that my car just hit 150 000 km. and that I pulled off the road to take a photo of the odometer.

Also, I could enthral them with tales of my latest miniature, a glassed-in conservatory.

And I’m certain that there will be an incredible outpouring of emotion when I show them the stopwatch on my phone, which I started when I was doing a live reading last month (because each reader was only allowed 5 minutes and I was terrified of going over and being subtly admonished) and then completely forgot about—it chronicled the seconds of my life for over 23 days before I realized that it was still running. Oh, the tears we in the village would shed as we lamented the passage of time.

So do not despair, my village people—there’s no need to feel down. Pick yourself off the ground. There’s no need to be unhappy. You can make your dreams of going to a beautiful country in the centre of which is my beautiful blog come true.

It All Comes Out In The Wash

It’s been a week since last we met, and the world has become a darker place. It’s been hard to find anything funny to write about, but I do have a couple of things, and I hope they take you away from the darkness for at least the five minutes it takes to read about them. Sending love to all of my followers who are struggling right now.

Anyway, Ken and I are back from our trip, having had a very lovely time. The last weird thing (I thought) that happened was that we stayed at the Glasgow Courtyard Marriot, and it was comfortable and clean, but in our room was something I’d never seen before.

Me: So, I have to ask you something.
Desk Clerk (he’s Scottish): Certainly. Wha’ is’t?
Me: I’ve seen bibles in hotels rooms before, but…The Book Of Mormon?
Desk Clerk: Aye.
Me: Um…why?
Desk Clerk (shrugs): Just a wee tradition, I suppose. I don’t hold wi’ it meself.

So in my review of the hotel, I mentioned it, and the “General Manager” sent me this response:

“To clarify, for the Marriott brand standards, each bedroom will have a copy of the Bible and the Book of Mormon which is a tradition with Marriott for the past 5 decades.”

I didn’t realize that the Courtyard Marriot was owned by the Mormons, or that there were a lot of Mormons in SCOTLAND, but there you go. Make of it what you will.

And just when I thought things couldn’t get weirder…

I have a real obsession with losing passports, in that I’m terrified of losing them. Like, if you’re out of the country, you could literally lose ANYTHING ELSE and still be allowed to go home. So before we left, we did the passport check. When we got to the airport, we did the passport check. Then we were on the ship so they were safely stowed. Then we got off the ship and we did the passport check. The second night at the hotel, Ken suddenly starting going through his luggage:

Me: What’s wrong?
Ken: I can’t find my passport.
Me: WHAT?!
Ken: Never mind. It was just in my pants pocket.
Me: DO NOT LEAVE IT IN YOUR PANTS POCKET.
Ken: It’s fine. Stop worrying.
Me: I’m telling you, that’s a terrible place to keep it.
Ken: I know much better than you. You are dumb. (He didn’t actually say this, but that’s what he was thinking.)

We made it through the rest of the week, and the airport, and finally we got home. The next morning, Ken came out of the laundry room. He looked perturbed. He was holding something very soggy.

Me: What’s wrong?
Ken: I accidentally put my passport through the wash. It was in my pants pocket.
Me: WHAT THE ABSOLUTE F*CK, KEN?       

And now, he has to go through the tedious process of getting a new one. Hopefully before we go away in January. Otherwise, I’m taking the dog.

Will never launder his passport and is very sweet.

The Unique Kingdom

The family and I are finally off the boat, after having a great time. But Cunard is a British line and there were certainly some things about it that were very British. For example, the way they name their food: back bacon is “bacon” and actual bacon is “crispy streaky bacon”, like the only thing they could think of to do was DESCRIBE it to differentiate it. And “prawns”? Doesn’t literally everyone else just say shrimp? The Brits are OBSESSED with prawns and they were a constant on every menu and at every meal at the buffet, with people piling their plates high with the stuff. Me, I’m deathly allergic to shellfish so every meal was an adventure. The Brits love prawns so much that they even have prawn flavoured potato chips. And don’t get me started on “split pots”.

Anyway, strange food names (and the fact that they drive on the wrong side of the road) aside, they also have fun terms for a lot of other things. The gps in our car for example: the volume setting is called “verbosity” and you can set it from “mild” to “medium” to—and I know you’re probably thinking right now, “high”, or “hot” like salsa but you’d be wrong. The highest setting was indeed “verbose”. And after I saw that, I was really hoping that the gps voice would be like Winston Churchill or something but sadly, it was just a computerized, very polite English woman.

But the best thing, and quite possibly the most bizarre thing I’ve EVER seen in my life was an ad for “flatulence filtering garments”. Ken saw the ad above a urinal and he did what any normal person would do—he took a photograph.

And I have SO many questions about the FART PANTS!! Do they have these in any other country?! Is it something particular to the British diet that flatulence is such an issue that they needed to invent wearable filters for every occasion?! Do they work?! Why have I never seen this in the WOMEN’S bathroom?! And why, in the name of all that is holy, are they called SHREDDIES??!! Are men buying these for their wives and vice versa?:

Husband: Happy anniversary, darlingest!

Wife: Flatulence panties?! How thoughtful! You shouldn’t have!

Husband: Anything for you, sweet angel!

Wife: No, I meant you shouldn’t have let rip that disgusting blast of wind just now. Did something crawl up your ass and die?! But never mind—I have a gift for you too!

Husband: Oh thank you, my rosebud! Now we can really blame the dog and no one will be the wiser!

My favourite testimonial is “Now I can go out with friends. I haven’t done that in YEARS!” Like how much do your FART?!

At any rate, the UK is no weirder than most places, I imagine (she says, coming from a country where a toque is a woolly hat and the word “sorry” can mean anything from “actually sorry” to “not sorry at all” to “piss off, why don’t you?”) but it’s beautiful and seeing family again has been wonderful. Which is always the best, most unique thing about travelling.

A Loo Like No Other

So Ken and I are currently travelling across the Atlantic on a large boat, the Queen Mary 2 to be precise. We’re on our way to the UK to visit family with my parents. Currently, Ken is driving me crazy by suggesting things I can write (“tell them you hate jazz”) because he’s too cheap to pay for the wifi plan and he is bored. “God help you if you were ever locked in the bathroom with me,” he just opined. And yes, that would be horrible. Not because of Ken, who has stopped talking about his tendency to flatulate in small spaces when he realized I was writing everything he said down, but because the bathroom in our stateroom, while frustratingly typical in that the flush mechanism is BEHIND the toilet lid, forcing you to TOUCH the lid in order to flush the toilet, is extremely small and very strange. Here’s a photograph:

I’m not certain what the builders of this ship thought people would be doing in the bathroom but it’s set up like a weird bar. Not only is there the strange, prerequisite metal toilet paper cover that makes a perfect place to put your cocktail, but above that, there’s an ashtray, and mounted on the door, there’s a bottle opener. So what? I’m sitting on the can drinking beer and having a smoke, waiting for the disco to start in the shower? Ken has interrupted to remind me to tell you that “we met Seth”. Who is Seth? I have no idea. Apparently he works remotely and is doing a global cruise. Anyway, I’ve given Ken a ball of wool to bat around and amuse himself with while I finish this post in the theatre where we’re waiting for a show to start. The theatre, fortunately, is bigger than our bathroom but without the ashtrays, bottle openers, and potential disco dancing. Or Seth.