Month: January 2024

Boob Job; I Love My Dog

This week, I had to do something that I’d been dreading for a while—get a mammogram. My original appointment had been in July, then I had to change it and the earliest I could get was December. But then, in a surprising turn of good luck, we were going to be away on a cruise in December and I had to change the appointment once again. The earliest new date I could get was in July—again. It seemed like a good thing but then I started thinking—is it? What if there was something wrong with one of the “girls” and I wouldn’t even know until next summer, by which time it might be too late? But there was nothing, seemingly, that I could do, given that the clinic where my requisition was sent was notorious for never having any appointments. Then two weeks ago, I was getting an ultrasound on my shoulder at a new place in the same building as my physiotherapist and they had a big sign that said they’d just become partners in the government screening program. I enquired—they could give me an appointment almost right away. I would have rejoiced but if you’ve ever had one of these done, you’ll know it’s nothing to get excited about. And for those of you who’ve never had the pleasure—imagine taking a rubber ball and compressing it in a machine like this:

You get the idea? And guys, we all know if the test for testicular cancer involved smashing your scrotum in this torture device, some science dude would have figured out a different method YEARS ago, involving no contact, soothing music, and ice cream at the end. Not to say that men don’t go through very painful and invasive routine medical tests…cough cough. At any rate, I approached the day with a sense of doom and found myself subconsciously crossing my arms over my chest at random moments. Then the morning of the mammogram (sounds like a horror movie doesn’t it—The Morning of the Mammogram From Hell) arrived and I drove to the clinic, heart pounding. See the last time I’d had one of these done, it was two years ago, and you may remember I wrote about it then, more specifically how the technician told me, after I was securely and excruciatingly clamped, “Make sure you don’t pass out.” I mean, what the hell does THAT mean? How exactly am I to prevent myself from passing out? And then the nightmarish thought—What if I DID? Would I just dangle there from my boob until…it didn’t even bear thinking about.

So with much trepidation, I entered the clinic and was called in almost right away by the same woman who had done an X-ray for me not too long ago, which didn’t bode well. But then we started chatting:

Me: Hey, I remember you from that X-ray a while back.
Tech: Yes, I do X-rays too but mammograms are really my specialty. I’m a jack-of-all-trades, I guess.
Me: And master of all of them, right?
Tech: *laughs* Don’t worry. Did your last one hurt?
Me: A little.
Tech: Well, we’ll make sure it doesn’t this time.

And true to her word, it was easy peasy and relatively painless. I even let her do a couple of extra shots “just to be on the safe side”. So fingers crossed that the “girls” are all right, and I don’t have to do this again for two more years.

In other news, Atlas is coming up on 4 years old now, and I have to say that he’s become the BEST dog. He was a holy terror as a puppy, as a 1 year-old and a 2 year-old, but over the last year, he’s just really settled into his role as a good boi. He has such an endearing personality, and you always know what he’s thinking about, which is mostly food. In fact, that’s when he’s most human—when it’s time for a meal. A while back, I started giving him a teaspoon of soft food with his kibble at every meal—we call it his “special”—and he goes nuts for it, jumping into the air like a baby goat when he sees me get the spoon, which I like to hold aloft like a beacon as I proclaim “The special spoon!!” It’s become such a thing that the last time we went away, my parents took care of him and my mom called, concerned:

Me: Hey, what’s up?
Mom: Atlas won’t eat. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.
Me: He won’t eat?
Mom: He’s just standing in front of the refrigerator. He keeps looking at it, and then looking at me. Very pointedly.
Me (laughing): That’s because his special is in there. He wants a dollop on his kibble.

A while later, she messaged to say that he gobbled everything up just like a good boi would. I love him so much.

And I’m glad I have him because he’s a real comfort when things are sh*tty, like last week when I got an email telling me that the company who published both my short story collections was dissolving. And not only are they not publishing anything new, they’re “unpublishing” all their other books, as in they will no longer exist in the public realm, and it was like a gut punch, or worse than a mammogram in terms of pain. So if you know anyone who publishes reprints of well-reviewed spooky stories that did as well financially as one could hope, let me know. In the meantime, I’ll just be over here, hugging my chest and cuddling my dog.

So Many Questions

Lately, I’ve been besieged by the most bizarre ads on literally every social media platform, ads for things I don’t want, don’t need, and would NEVER buy. Yet the ads just keep getting weirder, as if some algorithm is testing my resolve:

Algorithm Engineer 1: Here’s a one-person bathtub. She HAS to buy that.
Algorithm Engineer 2: One-person bathtub. Bwah hah hah!
Algorithm Engineer 1: Wait—nope, she passed.
Algorithm Engineer 2: Show her one with an antique mantel clock mounted on the ledge! Quick!

But I’ve been very good at ignoring even the most enticing clock slash bathtub and I suppose I’ve infuriated the algorithm gods. Case in point:

And I have SO many questions that I hardly know where to start.

1) What the hell is it?

Well, it looks like an inflatable merman. A merman wearing a stethoscope and carrying a puppy, so a…veterinarian merman? Who treats land animals? Below, where it’s cut off, it says December Diamond Dr. P, which I assume is either a very cool rap name, or Dr. P is short for Dr. Perplexed. Which is what I am, and also the good doctor, because the way he’s holding the back of his head makes him look VERY confused about who he is and what he’s doing out of the water. (Also, how does he get to the vet clinic? Does he drag himself down the street or do people bring animals to his…pool?)

2) What IS he doing out of the water?

I don’t know but he looks thirsty and sad. Also, I can’t see the puppy’s back end, so maybe the puppy is a merdog? They have matching collars/belts so I can only assume that it’s HIS puppy. Is the puppy sick? Or is this just some clever way to pick up a date, like “Hi, my dog and I were wondering if you were free later to swim around and listen to each other’s heartbeats” or “Damn, baby, take a listen. You can’t hear anything? That’s cuz you just stole my heart” and then the dog woofs approvingly.

3) Why was it created?

No one knows. The more important questions are these—Is it life size? Is it inflatable? Does it float? Can I use it as a centrepiece in a really crazy fountain in my front yard? Because THAT would be a terrific addition to our neighbourhood.

4) Is the person who created it insane?

ABSOLUTELY. YES.

And the most important thing is that I wrote all of this before I investigated and discovered what December Diamond Dr. P really is because I wanted the element of surprise for ALL of us. Can you even begin to guess? It’s a CHRISTMAS TREE ORNAMENT. He is 7 inches tall and you can buy him on Amazon for the low, low price of $63.22. Of course, if you’d rather pick a different merman, because there’s an ENTIRE COLLECTION, you can also get a firefighter merman, or this cowboy merman riding a horse. I have no clue where that stick goes, and frankly, I’m just fine not knowing.

My favourite part is that in the item description under theme, it says “Religious”. And the best thing of all? Now that I’ve spent so much damned time researching these things, I can’t wait to see what the Algorithm Engineers send me next…

A Colourful Little Number

You may remember me telling you that in December, I submitted my humour book What Any Normal Person Would Do to a fairly prestigious competition, The Leacock Medal for Humour. I was worried that my books wouldn’t be received by the deadline, since I’d decided so late in the year to submit, but I got notified that they’d made it safely into the hands of the judges. As part of the competition, every entrant gets put on the website along with the title of their submission, a headshot, and a biography. My headshot was really cute, featuring me wearing a black leather vest just to give me a little bit of a bad-ass vibe. I know I probably don’t stand a chance because Rick Mercer published ANOTHER book last year, and there are quite a few other famous Canadian humourists from huge publishing houses on the list. But still, I was excited to see myself on the website. I went there last week and called up the list. I scanned. I scanned. I continued scanning, but I wasn’t worried because I assumed that since it wasn’t in any kind of alphabetical order that I could discern, then it must be in the order that submissions were received. And then finally, I found myself:

Me: OMG. You won’t guess where I am on the list!
Ken: At the very top.
Me: I love how supportive you are, but no!
Ken: Where are you then?
Me: Number 69!!

And it just seemed so damned appropriate that a weirdo like me with the most absurd sense of humour would be NUMBER 69. I laughed my ass off and then I did what any normal person would do—I posted it on Facebook. And it’s a credit to my friends that only ONE person even remarked upon it. I had 88 likes and 39 comments and NONE of them aside from the first person mentioned it at all! I mean, the congratulations were wonderful, but I hadn’t posted it to brag or anything—I just thought it was outrageously funny, and then I felt dumb because no one else did, and then I was worried that I might have offended people and they were too nice to say anything about it. But then I went to get a tattoo and I was telling my tattoo artist about the whole thing:

Me: And I’m on the list…at number 69.
Tattoo Guy: WHAT? Bwah haha! That’s hilarious! Of all the numbers to get, you had to get the dirtiest one!
Me (relieved): I know, right?!
Tattoo Guy: Well, now you’ve got to win.

So yeah. That’s me. Number 69. I feel like I’ve already won.

In other news, Ken and I are still hard at work on transforming one of our bedrooms into a secret library room with the idea of turning the whole back part of the house (bedroom, secret library, and private bathroom) into a Writer’s Retreat that we can rent out. We’ve been doing it on a dime, getting furniture and accessories second-hand and so far haven’t been scammed like we were initially. We got a gorgeous leather loveseat from a lady for fifty bucks on the condition that we also took the sofa, which was badly damaged. But the dump was on our way home, and if you know anything about me, you know I LOVE the dump. But sadly, this was the kind of dump where they watch you ALL THE TIME to make sure you don’t take anything that other people have dumped. How fair is that? Then we finally got the loveseat home only to discover, after Ken and our neighbour made several attempts, that it was too big to go up the stairs. So now, I have a gorgeous leather loveseat in my office on the main floor and my green leather couch is in the new secret library. I hope people appreciate my sacrifice.

Friends For The Holidays

Over the past couple of months, I’ve noticed a weird trend in my Facebook friend requests—they’re all coming from dudes with two first names. I don’t mean like Joe-Bob Smith; I mean I’m getting requests on the daily from guys called Andrew Mark, John Joseph, or Michael Steven. It’s like someone googled “most popular white man names” and started pairing them up. And before you think I’m stereotyping, ALL of these guys are white. And Christian. And widowed. And either doctors or in the military. Which begs the question, knowing me as you do—why the HELL would a white Christian widowed army doctor want to be MY friend?! But I began to suspect that it was just a scam and that none of these guys were actually real right at the very beginning (based on the fact that none of them had any followers and their pictures all looked like what you’d get if you asked Siri, “Find me a photograph of a generic middle-aged white man”) and I’ve been deleting at least two fake friend requests a day. And then came the icing on the cake last week when I got a friend request from a man named Harry. HARRY NUTZ. Seriously?! You couldn’t snare me with Robert David and you think I’m going to fall for hairy nuts? And Harry also identifies himself as a “Christian” and single (with a name like that, it’s no wonder). Slight tangent: I had a cousin in England whose actual name was Harry Dick. But nobody thought it was funny because back then, people in England didn’t refer to manparts as “dicks”. Now, if his name had been Harry Willy, he’d never have lived it down. At any rate, I deleted Harry Nutz’s request as well, on the grounds that his nuts were probably a front for some scam artist who didn’t know how to manscape.

In other news, we recently celebrated New Year’s Day and when I looked at my Google calendar, I noticed that New Year’s Day was highlighted, but that the 2nd was also highlighted as “Day After New Year’s Day (Quebec)” and I was very confused by this. Do the French need a special reminder that the 2nd comes directly after the 1st? But then I investigated further and became enraged. Apparently, if you live in Quebec, you get an EXTRA HOLIDAY on the day after New Year’s Day, and if you live in Ontario, like me, YOU DON’T. And I had to WORK on the 2nd while all the Quebecois were enjoying their extra day off eating poutine and whatnot. And then I investigated even FURTHER when I realized that my Google calendar highlighted all the different days off that each province in Canada gets and now I want to live in Newfoundland, where on top of all the holidays we get here, they get almost one extra day off every month, including St. Patrick’s Day, St. George’s Day, Orangeman’s Day, and a random holiday to celebrate a BOAT RACE called The Royal St. John’s Regatta. They literally have a holiday in June called JUNE DAY. And other provinces and territories have equally tenuous holidays, like in the Yukon, where they get to celebrate Discovery Day, which commemorates that time Yukon Cornelius discovered gold in a glacier after battling the Abominable Snowman. And I was going to do better research on the whole Yukon thing but then I went down a rabbit hole of holidays and discovered that January 7th is known for several interesting holidays including Distaff Day and National Pass Gas Day, so for the rest of this fine Sunday, I’ll be farting around at a spinning wheel.