It Takes A Village

One thing about sites like WordPress is the sheer amount of spam comments that never seem to end. My spam folder used to be full of bizarre folks telling me how intriguing my site was, offering to detail my RV, and providing unsolicited medical information that looked like it was lifted out of textbooks. I finally managed to come up with the right keywords (or WordPress tightened their security), because I rarely get more than 3 spam comments a week now—the rest just go straight into the trash. But the other day, I was worried that I’d inadvertently deleted a follower’s comment and went to the trash to find it. I didn’t find my follower’s comment but what I discovered there was incredible. Apparently there is a village that people travel to every day, and MY BLOG is on the recommended reading list! People go to this village to visit their sisters, brothers, grandparents, and friends, and on the way there, which is a 1 to 2 hour trip apparently, all they want to do is laugh at the madcap antics of mydangblog. I have to say, it’s a true honour—like doing a reading event WITHOUT the crippling anxiety.

But it’s not even on the WAY to the village—once there, people are enjoying my content while they watch the beautiful evening sunset with their sisters, cousins, and grandfathers, increase their knowledge with my ‘solid content that is also solid’, go into the city to shop for clothes with their uncles and although that is extremely boring, amuse themselves with my outstanding content. I wish I knew how to locate this village where I am apparently a literary goddess because I have so much to tell them. For example, I’m sure they will be fascinated by the fact that my car just hit 150 000 km. and that I pulled off the road to take a photo of the odometer.

Also, I could enthral them with tales of my latest miniature, a glassed-in conservatory.

And I’m certain that there will be an incredible outpouring of emotion when I show them the stopwatch on my phone, which I started when I was doing a live reading last month (because each reader was only allowed 5 minutes and I was terrified of going over and being subtly admonished) and then completely forgot about—it chronicled the seconds of my life for over 23 days before I realized that it was still running. Oh, the tears we in the village would shed as we lamented the passage of time.

So do not despair, my village people—there’s no need to feel down. Pick yourself off the ground. There’s no need to be unhappy. You can make your dreams of going to a beautiful country in the centre of which is my beautiful blog come true.

It All Comes Out In The Wash

It’s been a week since last we met, and the world has become a darker place. It’s been hard to find anything funny to write about, but I do have a couple of things, and I hope they take you away from the darkness for at least the five minutes it takes to read about them. Sending love to all of my followers who are struggling right now.

Anyway, Ken and I are back from our trip, having had a very lovely time. The last weird thing (I thought) that happened was that we stayed at the Glasgow Courtyard Marriot, and it was comfortable and clean, but in our room was something I’d never seen before.

Me: So, I have to ask you something.
Desk Clerk (he’s Scottish): Certainly. Wha’ is’t?
Me: I’ve seen bibles in hotels rooms before, but…The Book Of Mormon?
Desk Clerk: Aye.
Me: Um…why?
Desk Clerk (shrugs): Just a wee tradition, I suppose. I don’t hold wi’ it meself.

So in my review of the hotel, I mentioned it, and the “General Manager” sent me this response:

“To clarify, for the Marriott brand standards, each bedroom will have a copy of the Bible and the Book of Mormon which is a tradition with Marriott for the past 5 decades.”

I didn’t realize that the Courtyard Marriot was owned by the Mormons, or that there were a lot of Mormons in SCOTLAND, but there you go. Make of it what you will.

And just when I thought things couldn’t get weirder…

I have a real obsession with losing passports, in that I’m terrified of losing them. Like, if you’re out of the country, you could literally lose ANYTHING ELSE and still be allowed to go home. So before we left, we did the passport check. When we got to the airport, we did the passport check. Then we were on the ship so they were safely stowed. Then we got off the ship and we did the passport check. The second night at the hotel, Ken suddenly starting going through his luggage:

Me: What’s wrong?
Ken: I can’t find my passport.
Me: WHAT?!
Ken: Never mind. It was just in my pants pocket.
Me: DO NOT LEAVE IT IN YOUR PANTS POCKET.
Ken: It’s fine. Stop worrying.
Me: I’m telling you, that’s a terrible place to keep it.
Ken: I know much better than you. You are dumb. (He didn’t actually say this, but that’s what he was thinking.)

We made it through the rest of the week, and the airport, and finally we got home. The next morning, Ken came out of the laundry room. He looked perturbed. He was holding something very soggy.

Me: What’s wrong?
Ken: I accidentally put my passport through the wash. It was in my pants pocket.
Me: WHAT THE ABSOLUTE F*CK, KEN?       

And now, he has to go through the tedious process of getting a new one. Hopefully before we go away in January. Otherwise, I’m taking the dog.

Will never launder his passport and is very sweet.

The Unique Kingdom

The family and I are finally off the boat, after having a great time. But Cunard is a British line and there were certainly some things about it that were very British. For example, the way they name their food: back bacon is “bacon” and actual bacon is “crispy streaky bacon”, like the only thing they could think of to do was DESCRIBE it to differentiate it. And “prawns”? Doesn’t literally everyone else just say shrimp? The Brits are OBSESSED with prawns and they were a constant on every menu and at every meal at the buffet, with people piling their plates high with the stuff. Me, I’m deathly allergic to shellfish so every meal was an adventure. The Brits love prawns so much that they even have prawn flavoured potato chips. And don’t get me started on “split pots”.

Anyway, strange food names (and the fact that they drive on the wrong side of the road) aside, they also have fun terms for a lot of other things. The gps in our car for example: the volume setting is called “verbosity” and you can set it from “mild” to “medium” to—and I know you’re probably thinking right now, “high”, or “hot” like salsa but you’d be wrong. The highest setting was indeed “verbose”. And after I saw that, I was really hoping that the gps voice would be like Winston Churchill or something but sadly, it was just a computerized, very polite English woman.

But the best thing, and quite possibly the most bizarre thing I’ve EVER seen in my life was an ad for “flatulence filtering garments”. Ken saw the ad above a urinal and he did what any normal person would do—he took a photograph.

And I have SO many questions about the FART PANTS!! Do they have these in any other country?! Is it something particular to the British diet that flatulence is such an issue that they needed to invent wearable filters for every occasion?! Do they work?! Why have I never seen this in the WOMEN’S bathroom?! And why, in the name of all that is holy, are they called SHREDDIES??!! Are men buying these for their wives and vice versa?:

Husband: Happy anniversary, darlingest!

Wife: Flatulence panties?! How thoughtful! You shouldn’t have!

Husband: Anything for you, sweet angel!

Wife: No, I meant you shouldn’t have let rip that disgusting blast of wind just now. Did something crawl up your ass and die?! But never mind—I have a gift for you too!

Husband: Oh thank you, my rosebud! Now we can really blame the dog and no one will be the wiser!

My favourite testimonial is “Now I can go out with friends. I haven’t done that in YEARS!” Like how much do your FART?!

At any rate, the UK is no weirder than most places, I imagine (she says, coming from a country where a toque is a woolly hat and the word “sorry” can mean anything from “actually sorry” to “not sorry at all” to “piss off, why don’t you?”) but it’s beautiful and seeing family again has been wonderful. Which is always the best, most unique thing about travelling.

A Loo Like No Other

So Ken and I are currently travelling across the Atlantic on a large boat, the Queen Mary 2 to be precise. We’re on our way to the UK to visit family with my parents. Currently, Ken is driving me crazy by suggesting things I can write (“tell them you hate jazz”) because he’s too cheap to pay for the wifi plan and he is bored. “God help you if you were ever locked in the bathroom with me,” he just opined. And yes, that would be horrible. Not because of Ken, who has stopped talking about his tendency to flatulate in small spaces when he realized I was writing everything he said down, but because the bathroom in our stateroom, while frustratingly typical in that the flush mechanism is BEHIND the toilet lid, forcing you to TOUCH the lid in order to flush the toilet, is extremely small and very strange. Here’s a photograph:

I’m not certain what the builders of this ship thought people would be doing in the bathroom but it’s set up like a weird bar. Not only is there the strange, prerequisite metal toilet paper cover that makes a perfect place to put your cocktail, but above that, there’s an ashtray, and mounted on the door, there’s a bottle opener. So what? I’m sitting on the can drinking beer and having a smoke, waiting for the disco to start in the shower? Ken has interrupted to remind me to tell you that “we met Seth”. Who is Seth? I have no idea. Apparently he works remotely and is doing a global cruise. Anyway, I’ve given Ken a ball of wool to bat around and amuse himself with while I finish this post in the theatre where we’re waiting for a show to start. The theatre, fortunately, is bigger than our bathroom but without the ashtrays, bottle openers, and potential disco dancing. Or Seth.

Tweet Tweet, Twiddle Twiddle

There are numerous reasons to get off the app formerly known as Twitter: the majority of people on there now are racist, sexist, homophobic, and transphobic. It used to be that Twitter brought people together—for example, I thought that there were many things about myself that I thought were specific to me, and then I learned I was not, in fact, unique, which was actually a comfort. What the internet taught me mostly is that the things I thought were strange and quirky about myself (“mydangblog…strange and quirky?!” I hear you whispering in shock) are traits that a great many other people share. Imagine 100 years ago not knowing that having upwards of 8 decorative pillows on your bed was perfectly reasonable? Or that there were other people who not only knew what “the good tea towel” was, they also got upset when someone used it to wipe the counter? Here are a couple of other examples:

I was shocked to learn that I am NOT the only person who does this. Whenever I take a plate of chicken out to the BBQ, I grab the tongs, and the first thing I do, immediately, is to click the tongs together, like “Clang, c-clang, clang”. The only difference between me and the author of this tweet is that I don’t REALLY do it to make sure they work. I mean, that’s part of it for sure, but for me, it’s more of a swashbuckler-y type thing. I like to imagine that I’m a grilling female Errol Flynn, and when I clang them, I also do a little lunge and a quick parry. I sometimes end with a flourish and a bow because that’s how I roll.

A while ago, Ken and I had a family get together, and someone left a fork behind. It was a f*cking weird fork, all flat and plain and whatnot, completely unlike all my other normal, human forks. But every time I reached into the cupboard to grab a fork, IT was the one I always came out with. Once, I actually said out loud to it, “I hate you, stupid fork.” Then one day, I got fed up, and I threw it in the garbage. So I apologize to whatever family member it belonged to, but seriously, if I come to your house and see the rest of your terrible forks, they’re all going in the trash.

This is kind of like the opposite of Number 4, and while the person who wrote this tweet doesn’t understand proper punctuation (and thanks to the internet, I know I’m not the ONLY one who cares about things like this), it’s true. Just the other day, Ken came into the room. My first reaction was to say, “What are you doing?!” His response was to pause for a moment, so that he could do a mental scan to try and figure out why I was asking him that.

Ken: Um…nothing?
Me: Why are you using my mug?
Ken: (nervously scoffs) This isn’t your mug.
Me: Uh, yes it is.
Ken: No, it’s not—your name’s not written on it.
Me: There’s a giant f*cking “S” on both sides, Ken.
Ken: We have tons of other mugs. Use one of those.
Me: I could offer you THE SAME ADVICE, KEN!!

So yes, social media has some positives. On the other hand, I’m seriously thinking of getting off it completely for one reason and one reason only: TEMU. Every time I go on any social media, I’m immediately inundated by ads for Temu. I don’t know what Temu is, I don’t know what Temu does, except that it has annoyed me to the point of rage. Especially this ad which appears on every third post as I’m scrolling, regardless of what platform I’m on:

Who the hell is this child and why is she wearing that cheap-ass T-shirt?!! Why would I want to buy that T-shirt??!! And why has Temu been showing me the same godforsaken ad for a small girl in a stupid T-shirt all day and all night for several weeks now??!!! And what is it that her MAMA HAS???!!! I’ve never bought anything from them and now I NEVER will, but I can’t even block the ad, because when I try, it takes me IMMEDIATELY TO THEIR WEBSITE BUT DOESN’T SHOW ME THE T-SHIRT SO I WILL NEVER KNOW. Temu? F* u.

Present and Accounted For

Last week, I received funding from The Writer’s Union of Canada to go up North and do writing workshop presentations at the local high school there. I’ve done this before at other schools and it usually goes well, despite the incident in the spring where the teacher in charge confided that she hadn’t told the students I was coming. When I asked, “Why not?”, she said if they knew, NONE OF THEM WOULD SHOW UP, and if that isn’t a boost to the old ego, I don’t know what is. But the kids this week all knew I was their guest speaker and they seemed pretty jazzed about it. As for me, I was exhausted for a variety of reasons. First, after haranguing Ken about taking too long at work and making us late KEN, we set out on the 4 hour drive. We were about 20 minutes down the highway when Ken asked where I’d put the copies of the books I was taking to raffle off to the kids, and I realized with horror that I had forgotten an entire bag, which also contained the memory stick with my PowerPoint presentation. I actually started to cry at the thought of going back and losing even more time, as if I wasn’t stressed out of my mind with anxiety already, but there was no choice. Luckily, Ken isn’t the kind of guy to give me grief over things like that—goodness knows I felt bad enough. And not only was I exhausted after the now 6-hour drive, I also have a terrible time sleeping at hotels. I also felt grubby, because the motel we had booked smelled terrible and had no hot water. It made me appreciate social distancing even more because I kept 6 feet between me and anyone who could catch a whiff of ‘motel stank’.

But the students were lovely and very enthusiastic—until it came time to share their writing ideas with the whole group. Their reluctance was palpable. Luckily, I have a little trick up my sleeve that I use in times like this.

Me: I’m working on a new book right now, a murder mystery, and I need victims. So if you put up your hand and share your writing, I will name a character after you, and you get to choose how I murder you.
Students (all hands go flying up in the air): Me! Me!

Here are some of my favourites:

Matty – killed on stage during a musical number, possibly electrocuted by her guitar

Kennedy – flaming arrow to the chest

Zack – burned in a public place on a giant pyre

Grace – pushed off a rollercoaster at the top by a very strong 5-year-old

Jimmy – killed fighting a bear

It was simultaneously adorable AND terrifying how much thought they’d put into this. And it all reminded me so much of Edward Gorey’s The Gashlycrumb Tinies. If you haven’t read it (click link if you want to have it read to you but it’s gruesome, just an fyi), it’s a very darkly humorous alphabet book: A is for Amy who fell down the stairs / B is for Basil assaulted by bears…and it goes on, only getting worse, as you can well imagine, but the illustrations are hilarious. Anyway, it was a good time and Ken and I made it home that night without having to stay in motel hell again.

But doing things like this is getting harder and harder for me. When did I stop wanting to explore the world and just stay home? I know it’s not just me—I was having a conversation with a friend the other day:

Friend: How did it happen? When did I become so old?
Me: I know, right? Like, all I want is to putter in the garden, write, make miniatures, and watch TV in bed with a glass of wine—that’s the dream.
Friend: One of my friends had extra tickets to the Pink show last week, and I LOVE Pink, but it was in Toronto, last minute, and I was like, go ALL THE WAY to Toronto and see a concert AT NIGHT without any chance to prepare? Hard pass!
Me: Ken wanted to go to a restaurant last week and I begged him to let me cook for him at home. Why would I want to spend all that money to WAIT for my food to come?!
Friend: EXACTLY!

Stick, meet mud. Maybe I was always like this, but I had the youthful energy to overcome it. Who knows. At any rate, if you’re looking for me, you can find me at home, nestled in my office writing a story about a boy who gets killed in a bear fight. I already have the last line written: “It was a bear, Jimmy. What did you expect?”

Contest Winners; Quince-A-Rama

Contest Winners; Quince-A-Rama

First, I’m happy to say that several many of you guessed that the thing missing from my tiny room was indeed a clock! Well done, and now you will all be murdered in nefarious ways in my new comedy book Murder Most Novel about a young woman/aspiring author who becomes embroiled in an Agatha Christie style murder scenario. If you have a particular preference for your murder (poison, machete, bashed with a clock), let me know, and I’ll try to accommodate. You were all very clever, but I have to say that Anonymole’s poem/riddle/guess really took the day:

Dueling portraits invite conversation,
while the bird tweets its irritation.

Below, the blood bright Persian,
offsets the walls’ psilocybin excursions.

A Tiffany, a punch bowl, a violin,
speak of parties, a present left to atone for prior sins.

Yet the room exists in silence,
it enjoys no ticks, no tocks,

For nowhere amongst its fine refinements,
do we see a cherry clock.

So thank you, my friends. You all rose to the challenge and proved that you really do know me so well!

In other news, I’ve been very busy because it’s one of my favourite times of year—the quince is finally ripe. Many years ago, we had a pear tree on our property which started to die. But as it did, another plant sprouted from its base, and that plant was a quince bush. Apparently, quince have hardier roots than some pear species so they’re often grafted onto quince. And while I missed the pear, I soon realized the (labour-intensive) joy that is the quince fruit. They are rock hard and can’t be eaten as is, but if you cook them first, they turn a delightful pink colour and taste amazing. Every year, I become super-home-maker-y and produce several batches of jam as well as some wonderful quince crumble. Of course, I always have more quince than I need so I can sell off the rest to quince lovers in the area and make some money to fund my miniature obsession.

In other other news, I also completed a miniature outdoor courtyard. I think it’s very cute but I’m at the point where I don’t quite know what to do with all these miniatures—maybe I can throw them in with the quince, like “Buy some quince, get a miniature room for free”. It’s a vicious/delicious circle.

Read For Filth; A Mini Challenge

One of the things that I do as a writer, something I simultaneously love AND hate, is live readings. While it’s a wonderful experience to share your work with an appreciative audience, at the same time, I spend days beforehand worrying and stressing about it. What will I read? How long do I have? What if someone reads something similar to me right before it’s my turn? Also, I write some pretty dark stuff and I always have to preface a live reading with “this is fiction” or “my parents are really lovely people” or “I have never killed anyone…that I’m aware of” or “Why are there small children here?!” I’ve had a couple of really awful readings in the past, like the time that I was invited to an online poetry reading. I don’t usually read my own poetry and don’t consider myself a poet, but I DID have a poem that I was quite proud of. It was about the nature of time, and how doing something kind in the moment led me to avoid getting hit by a deer on the road later by about 10 seconds, the same 10 seconds I didn’t take to think about being kind earlier. But then the person before me told the audience a horribly tragic story about a family member who’d been hit and killed in a deer/car accident, which left me scrambling for another poem to read. And then there was the time that I was invited to a reading and wasn’t told until I got there that the theme was love. And I was like, have you even read ANY of my work? Because most of my writing is VERY dark. I didn’t feel too bad though, because the woman before me read a story where the two “lovers” are murdered in a very gory way by a vengeful ghost, and it made my selection seem tame by comparison. Then last weekend, I was at a horror writing conference and I was asked to read. “Perfect,” I thought. “Finally an audience who can appreciate some of my darker stories.” So I picked a couple of short stories that I NEVER read aloud because they are VERY violent. I got up to the podium and began. When I got to a particularly gruesome point in the story, I looked at the audience and stopped reading. “Wow,” I said. “I’d forgotten how nasty this was.” Everybody laughed, but it was that kind of uncomfortable laughter where you want to be supportive of the person who’s just bombing. I’m pretty sure that was all in my head, because when I’d finished the second piece, there was a lot of applause and some people came to buy my book. But still. I guess the problem is that I tend to overthink things. I mean, if you ask me to do a reading, you should know ahead of time exactly what you’re in for.

The last two readings I’ve done though, have been from my humour collection. I didn’t think anyone but me would GET me, but apparently they do, and both times, instead of having to apologize in advance, I just read and people laugh ( and buy even more of my books). Which made me realize that my audiences ARE responding appropriately. They laugh when I’m funny, and scream and cry when I’m scary. Mission accomplished.

The other thing I did this week was (almost finish) my new miniature dining room. I don’t know why I love doing these things so much, and I don’t know whether it’s going to lead to me being a full-blown dollhouse person, but it makes me happy. And here’s a challenge–take a look at the room and if you can identify the one thing that’s still missing (because remember, I said “almost finished”), that will cement you as one of the people who know me the best (Anonymole, I’m looking at you), and I will name a character in my next murder story after you.   

Also, the other day, I yelled at a crow. Why? Because it wouldn’t stop cawing and I was trying to write. So I went to the door, opened it, and yelled, “Shut the f*ck up, would you?!” And the crow stopped cawing. Another mission accomplished. And that dead mouse on my porch? Who knows where it came from…

Phoning It In

For today’s post, I’m sharing the last four pictures I took on my phone.

1) You might be squinting right now and saying, “Is that some kind of bug?” and you would be correct. I was staying at my brother’s to be there for my nephew while my brother, who has a PhD, was involved in some very important work stuff. I, being retired, was more than happy to fill in. We were going to have one of my nephew’s favourite meals, ‘Thai-Inspired Beef Bowls’. It was in a bag in the fridge from one of those ‘meal kit’ places, and on Monday night, I got it out and started to prep it. I poured the rice into a pot, and one of the grains looked very dark. I put a different pair of reading glasses on (one for REALLY close-up viewing, unlike the pair I was already wearing, which was for medium viewing, and also unlike a third pair in my purse which is for ‘things that are approximately four feet away’), and I scrutinized the rice. And forgive me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe that rice grains have legs. I called my nephew over for his opinion:

Me: Hey, do you think that’s a bug?
Nephew: Definitely.
Me: It looks dead. I could pick it out…
Nephew: You could.
Me: The rice has to be boiled anyway. That would kill any bug corpse germs, right?
Nephew: It would.
Me: Then we’re in agreement?
Nephew: We are.

Seemed a shame to waste a meal that had been so obviously packaged with care. And the ‘inspired’ part? I’m going to try making this at home—without the bugs.

2) This ad is confusing. Mainly because I never get cranky when I drink. But these boxes…and I’m not sure how it works. Do you put the drinks IN the boxes? Do they play music WHILE you drink? No wonder they’re cranky. I’d be pissed off too if people kept clogging up my wind-up mechanism with alcohol. And they’re all in perfect condition except that one…is a plate. It always amazes me though when, rather than looking up the actual term for a thing, someone chooses to just post an ad like this:

Box Owner: I need to post an ad for these weird alcoholic boxes but I don’t know what that thing is called that winds them up.
Random Friend: You could look it up.
Box Owner: Looking up things makes me cranky—oh wait!

3) I took this screenshot from LinkedIn. After my last post ABOUT LinkedIn, I got a message teasing me that people had been looking at my ‘profile’. I get these quite often but they won’t tell you WHO was actually looking until you give them money to upgrade your plan. But now I think LinkedIn is just f*cking with me, because the Canada Revenue Agency is the government taxman, like the IRS, and the Attorney General oversees the court system and I HAVE COMMITTED NO TAX CRIMES, LINKEDIN SO NICE TRY. The other two companies make sense, but when I saw the last one, I was inordinately excited, like why is a steakhouse looking ME up? Cuz it’s usually the other way around and maybe it’s a sign that I should go and get some steak.

4) This is the cutest cat on the planet. Period.

Profiled

This weekend, I’m doing a book event called dReadCon, so here’s a throwback for you!

A few days ago, I saw a red flag hovering above the LinkedIn app on my phone. “Ooh,” I thought. “Is someone interested in being my friend?” Now, I know that connections on LinkedIn aren’t technically called ‘friends’, but what exactly DO you call them? ‘Business peeps’? ‘Corporate posse’? ‘Kudo Klub’? (If you know anything about LinkedIn, you know it’s always pressuring you to send kudos to people as if the mere fact that you’ve been connected to them for five years is cause for celebration, like ‘You’ve never once LIKED MY POSTS, MARCIA, so kudos for that.’ (I spend most of my time on LinkedIn wishing people happy birthday or congratulating them on their work anniversaries with lovely, personalized, auto-generated kudos.) At any rate, when I opened the app, I was even more excited to see that it was a personal message.

So I clicked on the message icon in breathless anticipation. There was a message from ‘Jarod’. It read, “Hi Suzanne! I wanted to reach out because, based on your profile, I thought you might be interested in discussing your sports flooring needs. Please reach out to me anytime!” Now, there were several questions I had about this message:

1) Who the hell is Jarod?

2) What’s with all the exclamation marks? This is LinkedIn, not Twitter/X.

3) What in the name of all that is holy could possibly have led Jarod to read my profile and glean from it that I had ‘sports flooring needs?

4) What even IS sports flooring?

And because I had no interest in engaging with Jarod about his weird flooring fetish, I will answer these questions myself:

1) I have no damned idea. He is neither a Business Peep nor a member of my Corporate Posse.

2) Jarod is very excited about sports flooring and the idea of potentially connecting with me over it. Perhaps he envisions us, sipping wine on a terrace somewhere, enthusiastically discussing whatever the heck sports flooring is.

3) I re-examined my profile. It says my name and that I’m the author of several books and that I’m the editor of DarkWinter Press and Literary Magazine. It also says I’ve been endorsed for Public Speaking and Educational Leadership despite the fact that the only thing I ever post on LinkedIn is my blog. Where, in ANY of that, is there the slightest indication that I’m a) athletic b) interested in sports c) interested in floors? I looked further down and realized that someone had endorsed me for ‘Coaching’. Could that be the tenuous link?

4) The only thing I can even think of is astroturf. Why would I ever in a million years need astroturf? I HAVE GRASS, JAROD. Or is sports flooring that bouncy stuff? Because that MIGHT be cool, maybe in like one room where you could go when you were stressed and just bounce around on your sports flooring like Tigger until you felt better. Then it occurred to me—could ‘sports flooring’ be a euphemism? But I couldn’t for the life of me think what it might be a euphemism for, so I asked Ken:

Me: What could an interest in sports flooring be a euphemism for? Like, you’re a professional killer and you bury someone under concrete at an arena?
Ken: That’s very dark. Hmm. The only euphemism about sports I’ve ever heard is ‘Water Sports’.
Me: Water sports? Like water polo?
Ken: No, like…you know, ‘Golden Showers’.
Me: EWWWWWW.

So I immediately wrote back to Jarod: I DON’T DO THAT. What a creep. Then I looked and realized I had two other messages, one from ‘Matt’, who wanted to know if I was interested in an AI Training Pilot Project. Now, if that’s a euphemism for teaching my robot butler how to bring me wine, count me in. The other was from someone who thinks I like camping. I don’t. And the best way to get me to LIKE camping is definitely not to send me a metal cylinder FULL OF FIRE. So guess which message I’ll be responding to based on my profile?