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…

Beet It!

Here are two truths and a lie about me: a) I’m bad at math b) I do not have an inordinate amount of clocks and c) I really like to cook. Can you guess which one is the lie? And all three tie into a crazy dream I had last week where I started doing math, looked at the clock, saw that I’d been trying to solve a stupid math problem for over 10 minutes, gave up and made Cornish hens in red wine sauce instead. It was bizarre, but it reinforced one important thing–I love cooking. Some people don’t get this, mostly the people who don’t love cooking, but to me, there’s nothing more relaxing than picking out a recipe, getting the ingredients, and spending a couple of hours making something delicious. When Ken and I were first married, my culinary range consisted of Pillsbury frozen mini-pizzas, scrambled eggs, mashed potatoes, and ground beef with prepackaged noodles and sauce. Since then, I’ve had many adventures and misadventures (baking SODA rather than baking powder in the raspberry pie I made for the first time I hosted a family Thanksgiving is the most memorable, and probably the most disgusting), but I’ve steadily improved my abilities over the last 25 years.

Although Ken and I have different tastes (and taste buds, apparently), he loves food and he’s usually pretty good about eating whatever I make—mostly because if he complains, he knows the response will be “Fine. Make your own damn dinner then.” And Ken is one of those people who DOESN’T like cooking, so even though he’s really super-picky, he will tolerate whatever is on his plate and just eat around the stuff he doesn’t like, kind of like a toddler. Or, like a toddler, he gets a little whiny. Case in point—last summer, I was doing home-made corn tortilla fajitas with the awesome tortilla press that I bought online. But Ken was all like, “I don’t want corn tortillas! I want regular wheat tortillas! Just because you and Kate can’t eat gluten doesn’t mean the rest of us should suffer! Wah wah!” and he was adamant enough that he actually went out and bought some wheat tortilla shells right before dinner so he could have things his own way. I mocked him a little, of course, but then later I felt bad about it, because if he wants gluey, ‘stick to your intestines’ wheatiness, then who am I to judge? So the next night, I promised him I would cook him beets. While this may not sound like a big deal, the thing you need to know is that Ken LOVES beets. He’s always mooning about how amazing beets are, and threatening to buy some so he can “boil them, slice them, and eat them with salt and butter.” Even saying it makes me feel slightly nauseated. But I had found a recipe for “roasted root vegetables” and figured that if I put the beets in with enough carrots and potatoes, it just might be edible.

So on the way home from the antique market, we stopped at a Mennonite fruit and vegetable stand (Mennonites are the Canadian equivalent of the Amish, if you don’t know). There was no one around for a couple of minutes and we were just about to give up, when a little girl about six years old flew out of the farmhouse about 300 feet away and came running down the lane in her bare feet. We told her what we wanted to buy—3 cobs of corn, a pint of raspberries and a bunch of beets—and asked how much we owed her. She just stared at us with big eyes. She was adorable but apparently, she didn’t speak English, and couldn’t do math, which made her the perfect salesperson for a small business in Mennonite World. But I shouldn’t be critical. I was as flummoxed by the math as she was, having bought 3 cobs of corn at the price of $4 for a dozen. Luckily, Ken is a whiz at math, and he figured out the total cost with some complex algorithm involving fractions and long division and we were on our way. But I was concerned about the whole strange situation:

Me: What was she, like 6? Is that even safe?
Ken: What do you mean? God, these raspberries are amazing. Can you make cheesecake for dessert?
Me: Well, what if we were in a van? Would they have still sent her out? We could have been kidnappers.
Ken: I’m sure someone was watching from the window. Oh my god, these raspberries! Do you have the stuff you need to make cheesecake?
Me: How could they see from over 300 feet away? By the time someone noticed that she was being snatched, they would be gone! Maybe they have different aged children they send out depending on the vehicle. If it’s a single guy in a van, they send out the 15-year-old with the huge muscles from working in the fields. We’re a couple in a small car, so we get the adorable 6 year old?
Ken: These raspberries will be awesome on cheesecake! I can’t wait!
Me: Sigh. If you keep eating them, there won’t be any LEFT for cheesecake. That’s it. Two more raspberries then the bag goes away. I mean it.
Ken: Aw….

That afternoon, I started getting everything ready—husking the corn, making the cheesecake, marinating the steak—until finally, it was time to tackle the beets. I peeled and chopped the potatoes and carrots first, avoiding the inevitable. Then I pulled the beets out of the bag. They smelled disgusting, like an open grave. I washed and peeled them, and it didn’t help. Kate was sitting at the counter, and I said, “God, these things smell and taste like dirt!” She said that was because they came from the ground. I reminded her that the same was true of carrots and potatoes but they smelled like they were meant to be eaten, not buried in a tomb. Then I held a peeled beet up to her nose, and she was like “God, they DO smell like dirt! I’m not eating any of that!” At this point, I realized that my hands were now dyed an alarming shade of pink, as was my cutting board, and as I mixed the chopped beets into the roasting pan, the carrots and potatoes started to turn pink as well. “Holy sh*t, the beets are spreading their poison to the rest of the food!” I exclaimed. “What if this is how the zombie apocalypse starts?!”

While dinner was cooking, Ken came down and was using my laptop to research more beet recipes.

Ken: Hey, check this out. This website says that people “are very passionate about beets. They either love them or hate them”…
Me: Accurate assessment.
Ken: “A lot of people think they taste like dirt”!
Me: That’s because they do. I told you that about half an hour ago.
Ken: You already read this website! You’re plagiarizing Martha Stewart!
Me: I’m NOT plagiarizing Martha Stewart. Do you think she’s the only one who knows that beets taste like death? EVERYONE knows it. Martha Stewart is plagiarizing ME.

Then I served dinner, making sure that Ken got pretty well ALL of the beets. I had about three chunks, which only served to confirm that I am definitely one of the people who hates beets. But Ken was beside himself with joy, and I felt like I had made up a little for mocking him about the tortillas, especially because the cheesecake and fresh raspberries (what was left of them) were pretty amazing. Then the next day, I was in the bathroom, and I came out and said to Ken, “I think I need to call the doctor. The water in the toilet—“
“That’s just the beets,” he laughed. “Nothing to worry about.”
And I’m not worried about it, because I’m never touching one of those zombie death-bombs ever again.

Creative Wednesday: A Thousand Shades Of Green Story Sessions Featuring Dark Nocturnes

10 years ago when I started this blog, I was fortunate enough to connect with a lot of people that have continually supported me and my writing. One of my biggest cheerleaders has always been the incredibly talented Susan Richardson of Flowering Ink, home of her blog Stories From The Edge Of Blindness as well as her fantastic podcast A Thousand Shades of Green. I’ve been listening to Susan and her beautiful voice read work from over 40 poets around the world, as well as her own amazing poetry, each week since she started the podcast. When she decided to do a new series called Story Sessions, I thought it was a fabulous idea. And then she contacted me to ask if she could focus the first season of Story Sessions on my new short story collection Dark Nocturnes. I was thrilled, not only because it’s an absolute honour to have someone love your writing that much, but also because the thought of hearing Susan read my work in that beautiful voice, with just the right eeriness, the way she savours each word, had me over the moon. Story Sessions featuring Dark Nocturnes premiered a couple of weeks ago, and so far, Susan has sent chills up my spine as she’s read the first four stories in the collection. So if you’d like to listen to the season so far, and keep listening to the rest of the stories in the weeks ahead, here’s the link to her website again: A Thousand Shades Of Green Story Sessions . And if you like what you hear, feel free to buy Dark Nocturnes for yourself! It’s available here!

And if you want to support Susan and her writing, you can purchase her wonderful poetry collections Tiger Lily: An Ekphrastic Collaboration, Things My Mother Left Behind, and Smatterings of Cerulean by clicking on the titles!

Frankly My Dear, I Don’t Give A F*ck

As a writer, it’s always interesting when you read reviews of your work. And I say ‘read’, because most of the time, it’s someone who’s purchased your book and writes a review on Amazon or Goodreads or whatnot. Usually, people really like my books, but I’ve certainly had my share of interesting reviews, and by ‘interesting’, I mean things like “The stories in this short story collection are short”, or “the perspective in this book with two different narrators seems to be from two different perspectives”, but most of the time, it’s a pretty solid ‘great read’. I try not to get too ruffled about reviews—after all, opinions are like ani—everybody has one. But the other day, I was absolutely flabbergasted. I was at the community centre in town helping our local service club get set up for their annual charity auction. There were a bunch of us organizing the tables (and sneaking a peek at the donations, as one does). Every so often, someone local would come in to sneak a peek as well, which was fine, and we would all chat. Then an older woman came into the hall, and she made a beeline right for me:

Old Woman: Oh hi! I bought your book.
Me: You did? Thanks!
Old Woman: And I have to say, I was very disappointed.
Me: Uh, sorry—which book?

At this point, I’m thinking maybe she was disappointed because she wished it was longer, or because she hoped it would end differently, but no:

Old Woman: You know, I’m no prude, but that book had so many F words in it—I was shocked.
Me: You mean the humour book?
Old Woman: And I promised myself that if I EVER saw you, I would tell you EXACTLY how disappointed I was. That many F words is just UNNECESSARY…

And she continued to ramble on. I was so taken aback that I couldn’t even think of a response, aside from “Then don’t f*cking read it!” but I was with a lot of other people that I like and respect, and I didn’t want to cause a scene. So I just walked away and left her droning on. She finally left. But it was super upsetting. I mean, to have someone come RIGHT INTO YOUR FACE and criticize you NOT for the content or style of your work, but because you dropped a few F-bombs? And it wasn’t even that MANY—I went back and checked, and there were 39 instances of the word ‘f*ck’ or its many variations in a book of 50,530 words, or 249 pages. That means I used the word ‘f*ck’ every 1300 words or so, which is WAY LESS than I use the word f*ck in real life. And I just checked, and I’ve only used it 5 times so far in this post which stands right now at 492 words, so once every 100 words, give or take, and that’s not even a RECORD for me.

I guess I was just completely blindsided by such a random encounter. I mean, I would NEVER have the unmitigated gall to go up to someone I don’t know and PUBLICLY tell them that I, a grown-ass adult, was disappointed in their book because it contained swearing. I know that some people consider swearing a tad gauche, but honestly, there are SO many bigger things to worry about in the world right now.

At any rate, the book she was complaining about, What Any Normal Person Would Do, was longlisted/top ten for one of the most prestigious literary prizes in Canada, the Stephen Leacock Award for Humour. I even got stickers to put on the front cover, so I guess the judges didn’t have a problem with my sweary nature. And if you’d like to check it out for yourself, it’s available here. Buy a copy and post a review praising my creative use of the word “f*ck”.

Or if swearing isn’t your jam, you can check out my new short story collection (yes, the stories are short and there’s no foul language). It’s called Dark Nocturnes, and if you like Black Mirror, you’ll appreciate my twisted storytelling. It’s available here.

And have you been watching Black Mirror? That first episode—OMG.

Car Go Beep Beep

Why is it, whenever things finally seem to be going well, that your car breaks down or needs a major repair? It’s like Murphy’s Law or something, if Murphy was a mechanic. I was already due to get my winter tires swapped out, an appointment I made this past week for 2 weeks from now because everybody and his brother are doing the same thing, even though there’s a chance that we’re still stuck in false spring, the season right before second winter. At the time, it felt like my brakes on my 12 year old Sonic were a little shaky, but not squealing or anything, so I said to the guy at the tire place, “While you have the tires off, can you check the brakes?” “Sure thing,” he said. Everything was fine until a couple of days ago. I was driving into another town after work. It had been a wonderful morning—someone had bought a copy of MY book AND asked me to sign it. Then I picked up this cute outfit from someone on Facebook Marketplace, and when I said, “It’s $35, right?” she said, “Oh, just give me $20,” and I was feeling so lucky and upbeat. But on the way home, my car started to shudder. The faster I went, the worse it got. I was freaking out so I did what any normal person would do—I called Ken:

Me: There’s something really wrong with my car!
Ken: Pull over.
Me: But I’m right in the middle of town in heavy traffic.
Ken: I’m googling “What would cause my car to shake?” Says it could be a problem with a lugnut. Are you missing any?
Me: How would I know if one of my lugnuts is missing?! I’m driving!

I finally found a gas station and pulled in to check. Sure enough, my right front tire was sans one lugnut. How the hell that happened, I have no idea. Ken called our neighbour, who is also an excellent mechanic but who doesn’t do tire swaps, and he said to take a lugnut from our daughter’s car to get me home. I was finally able to pull over on a side road out in the country after white-knuckling it for several minutes, and sat there waiting for Ken. He got there pretty quickly and checked out the tire:

Ken: You’re not missing a lugnut. The cap is off but the lugnut is still there.
Me: So I never have to type the word lugnut again?
Ken: Not if you don’t want to.
Me: What a relief.

Then he started hoiking on my tires, reaching in and rocking them and whatnot, and sending me into full-blown “what if my tire snaps off and the car falls on his arms and dismembers him?” panic attack. The only thing to do at that point was to attempt the drive home with him following me, going 30 shaky kilometres an hour, which is like a little over 18 miles an hour, with our hazard lights on, and people honking at us. It took over 45 minutes. And since it seems like the situation is way more complicated that just “having a look when my tires are off”, our mechanic neighbour is going to take it to his shop tomorrow. (Update: he looked at it in the driveway and immediately realized that my brake calliper had seized).

So like I said, every time things seem like they’re going well, and I finally feel a little ahead financially, one of the cars breaks down. But at least I have a new cool swear word to use: “Aw, lugnut.”

Gonedaddy

Last Thursday marked an anniversary for me. But not one that should ever be celebrated; one that taught me an important lesson. A year ago, I opened my inbox and saw an email from Godaddy, a domain hosting service. The email said, “Your domain is about to renew.” And I said, “Nice try, ‘Godaddy’. How stupid do you think I am? I’m not falling for your scam!” I vaguely remembered looking into their services years ago when I was thinking of changing blog platforms, but how dare they try to pilfer money from me! Smug in my own competency, I went to Godaddy and cancelled my account with them as retribution for their fake “you owe us money” trick. They sent me a follow up email but I ignored it and put it in ‘trash’.

About half an hour later, it was time to set up the next day’s authors, so I clicked on the shortcut to the DarkWinter Press and Lit Mag website, which is a WIX website, and I got a message:

This page no longer exists.

I tried again, using a different link and got the same result. Then my blood ran cold. I messaged my neighbour, who set up the website and still does web management for me when I need it:

Me: Hey. Um. Do we use Godaddy for anything?

Neighbour: Yes, it’s the hosting platform for your website.

Me: But my website is on WIX…

Neighbour: Right, but you need Godaddy to find it, remember? We discussed this.

Me (panic rising): Oh, ok. So if I, for some bizarre reason, happened to cancel my Godaddy account…?

Neighbour: You would have deleted your website. You didn’t do that, did you?!

Me: OMG WHAT HAVE I DONE??!!

Over two years of content—poof, and it was all my stupid fault. I started to cry. The only thing to do, my neighbour suggested, was to call Godaddy and see if they could help. I had my doubts, given my “cancel my account now, muthafukka” attitude. It took a few minutes to get through, at which point I was full on sobbing. A woman finally answered, and I managed to explain between sobs what had happened. “Please help me, I’m so sorry, I’ll do anything,” I told her, expecting that it was irreversible. But no. “Don’t worry,” she said. “This happens more often than you think. We have the whole site archived. If you pay the renewal and an additional $25 for the retrieval, we can get it back up in a couple of hours.” And let me tell you, I would have paid a hell of a lot more than that. I’ve never been so relieved in my life. Ironically, the woman’s name was Angel. And sure enough, a couple of hours later, when I clicked my shortcut, DarkWinter immediately appeared like a beautiful beacon in the dim light of my office, just like an angel said it would.

Which is why, last Thursday when I saw the renewal notice, I smiled, nodded, and whispered, “You Godaddy.”

In other news, if you didn’t see my special post from yesterday, let me reiterate that my new short story collection, Dark Nocturnes, was just released. I’m still over the moon and if you want to buy it, here’s the link: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0DY8B6C1K?tag=a_fwd-20&dplnkId=61609a9b-828a-4cb0-aa8f-eed2f61e7541&nodl=1

Saturday Special: My New Book Is Out!!

This is a special Saturday post for you because I’m so happy–my second short story collection, Dark Nocturnes is officially released, thanks to Jane Cornwell and JC Studio Press! Here again is the synopsis:

Step into the shadows and explore the hidden corners of existence in Suzanne Craig-Whytock’s captivating collection Dark Nocturnes, where ordinary lives intertwine with extraordinary circumstances, where the line between reality and fantasy blurs with each turn of the page. Wander through the echoing corridors of old manor houses and deep forests, explore hidden rooms and cavernous antique markets, dance with menacing marionettes and life-size dolls. Lyrical, haunting, and occasionally humorous, Dark Nocturnes is a collection of thirty-two stories that explore joy and sorrow, gratitude and grief, and hatred and desire. Open the cover, feast on the stories inside…and if you’re lucky, Mr. Death just might show up for dessert.

If this sounds like something you want to read, the link to order is below! Now here’s the background leading up to this momentous occasion as well as a special offer from me to make you famous.

As a few of you may know, my previous short story publisher, Potter’s Grove Press, suddenly announced last January out of the blue that they were dissolving and unpublishing their titles, including my collection, At The End Of It All. It was devastating, to say the least. But once I got over the shock, I realized that I had an opportunity–to take some of the stories out of At The End Of It All to form the basis for the novella I just finished writing (Nomads of the Modern Wasteland), and add NEW stories to the collection. So I did, and Jane Cornwell graciously agreed to not only publish it under her imprint, JC Studio Press, but to create this absolutely stunning cover. It’s a full collection of 32 short stories with a foreword by the incomparable Steven Baird, (author of Ordinary Handsome and Asunder, Baby), and it’s now available for purchase. And here’s the bonus: I’m working on a new novel project (the one I got the grant to write), so if you buy Dark Nocturnes, I’ll name a character in it AFTER YOU and let you choose how your character DIES (because my new book is a humorous murder mystery). Fame has never been so inexpensive!

And how do you order it? By clicking right here!

Here’s what some of my wonderful advance reviewers had to say about Dark Nocturnes: