As I Was Saying

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

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

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

2) Eating crow

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

3) Throwing the baby out with the bathwater

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

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

4) Like taking candy from a baby

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And speaking of mysteries…

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

Skin Game

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Radio Goo-Goo; Fun With Facebook Ads

It’s been an insane week.

I’ve barely recovered from my inaugural radio show hosting gig—it could have been a total disaster but the previous host, Richard, generously offered to join me just in case. Things were going swimmingly—the first two guests were friends, and we’d discussed some topics for conversation before they did their readings. I was managing both the time and the audioboard (? I have no idea what it’s actually called but it looks like this:

) and aside from a minor issue at the beginning where I wasn’t close enough to the microphone, things were great. Ken gave me a thumbs up from the Green Room, and I settled in to begin the one pre-recorded segment that I had. I introduced the guest and then slid up the auxiliary and started the recording. Nothing. Dead air. I panicked, like I literally didn’t know what to do except put some music on while I tried to figure out what was wrong. Richard jumped up and came over. He stared at the board for a second, then hit a button and the audio was playing, but it was mid-way through. I stopped it, slid up my microphone and said, quite cheerfully for someone who was about to have a complete nervous breakdown, “Oh, it seems we had a little glitch. Let me just restart that audio,” which I did. And then everything was fine, aside from my heart pounding. “You didn’t have the auxiliary channel turned on,” Richard said, in a very kind way. The show finished and I breathed a sigh of relief—I’ll know better for next month.

And just when I thought I was in the clear, I found out the next day that it was MY job to download the audio, edit it, and upload it to the station’s website with images. EDIT THE AUDIO?? Richard sent me the link to an audio trimmer and I did my best but it still had a big gap of that dead air in the middle. So I did what any normal person would do—I asked my daughter Kate for help. Literally two minutes later, she’d edited out all the glitches and dead air—something I hadn’t been able to do in over an hour, and I’m so happy that we let her spend so much time on the computer when she was a kid. So now, if you go to the radio station website and click on the audio link, I sound incredibly competent, thanks to Richard and Kate.

Then on Saturday, I had a book event at one of the big book store chains in a city nearby. I normally do these for my publishing company—it’s rare that I do a book event for myself, but with Dark Nocturnes just coming out, it seemed like a good idea. My last one of these at a different bookstore was a disaster, with the staff putting me as far away from the main part of the store as possible and then just leaving me to languish and field customer questions like “Where can I find the latest Louise Penny mystery?” But this time, it was lovely, and the manager congratulated me and told me I’d broken the record for most books sold at one of their events. The previous record was 7. I sold 8 books. Yay me.

And since the previous part of this post wasn’t that funny, I leave you with these:

I don’t know what a ‘funeral saddle’ is, but I just love that the item description is “Still tons of life in them’. Unlike the people that the funerals are for.

This one is very confusing. Fer $260, apperently you can ter the ‘Sters’ out of this guy’s house. How is he getting upsters now? Is he installing an eleverter? Perhaps a fer escape? Maybe a wrought iron circerler stercase? I mean, come on—it’s not a hard werd to spell, people.

And finally, from the geniuses that brought you the Face-Eating Leopard Party, here’s an ad that I like to call “How f*cking stupid are you?” This is an offer to do several illegal stunt driving tricks that will not only get your license suspended but may even get you some jail time—if you’re caught. WILL they be caught? Well, illiterate Mensa champion Josh, who posted this ad, not only provided his OWN NAME, but also the license plate number of the car ‘me and my buddy’ are going to use to annoy ‘ur’ ex, as well as their location. All for the low, low price of 100 bucks. Cue police sirens…