Author: mydangblog

mydangbloghttps://educationalmentorship.wordpress.comMydangblog is a weekly humour blog--my weird perspective on the world and the people in it. Each essay is stand-alone--no chronological knowledge required, so feel free to go back to earlier posts. One of my favourites is...well, there's a lot to choose from. Read, enjoy, and keep coming back. New post every Sunday.
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Go Westie, Young Man

In the evenings, Ken and I like to settle in and watch a little TV. One of the channels we frequently watch has some excellent shows, but the commercials? Every commercial break, it’s literally the same damn commercials, over and over again all night long. Most of them I can ignore, but there are a few that drive me nuts:

1) Martha Stewart for Pretty Litter

This is a new type of cat litter apparently. It looks like tiny drops of gelatin and according to Martha, it can change colour to show you if your cat is sick with a variety of illnesses. That’s not what bothers me. I just have SO MANY questions about this commercial. It begins with Martha appearing from behind a clothing rack that only contains different coloured parkas—why does she have so many PARKAS? Then, throughout the entire commercial, she’s packing a suitcase. WHERE IS SHE GOING? At one point while she’s extolling the virtues of Pretty Litter, one of the cats in the commercial—there are two of them—is eating out of a plant pot in the background. Is she not feeding them?! Then, at the end, after she’s told us all about her weird-ass cat litter, she’s WEARING a parka, her suitcase is with her, and she’s about to leave on some kind of trip. WHERE IS SHE GOING? Is anyone taking care of the cats while she’s away? Because, based on the amount of sh*t she just put in her wheelie bag, she’s planning on being gone a while. None of this makes sense, like who was the genius writer?

Owner of Pretty Litter: We need a “concept” for this commercial. Yes, it’s only cat litter, but we need the audience to really ENGAGE with it.

Head Writer: Hmmm. Ooh, what about this? Martha is taking a skiing vacation, maybe in Vale, as one does, and she’s getting ready to leave, secure in the knowledge that Pretty Litter will absorb all the urine and poop and odours and whatnot while she’s away for the month. We’ll showcase some down-filled ski jackets and Lacoste button-ups, then have a nice product placement at the end for Samsonite. It’s a relatable narrative that will really capture the consumer imagination!

Assistant Writer: I love it! But…can cats be left on their own for weeks? Who’s going to feed them?

Head Writer: I doubt anyone will be worried about that. Besides, there are lots of plants. Everyone knows that cats can eat plants, STEVE.

Assistant Writer: Can they? I’ve never had a cat.

Head Writer: No idea. I’ve never had a cat either. What about you?

Owner of Pretty Litter: No idea. I hate cats.

2) Scotties Tissue

The premise of this commercial is that a man was hypnotized so that a “sneeze trigger” ensures he will always get the name of Scotties brand tissues correct, so when someone sneezes, he automatically says, “Scotties!” What did he call them before? No one knows—the commercial begins ‘in media res’. And believe it or not, this ISN’T the stupid part. No, the stupid part is that the tagline is “Let’s get the name right.” They get the NAME right but what they don’t get right is that the dog in the commercial for Scotties is NOT in fact a Scottie dog—it’s a WEST HIGHLAND TERRIER. It’s a WESTIE. I’d be more impressed by the company if they actually knew what breed their mascot was. A “Scottie”—a Scottish Terrier—is BLACK, and yes, while there may be some that are ‘wheaten’, the dog in the commercial doesn’t even LOOK like a Scottie. And again, I can imagine the conversation around the writer’s table:

Scotties Owner: So the board of directors and I have decided we need a mascot.
Head Writer: Well, that’s obvious. We’ll just use a Scottie Dog.
Assistant Writer: Aren’t Scottish Terriers black?
Head Writer: But the tissues are white. We’ll just use a different Scottish dog–get me one of those white ones to match the tissues.
Assistant Writer: You mean a Westie? Won’t people notice that we’re using the wrong kind of dog as a mascot?
Head Writer: THEY’RE BOTH SCOTTISH, STEVE. NO ONE WILL CARE.

So the whole campaign and branding are based on a complete misunderstanding. In retrospect, I’m thinking that the context for the commercial is that the man kept calling the tissues “Westies” and then he was tortured and brainwashed into believing that a white dog is a Scottie. 2+2=5.

3) Dove Whole Body Deodorant

I’m baffled by this one. And I guess I shouldn’t call it ‘deodorant’ because according to Dove, the hip, cool thing to say is “Deo”. But this commercial is bizarre. It features women dancing and swirling in an Italian-esque villa as they apply “Deo” to all their body parts, and there’s a kind of rap that goes, “My neck, my back, my legs and pits, all that.” So are we supposed to coat our ENTIRE bodies with deodorant now? WHY?! I, for one, am frankly sick of companies trying to make money by telling woman they “aren’t fresh” (I’m looking at you, Summer’s Eve, you literal douchebag). What do they think we do all day? Mud wrestle? Slathering waxy paste all over your body can’t possibly be good for your skin—one line in the rap suggests you rub it “under your rack”. Seriously?  And how do you get it on your back anyway? I can barely reach the top of my shoulder blades. People in the past would have laughed their heads off at this:

Lady Casentmauvais: That brisk romp through the countryside has invigorated my glow, I’m afraid.
Lord Casentmauvais: I’ll get the butler to scatter rose petals around the room to disguise your pong. I’m also noticing the acrid stench of my own perspiration.
Lady Casentmauvais: Indeed. Tell the butler to crush lavender into the carpet as well.

And can you imagine the conversation in the writers’ room?:

Dove Owner: Our sales are slipping. We need more women to buy our products.
Head Writer: We can convince them that their knees are smelly.
Assistant Writer: Ooh, great idea! We could do the same thing with the men’s “Deo”.
Head Writer (scoffs): What man would ever believe THAT, STEVE?

In other news, remember how I was supposed to be a co-host for that radio station show for a few months? Well, I got an email on Thursday from the community group that organizes the show that the other host, who I had just done the show with last Sunday, up and quit. Completely. And now, I am the only, and permanent, host. Wish me luck.

Harmony; Smatterings of Cerulean

I’ve never had a problem going to the dentist. I mean, like most people, I don’t enjoy having someone else’s hands in my mouth (already I can hear the voices saying “Speak for yourself”—this is a PG site, so back off), but I’m not petrified, and I don’t avoid going like some people. In my previous workplace, we had a great dental plan, but there were so many people with really awful teeth that it seemed like a lot of people avoided the dentist like the plague, which is the time period when, I believe, that dentists were invented and were used mostly for implanting dead peoples’ teeth into rich peoples’ mouths. I used to work with a guy who was so scared of the dentist that he had to have laughing gas just for a cleaning. I had laughing gas only once, when I had my wisdom teeth out, and all I remember is that it was the surgeon’s birthday and he had helium balloons in the corner, which were apparently the funniest f*cking thing I had EVER seen, to the point where he got really mad and said, “Stop laughing!” And I was like, “This is your fault, you hilarious bastard!” then he hooked me up to an IV and I don’t remember anything after that, except that having your wisdom teeth pulled out REALLY takes the smile off your face. But even THAT experience didn’t sour me on dentistry. Apparently, according to my dentist, I have “boring teeth”, which might sound like an insult, but he said it’s way better than HIS teeth—he’s had three root canals, four crowns, and multiple fillings, which is weird because you’d think with all his access to floss and sh*t that he’d be completely tuned up. I really wanted to ask if he did the repair work himself, like that Mr. Bean show where he gets sick of waiting for the dentist and starts messing with the dentist’s tools and ends up drilling into several teeth, but he had his hands in my mouth so I couldn’t.

Mostly our conversations involve him griping about the fact that I’m allergic to latex so he has to wear vinyl gloves “just for me” and “they don’t fit properly and they’re hard to get on because there’s no powder”. And that’s a way worse inconvenience than me swelling up and choking, which is why I left my last dentist, who was like “there’s no such thing as a latex allergy—stop being a baby and breathe properly”. Yesterday though, my current dentist was quite pleased because he’s got these new blue gloves that are more comfortable. Of course, he still came in the room with the latex ones on, but my hygienist gave him this crazy signal like she was swatting at a bee or something and he came back with the non-death-inducing ones.

I love my hygienist. Her name is Harmony, and she’s very much like her name. We like all the same TV shows, and manage to talk about them while she has sharp hooks in my mouth. I’ve been going to her for several years, except for a brief period when our schedules didn’t match up. But recently, she’s been working more days and now that I’m retired, I have the flexibility to see her whenever I want. I saw her this past Thursday, and even though it had been MONTHS, we picked up where we left off, which is where her pick is in my mouth. Regardless, she can always understand me:

Me: A u een any u ows ately?
Harmony: Oh my god, yes. Have you seen Disclaimer?
Me: I i on etfix?
Harmony: No, Apple TV. Do you have that?
Me: Nuh. ust isney a prime
Harmony: You can get a free trial. Totally worth it to binge this show. Oh, and The Bad Sisters–amazing!
Me: Uh i a-out? I i a ystery?
Harmony: Yes, so I don’t want to give too much away. Let’s just say you need to be on the lookout for clues.
Me: OOOH.

So now, not only do I have clean teeth and x-rays to prove that my pearly whites will last a few more years, I also have some solid recommendations for what to watch next.

In other news, tomorrow is the DarkWinter Press official release of the incredible poetry book Smatterings of Cerulean, by my good friend Susan Richardson of Stories From The Edge Of Blindness and the brilliant poetry podcast A Thousand Shades of Green. And not only is the poetry excellent, there is also a photograph accompanying each piece. And guess who the photographer is? It’s Ken! As you may know, Ken is an amazing photographer, and I’ve used many of his images for DarkWinter Literary Magazine. So if you’re interested in beautiful poetry and photography, you can buy Smatterings of Cerulean here.

Squirrel! Part Deux

Squirrel! for those who don’t know, is a reference to that easily distracted dog from the movie Up. And if you read last week’s post, you’ll remember that I promised to tell you what happened when we picked up the car. Well, not too much—it was pretty straightforward. The furnace had been fixed (“Yeah, I caved and got in a guy who replaced the pilot light thing”) and the dog smelled marginally better (“But the suede couch can’t be saved”) and then we drove off the lot. The next day, Ken had promised to take over the ownership for our trade-in/junker, but he called me while I was out shopping to say that the new-to-us vehicle’s engine light had come on. I agreed to meet him at the used car lot and drive him home if necessary. When I got there, Car Guy was leaning casually against the side of our SUV and Ken was sitting in the passenger seat:

Me: Hey, how’s everything?
Car Guy: So I threw the computer on it, and it’s just the thermostat. Twenty dollar part, quick fix.
Ken: So how long will it take?
Car Guy: Oh, we can get it done this afternoon, probably by—HEY! That door isn’t silver!!

Ken and I both looked in confusion at our SUV door, which was black like the rest of the vehicle, then in the direction Car Guy seemed to be looking. Leaning against the garage were several disembodied car doors. Two of them were red; one seemed like it was silver…?

Me: You mean the car door over there on the right? Isn’t it silver?
Car Guy: Nooo…I’m pretty sure that’s grey! Anyhoo, let’s say by end of day.

And it was. He’s nothing if not reliable.

In other news, on Wednesday, I made Ken take me out to the cemetery…(I love starting sentences that way, like you’re all thinking, “Ooh, what did Ken DO? What happened next?!”)…to take some new headshots of me for my new short story collection, Dark Nocturnes, which is coming out on April 5th, thanks to the wonderful JC Studio Press. Why the cemetery? Because for some strange reason, I always look great in a cemetery—all of my best author pics are me and a gravestone. And I don’t know if that says more about the cemetery or more about me. At any rate, it was super windy and hard to get any decent pictures of me with someone’s deadbed, but we found a sheltered spot by an old tree and I think it’s pretty decent, like I’m contemplating mortality and whatnot:

And if you like this picture (brace yourself for incoming blatant self-promotion), you’re going to LOVE Dark Nocturnes, which you can pre-order for Kindle here. Last week, I gave you a sneak peek at the cover and now, here’s 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.”

Squirrel!!

Last week, Ken’s 2011 GMC Terrain finally bit the dust. It had already had a complete engine rebuild a couple of years ago, but the repairs it needed now were too expensive to consider keeping it on the road. Thus began the search for another vehicle. We didn’t want something new—Ken used the Terrain as an all-purpose trailer-hauling, cargo-carrying, dog-transporting workhorse, so anything fancy was out of the question (and as an aside, let me tell you that we can’t even SAY the word ‘car’ in our house without Atlas losing his mind—he thinks going for a car ride, even to our local hardware store two minutes away, is cause for tremendous crying, leaping, and swooning. He’s adorable, and also VERY good. He always has a safety go before he leaps in, and once he’s actually in the back, he stays put. Also, a safety go is when you pee even if you don’t need to, just in case. I don’t know if men do that, but a lot of women I know, myself included, ALWAYS do it.)

Anyway, we had to start looking for another vehicle. We test drove one—a 2017 Terrain (but Ken was leery about more engine problems), and then we looked at a 2015 Chevy Traverse. We’d pretty much decided on the Traverse and headed to the car lot to move forward on it, but no one was around, so we headed next door to a different car lot. There was a fully loaded 2016 Dodge Journey there, and after test driving it, we decided it was the right vehicle. So on Thursday, we made an appointment to put down a deposit and fill in the paperwork. And that’s when the fun started. Because the guy who owns this lot—he’s fairly young, and very nice and smart, and COMPLETELY OUT OF CONTROL. This is what went down:

Car Guy: Hey, good to see you. I stink. My dad’s dog got sprayed by a skunk and my dad doesn’t smell so the dog went all over the house and do you know how to get skunk out of a suede couch because the dog was laying all over it and—hey, it’s really cold in here. (gets up and leaves the room). I don’t think the furnace is working, which is weird because it was fine yesterday, but who knows, anyway how much did you want to put down as a deposit?

Ken: We were thinking five hun—

Car Guy: (gets up and leaves the room and continues talking) Sometimes the thermostat gets stuck and you have to turn it off and then on again…oh wait, do you hear something, like it’s firing up? Once, I came in and it was like minus 5 in here. Wow, I really smell, sorry about that, but I couldn’t even put the dog outside because it’s so cold. (comes in and sits back down). So here’s the report on the Dodge. It’s pleasantly boring, which means it’s been well taken care of and I should probably be asking more for it but there you go. Did you want new plates?

Ken: Yes, the old ones are kind of peeling—

Car Guy: But it’s okay because I really rely on volume sales, which is why my cars are all so cheap, like I just LOVE buying stuff so if I can move things out fast, then I can buy more, You see that 2005 Toyota over there? I picked it up this morning, got two grand on it but someone will buy it—the mileage is only like 45 000k. Crazy, right? Hey, do you think the exhaust pipe for the furnace might be blocked?

(At which point, he and Ken go outside to investigate while I sit there shivering in my winter coat. After a few minutes, they come back and Car Guy is carrying an empty Tupperware container. It’s not clear why. It never becomes clear.).

Me: Did you find the pipe? (Ken shrugs).

Car Guy: No. Maybe. I’m not sure. Anyway, I think I’m just gonna have to put the dog in the shower with some of that stuff, whaddaya call it?

Me: Skunk Off?

Car Guy: Yeah, although that might smell worse than the skunk. Does it sound like the furnace is on yet? (leaves room to fiddle with thermostat). Anyway, let’s get that paperwork done (phone rings). Hello, Honest T’s. The Journey? Sorry, man, it just sold, like literally just now, but hey, I have a 2012, come on by and see. (hangs up). Wow, you guys have great timing. If you could just initial here and here and sign here…okay now we have to go into the other office where the debit machine is, but it’s warmer in there. I just have to go to the bathroom first because I’m seriously dying. Hey Ray! Can you get the ladder and go onto the roof to see if the furnace pipes are up there? Be right back guys.

We were there for over an hour, just to sign some paperwork. But I can’t complain because it was the most hilarious hour I’ve spent in a long time, just listening to him. We pick up the Journey this coming Thursday, so I’ll let you know if he still smells like skunk—and if he finally got the furnace going.

Un Bon Chien

Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?

I haven’t written too much about Atlas lately, but he’s really turned into a wonderful dog. He’s very affectionate and intelligent in a variety of ways. But most surprisingly, the other day we discovered that he speaks French. Yes, the language of amour, and he’s quite proficient at it. I was in the kitchen getting dinner ready, and I was speaking French to Atlas, as one does, because I like to practice every once in a while to make sure I haven’t forgotten the basics. I was keeping a running commentary of what I was doing— “Ah, mon bon chien, tu es très intelligent, n’est-ce pas?” and “Je vais faire des pommes de terre à la place du riz” and whatnot. And then I needed some salt, so I said to Atlas, who wasn’t really paying attention at this point, having given up on getting any cookies, “Où est le sel, mon ami? Ah, c’est ici!”

And when he heard the word ‘ici’, he immediately ran to the door and started barking like a maniac, because ‘ici’ means ‘here’, and whenever he hears the word ‘here’, he assumes that someone has come to our house. I had to shush him and open the door to prove that no one was ‘ici’. But I was super-curious:

Me: Since when have you been able to understand French?
Atlas: Oh, you know. You pick it up here and there.
Me: And can you speak French as well?
Atlas: Bien sûr. Je ne suis pas un idiot. Contrairement au président des États-Unis.
Me: That’s pretty good. Your accent is as solid as your understanding of current politics. Hang on—have you been spending time with that French bulldog on the corner? Is that who’s been teaching you French?
Atlas: Among other things, Maman. Ooh la la!
Me: Take it easy there, Loverboy. Stop drooling. Thank goodness you’re neutered.
Atlas: What does ‘neutered’ mean, Ma?
Me: Oh nothing.

Sigh. They grow up so fast.

In other news, my job shadow training at the radio station went really well. It doesn’t look anywhere near as difficult as I thought, and on top of everything, one of the authors didn’t show up so to fill in the time, the other host offered to let me read from my new short story collection, Dark Nocturnes, which is currently on Kindle pre-sale with the paperback being released on April 5th. I’m so excited about it, and the cover is incredible, thanks to Jane Cornwell, my publisher and artist extraordinaire. If you’re interested, you can find it by clicking here: Amazon

It’s already gotten some fantastic advance reviews but if you’d like a review copy when it’s released, let me know!

What?

It’s been a while since I shared some fun Facebook Marketplace ads with you, so given that not much has happened this week, aside from me taking on teaching a workshop series on writing short stories, getting ready to job shadow at the radio station, scoring the motherlode of designer bags to sell at the market, hitting 20 000 words on my new manuscript, and preparing to publish a fantasy novel Ghost Bride of Gum San by JF Garrard, a terrific Toronto writer, as well as the brilliant new poetry collection Smatterings of Cerulean by the amazing Susan Richardson of the A Thousand Shades Of Green literary podcast and Stories From The Edge Of Blindness blog—well, it’s actually been a busy week but none of that was funny enough to write about so here we go:

WHAT

Me: What? Ken, what is this?
Ken: What?
Me: Exactly. What.
Ken: What?
Me: No, what’s on first.
Ken: I don’t know.
Me: I don’t know is the short stop.
Ken: What?
Me: What’s on first.

I could literally do this all day. What is a fun game. That’s a statement, not a question. But seriously, what is what? An un-defrosted freezer for $100? Or…a coffin? What?

There are a couple of things wrong with this ad. First and foremost, the grungy tile with the weird still life of the coffee pot, mushrooms, and broccoli. Next, the ugly kettle—I mean, who would want a kettle like that on top of your stove for the world to see? And of course, calling it ‘the ultimate cooking companion’ is so pretentious. Does the oven talk, or like, help you with recipes? And ‘style’? Dude, it’s just a plain, white stove. There might be some other things wrong with this ad, but I think I’ve covered the big issues.

These chairs might be comfortable, but wouldn’t they sink into the sand? I can’t see myself under a palm tree, enjoying a pina colada, listening to the sound of the tropical surf while sitting upright on one of those puppies. Give me a hammock or a comfy lounger any day. Or maybe the island you live on is in the North, but then I would think you’d prefer a Muskoka chair (which is the proper name for Adirondack).  

This ad is an enigma, albeit a very angry one. 6 words (well, 5 words and 1 number) that absolutely seethe with fury. But here’s the enigma—who posted this? Is it the person in the photo, who is ashamed of marrying a fourth time to yet ANOTHER loser? Is it the person who recently got divorced from the person in the photo, and is upset about being the fourth victim of this errant woman? Is the photo being held for a $500 ransom? Has this woman failed to win the lottery four times? It’s a mystery. You really have to wonder about the mindset of someone who would post this publicly—I’ve seen similar types of ads, but they’re usually more tongue-in-cheek. This one just seems mean…and definitely not worth $500. I didn’t even bother to blank out the location because I don’t think the person who posted it really gives a sh*t at this point.

Finally, there’s this one:

This guy wants you to have absolutely NO DOUBTS, and has pre-emptively answered all your questions:

Is it for sale? Answered.
Are you the person selling it? Answered.
Is it in good condition? Answered.
Is it brand new? Answered.
Does it work? Answered.
What brand is it? Answered.
What size is it? Answered.
Is it for hoses? Answered.
Does it crimp things? Answered.
Can you repeat all that below? Definitely.

See? The guy thought of everything…or he thinks he did, because you know at least three people will respond to the ad with “Is it still available?”

And here’s the cover teaser for Smatterings of Cerulean. Look for it later in March!

Hold Your Horses!

I like watching television. If you’ve been reading this blog for a long time, you’ll know that I’m at my most blissful when I’m horizontal, glass of wine in hand, bingeing on a mystery. And this week was no different—Netflix told me that a show called “Missing You” was right up my alley, based on what I’d previously watched, and I was like, “Aw, Netflix, you know me so well!” It was a limited series with five episodes, so I climbed into bed, ready with wine and anticipation. The show began—the opening scene takes place at night. It is dark and stormy, and a handsome man dressed in a business suit is riding a horse that is galloping at breakneck speed across the moors of England. He looks terrified, and there are flashbacks of a beautiful woman that he is apparently madly in love with and desperately wants to see. Suddenly, the horse stumbles and the man is thrown off the horse, landing badly. Cut to daylight—the man is now hobbling down a country lane as fast as he can. A tractor appears behind him and starts to run him down. He falls—another man leaps out of the tractor and tasers him. You soon find out that the first man is the victim of a kidnapping. Intense, right? And it gets better—the main character is a female detective with a tragic past. She works in the Missing Persons Unit and she’s tasked with finding the man, as well as other people who’ve also gone missing. This show has it all—abduction, catfishing, a man called Leslie, a crazy-ass dog breeder and his puppies—you name it. It was really good.

Then I got to the end and something occurred to me, something that I just can’t get off my mind. And it’s this…where the f*ck did the guy get THE HORSE from?! They NEVER explain it! The detective traces him to a Bed And Breakfast in a town with nary a horse in sight, and he ends up at a farm—but NOT a horse farm—a DOG BREEDING FARM, again, with nary a horse in sight. And I have SO MANY QUESTIONS! Where did the horse come from? Whose horse was it? How come it already had a saddle? How did the businessman know how to ride a horse? Did he steal it? Was the horse reported stolen? Where did it go after it kicked him to the curb? All I could think was that there had been some very questionable decisions made in the screenwriting room:

Head Screenwriter: I have the best idea to open the show! Let’s put the East Indian guy ON A GALLOPING HORSE!!
Screenwriter 2: Where does he get the horse from?
Head Screenwriter: What? Who cares?
Screenwriter 2: People might wonder…
Head Screenwriter: NOBODY will wonder, STEVE. Besides, we can deal with that in the last episode or whatnot.

5 months later, at the premiere…

Screenwriter 2: I feel like there’s something we forgot to do…
Head Screenwriter: Are you going on about the horse AGAIN? I keep telling you, STEVE, no one will care!

Well, I care. And my OCD brain has been spinning, because Ken mentioned that I have a habit of falling asleep during TV shows and maybe I’d missed the very tiny reference to the horse. But I don’t think so, KEN. So if you happen to be watching “Missing You”, can you watch out for any horse references? Steve and I need to know.

Radio Gaga

You may all remember a few weeks ago when I was interviewed on a local radio show. It was a lot of fun and I posted pictures of the haunted factory building where the station is located. Well…earlier this week, I received a newsletter from the organization that runs the show. It turns out that the host is taking a leave for several months and if they couldn’t find a second host to fill in, the radio show would be cancelled. I thought about it for a minute—running a live radio program all by myself in a studio at the heart of a haunted warehouse? That sounded super stressful. So I did what any normal person would do—I immediately composed an email to say that I would be happy to fill in. Then I hit send…Then I had a panic attack. Was I going gaga in my old age? What was I thinking?! Didn’t I already have enough on my plate? So I poured myself a glass of wine, and consoled myself by thinking that probably a ton of people would have offered to do this—I mean, who wouldn’t want to be on the radio? They were probably inundated with emails for this very cool gig.

The next morning, I was feeling less stressed…until I got a reply. Yes, it would be amazing if I could fill in—I felt faint. But it’s only one afternoon a month, my logical brain reminded me. Then I talked to my daughter, whose equally logical brain reminded me that I’m a very competent person, and that I shouldn’t let my anxiety get the better of me. “Mom,” she said, “you’ve been a radio host before AND a club DJ—you can do this!”

Well, yeah, sweetie, but that was 40 years ago—believe it or not, my first actual DJ-ing job was at the exact same radio station when I was in university, a job for which I had to audition in their sound booth (which was located on the university campus as opposed to a building that could use a good exorcism). I did well enough for university radio—I’d been a club kid for years and was pretty familiar with that scene—and was given a position subbing in for a friend when she was unavailable—her show was called “Your Grandma’s Tractor”, and it was alternative music featuring bands no one had ever heard of. Then I was offered my own show. This might sound amazing, but they needed to meet some kind of broadcasting regulation, and they’d just lost their Classical Music DJ. Yep. Classical music. Luckily, I’d grown up on that sh*t, and my parents had enough albums to start their own record store, so “Symphonic Gestures” was born. I did that gig for over a year, putting together intro notes from the backs of record covers, then just letting the music play for the next half hour. I didn’t have any listeners per se—I know this, because one time, the radio station ran a contest during my show for prizes but the only person who “called in to win” was my Mom, to whom I’m forever grateful for making it seem like I had an audience. I was like, “Hey random caller, guess what?! You just won a five dollar gift card to Tim Horton’s” and she was like, “Oh wow! This is my lucky day!”

It was great experience back then, but being a DJ now is most likely very different from the days when I had two turntables and a microphone. However, I will be receiving professional training, and I’ll be able to job shadow the current host, so by the time I have to fly solo, it should be fine. More than fine, because I’ll be interviewing other writers and listening to them read their work, which is always a fun thing to do. And I’ll be in a super-haunted factory, so be prepared for some wild stories. And if you want to read more about my illustrious and DJ-ing history (and why I once shut off the music and walked out of the club), you can go to My Week 81: When I Was A DJ.

Recent Movements

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve been having a harder time getting over jetlag. I’m fine going overseas–I can stay up as long as I need to and then my body adjusts to a new clock. But on the way home–it takes weeks before I readjust. And a certain bodily function seems to have a clock of its own, one that takes forever to revert back to regular movement, and has been waking me up in the middle of the night, telling me it’s actually morning. If you don’t know what I’m talking, the following will soon make it clear.

Today’s topic is something that we’re all very aware of. We do it every day. We were fascinated by it as children—in fact, some children like to make art with it. As adults, we examine it, consider it, pretend it never happened, or fixate on it, but we rarely discuss it. It goes by many names: dump, turd, doodie, dingleberry, fudgebunny, rosebud, or in my own family’s case, trump (which makes sense, considering…) Yes, I’m talking about poop. Admit it—we all, in our own way, are interested in this subject, at least our OWN subject. Most people really don’t care to think about other people’s sh*t—well, their LITERAL sh*t anyway. In fact, most people are FAR too interested in other people’s figurative sh*t for their own good, and are always happy to express their opinions on things that never concern them.

At any rate, I’ve come to realize that I may just be weirdly interested in poop. It started years ago, when I was in the hospital after having major surgery. In the bathroom, there was a chart that had images of different kinds of poop on it, and descriptions of what each one meant. Like there was the “normal” poo that looked like a sleek log, then there was the bulky poo that looked like really long, dry cookie dough and was described as “a sausage shape with cracks in the surface”, which meant the person was somewhat dehydrated. (If you’re interested in more of this, just google “Bristol Stool Chart”—I know you’re saying out loud “No way”, but we both know you’ll secretly look at it). Then, a few years ago, I saw a giant poo in the doorway of a defunct sushi restaurant in town. Right away, I was like “Whoa! That’s the biggest poo I’ve ever seen! Also, its owner needs to drink more fluids.” Later, it was still there and I tried to point it out to a friend, but she was like “No! You need to stop. I do NOT want to see an unhomed person’s poop.” I realize some people are just really uncomfortable with random feces, but this was like World Record stuff—it literally haunted my thoughts for days, and every time I passed the doorway, even though it was long gone, I pondered the size, and diet, of its owner.

Sometimes it occurs to me that just maybe I should keep my fascination with poo to myself, but I can write about whatever the hell I want, and you can judge me, but you can’t argue with the fact that deep in your secret heart, you also think poo is, if not cool, at least interesting and informative. Seriously, nobody is watching as you nod and smile. Or when you look into the toilet in the morning to inspect your offering. The other day, I felt the urge, and afterwards I snuck a peek. My reaction? “Huh. Impressive!” Then I giggled a little, because I said it out loud, but no one else was in the bathroom to hear me.

And please don’t try to tell me that you have never passed judgement on your own sacrifice to the porcelain god, because we all do it. We’ve all gone, “Holy hell! What did I eat yesterday?” or “Why doesn’t corn digest like regular normal food?”, “Alcohol sure does a number on my bowels”, or just “Good one!” I think the world would be a much happier place if we all discussed our poop on a regular basis—after all, no matter what colour, gender, or religion you are, it’s something we ALL have in common. I was thinking last night about how best to use modern media to bring us all together via bodily waste and I came up with a TV show that would address the issue :

A beach scene. People in uniform milling around. A body lying on the sand. Camera pans to a large poo beneath a palm tree. Cut to Danny.

Danny: It’s not looking good, boss.
Horatio: Tell me what you’ve got, Dann-o.
Danny: Large male, judging by size. Probably a vegan, based on the amount of broccoli and self-righteousness smooth texture. Well-hydrated. Looks like the Number 2 Killer has struck again.
Horatio: (gazes sternly into distance). I’m making the Number 2 Killer my Number 1 priority. He won’t get away with this shit again. Let’s roll.

Camera cuts away and credits roll to the sound of “Squeeze Box” by The Who. The title appears: CSI: Excremental.

I know, right? There’s also a twist on the new Sherlock Holmes drama which I call “Alimentary”. It’s the same basic premise as CSI: Excremental, but with more deductive reasoning:

Sherlock: I’ve come to the conclusion that our victim is indeed a beet farmer.
Watson: How could you possibly know that?
Sherlock: For God’s Sake, Watson—look at the colour of his scat. That slight pink tinge is a dead giveaway. Have I taught you nothing?!

So the next time you secretly poke through your dog’s crap with a stick to see if he ate some tinfoil, or jump with joy at your baby’s ginormous diaper dump, know that you’re not alone. Here’s a vintage cookie jar for you that looks just like the poo emoji.

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.