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 our plane doesn’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.