Well, another Christmas has come and passed, and I hope your holiday season was peaceful. Mine was lovely—we spent time with family and friends, ate a lot of fantastic food, and exchanged gifts. I got some very cool things this year: a couple of miniature kits (see below for a picture of the one that I already built), some jigsaw puzzles, lots of chocolate and wine—yeah, my family knows me pretty well. But there was one gift that made me laugh my head off. It was a game called “Once Upon A Pair: A Literary Matching Game.” The rules are simple—there are 26 pairs of cards, each with the title of a book on them, and the idea is to lay them face down, then flip over two at a time, trying to get a match. And yes, I know that’s not funny in the least but I was really excited to see what the books were so I opened the packages up:
Me: Ooh, look Ken. Peter Pan, Wuthering Heights, The Picture of Dorian Gray…hang on. What the hell is this? Ken: What does it say? Me: The Hunchback of NORTE-Dame. And this one says, The Legend of Sleepy HALLOW. The Young VISITERS? I think something was lost in translation here—yep. Ken: Does Moby Dick normally have a hyphen in it? Me: In China, I guess? At least it doesn’t say Moby’s Dick. Oh, here we have The Art of War and The Diary of a Young Girl. Nothing says fun like Sun Tzu and the Holocaust.
I’m still looking forward to playing it, despite the warning on the back that it’s a Choking Hazard, as if someone is going to ram a thick piece of cardboard down their throat—
Atlas: Ahem…
Well, those warnings are there because SOMEONE has done it in the past, I guess.
And then I started to build one of my miniature kits and discovered the same issue. Stickers were misspelled, like ‘Potcard Holder’ and there were also a lot of tiny books, again with very interesting titles: The Mienes of Amish, Abourogh The Wor LD In 80 Days, and of course, everyone’s favourite, Alice’s Wonderland.
The instructions were equally nebulous, and you’d think considering how much money the company must make on these things, they’d hire an actual translator and editor instead of winging it. Still, it’s done and I think it’s very cewt, don’t you?
At any rate, Happy New Year to all of you, and I hope your year is amazing. Farewell for now.
I got an early Christmas present this year by way of an acceptance for my novella, Nomads of the Modern Wasteland by Running Wild Press, which was awesome. Almost as awesome as having a monkey butler…
Right before my birthday, I got a very cryptic email from my mother. The subject line was “VW”, and the text of the message said this:
“Hi Honey: Bought you a present today to do with the above (hint) his first name is Ralph. See you soon. Love, Mom xxx”
I pondered for quite a while, and came up empty. I asked Ken, “What do you think this means?” and he replied, “Maybe some kind of stuffed animal?” And I was doubtful at first, but then I had an epiphany that maybe it WAS an animal but not the stuffed kind, and I wrote back this:
“Is it a monkey butler?! I’ve always wanted one of those! Also, there was nothing above except the initials V. W. Is my monkey butler’s name Ralph Van Wooster? Can’t wait to find out! Love you:-)”
I was super-pumped, and waited for a while to get a confirmation. And waited. And waited. But my mother didn’t reply back, and I got worried. There were several possible reasons why I had yet to receive a loving message about how clever I was to have surmised that my present was a simian man-servant:
1) My mother was mad that I guessed her riddle and spoiled the surprise. I could see her reading the email, and then saying to my dad in a low whisper, “How does she always know? Well, let her stew, the smartass.”
2) My mother had actually bought me a Volkswagen, and didn’t know how to let me down gently. I have to say though, Mom, that a VW named Ralph would have been almost as cool as a monkey butler, but only if it was a Beetle.
3) Someone had hacked my mom’s email, and I would eventually learn that in “exchange” for the present, I would have to send $5 000 in iTune gift cards to a Nigerian prince named Ralph Varem Wabara who’s being held captive on the International Space Station by Chris Hadley (a Canadian criminal mastermind/astronaut).
4) My mother didn’t know what a monkey butler was, and my email befuddled her, so much so that she didn’t know what to say in return. I could see her reading the email and then saying to my dad in a low whisper, “What is she on about now? I can’t even dignify this with a reply. It’s your fault she’s so weird,” and then my dad would say, “Och! Yer aff yer heid, woman!”
Number 1, of course, was the most likely scenario, so I spent the next few days feeling a little guilty for being so clever. Then my parents came by the house to drop off my gift. I had read extensively on the topic of how to train a monkey butler, and I had the guest room prepared as per the instructions I found on a weird website which was exclusively devoted to the topic of “How to Train Your Monkey Butler”—it contains pearls of grammatically incorrect wisdom like “When you have your monkey butler serve a person let him take his time and serve one person at a time so he doesn’t get confused and start to get angry, a confused angry monkey is no fun for anyone.” I heartily agree and highly recommend this advice to anyone who might find themselves in my position.
Then Mom and Dad arrived, and I was a little concerned when I saw them coming down the walk “sans simian”. What a letdown. But when they came in the house, my mother presented me with a CD of music by Ralph Vaughan Williams, who, aside from Trent Florence Welch, Reznor, Maynard James Keenan, and Dave Grohl, is one of my favourite composers, and that really softened the monkey butler blow because the other night, Ken had tried to lull me to sleep by playing “Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis” only he had to find it on YouTube first, then he put his iPad directly on my ear so that the music wouldn’t drown out The Weather Channel, which he was watching fanatically as one does. It wasn’t very lulling and more just annoying, although he meant well. Now I can play that, and “Lark Ascending”, any time I want. But I was still curious:
Me: Why didn’t you answer my email? I thought you were mad. Mom: Your email? You mean the one about the monkey butler? I would have, but I don’t know what a monkey butler is. Me: It’s a monkey that’s a butler. Mom: Would you really want one of those? Wouldn’t it be a lot of work to train it? Me: Yeah. You’re probably right.
And then I realized that every time I had pictured Ralph Van Wooster in my head, he was actually wearing a bellhop uniform, and not a bespoke tuxedo, so it’s probably good that I wasn’t put in charge of training him, because then he would insist on carrying everyone’s bags instead of serving drinks.
Me: I don’t think a monkey would make a good butler. Ken: Um, what? Me: It would be hard to train him. I can’t even get Atlas to play dead—he only plays “wounded”. Ken: You have to make it submit. You know, like “Shock the Monkey”. Me: If you think the best way to train a monkey is to shock him, then you don’t deserve a monkey butler. Besides, I thought that song was about a guy who pleasured himself in a sudden and rather violent way. Ken: Um, what? Me: Like Spank the Monkey, only–never mind. (whispers) You know I’ll have to make this whole conversation up when I write about it. Forget about training a monkey butler—I need to train YOU to be a better “humorous foil”.
At the end of the day, I didn’t get a monkey butler. But I DID get an awesome CD, AND a publishing contract, so it’s still been a pretty great couple of weeks!!
And if you finished the title of this post with …The Spanish Inquisition! then you know I wrote this for you. It’s been a slow week, so here’s a Monty Python flashback…
A couple of years ago, I wrote about watching a woman walk up to the front of a train, hitting everyone in the head on her way by, and I remarked that it was like something out of a Monty Python sketch. For those of you who don’t know, Monty Python was not a person; it was an absurdist comedy troupe that formed in the late 60s. Over the course of the next couple of decades, they had a TV series, live concerts, and several movies including Monty Python and The Holy Grail and The Life of Brian. If you’ve never heard of them or seen any of their work, then I don’t even know what to tell you. But if you ARE familiar with Monty Python, you’ll understand when I say that it has occurred to me on more than one occasion that my life is pretty much one long Monty Python sketch. They’re well-known for numerous hysterically surreal scenarios, and below you will find the parallel circumstances of some of these moments in my own life. There are five below—4 are slightly exaggerated for comedic purposes and one of them is absolutely as it happened. See if you can guess which one.
Me: I’m having an issue with my computer. IT Guy: Ah, yes. The Lenovo. What’s the problem? Me: I’ll tell you what the problem is, my lad. It’s broken. IT Guy: Broken? Have you tried turning it off and on again? Me: Yes. It’s definitely broken. IT Guy: It’s probably just doing updates. Remarkable machine, the Lenovo. Lovely keyboard. Me: The keyboard doesn’t enter into it, mate! It’s broken! (*bangs laptop against desk*) IT Guy: There, see? It’s fine—the screen flickered. Me: No, it didn’t! (*opens and closes lid rapidly*) Cortana! Oh, Cortana!! See, it’s not working. And don’t tell me it’s pining for the fjords. IT Guy: Fjords? In Canada? Give it here. Right—it was just a password problem. I’ve unlocked it for you. Me: I wish I was a lumberjack. IT Guy: You’re ok.
Me: Ergh. I’m so tired. I wish I could just call in and take the day off like some people can. Ken: Dan’s not coming into work? Me: Who’s Dan? Ken: Isn’t he the person who’s not coming into work? Me: No, I said ‘Like people can’. Ken: Was he off yesterday too? Me: Who?! Ken: That Dan guy. Me: What the f*ck are you talking about?! Ken: What are you trying to tell me? Me: I’m tired and I don’t want to go to work! Why don’t you either follow along or go back to sleep?! Ken: Be like Dan. Me: This argument has gone on way too long. Ken: Are you staying home today? Me: This is futile.
Literary Magazine: Greetings. We really enjoyed your short story and would like to publish it. We just need you to make a few minor revisions. Me: I can do that. What were you thinking? Lit Mag: Get rid of the family next door. They’re not important to the plot and they push the word count up. Me: Get rid of them? But they add a bit of colour to the setting. Plus, the father’s presence allows the reader to infer a lot about the way the town perceives the main character. He’s like an Everyman. Lit Mag: All right. We can live with the family, but we need you to lose the last paragraph. Just end it with the boy and the woman eating watermelon. Me: Lose the last paragraph?! That’s where you find out the husband is dead all along! Lit Mag: The husband’s DEAD?! Thanks for the spoiler. Regardless, it’s not necessary. Me: NOT NECESS—look mate, you don’t want a writer, you want a bloody stenographer! Lit Mag: We’re a bloody small university press, we are! We may not know writing but we know what we like!
Jack: Who’d have thought we’d be sitting here using “Teams” on our Iphones. I miss the old days. Do you know, they’re not even making laptops with CD drives in them anymore? I remember my first computer—it was a Commodore 64. Me: Commodore 64? You were lucky. I typed my honours thesis on a Vic 20. Jack: I remember doing a lot of my high school essays on an electric typewriter. Me: Electric? Ooh, we used to DREAM of electric typewriters. I learned to type on an old manual that weighed more than you did. Jack: At least with computers, you could save everything on diskette instead of having to use carbon paper. Remember those floppy discs? Me: Floppy discs? You were lucky. Back in my day, we had to save all our data on CASSETTE TAPES. And when the data was saved, we had to go outside and lick the road clean with our tongues. Jack: What? Me: Nothing. Remember when we all had Blackberries? Jack: Blackberry? You were lucky. I had a flip phone for years. Me: Flip phones?! You were lucky to have one of THEM. Back in my day, we had car phones the size of a laptop bag that plugged into the car. And they were RADIOACTIVE. We DREAMED of flip phones. Jack: But you try to tell the young people of today that– Me: And they won’t believe you.
Me: Oh! It’s you! Ken: Who were you expecting—the Spanish Inquisition? Atlas (*flies into room*): NO ONE expects the Spanish Inquisition! Me: Nice cloak.
Our chief weapon is the element of surprise…
I’ve linked each title to the corresponding Python sketch, and here’s the link to all the Monty Python scripts from A-M here and from N-Z here in case you want to see how life imitates art.
A couple of weeks ago, Atlas started shaking his head violently and scratching at his ears. We’d been down this road before so we took him to the vet right away–it was an ear infection. Two hundred dollars, eardrops, and a dose of antibiotics later, he was right as rain in a couple of days. And it reminded me of the first time it happened…
When Atlas was about two years old, Ken was looking inside his ears, as one does, and he noticed that they looked dirty. He cleaned them but it didn’t seem to help. On Friday, when Kate came home from school where she was studying to be a veterinary technician, we asked her to examine him.
“MY ears!” he proclaimed, wriggling around.
“Hold still,” she said. “Hmm. It looks like either ear mites or an infection. Better take him to the vet.”
So we did. Atlas, of course, goes mental with excitement if you ask him if he wants to go for a car ride, but the bloom was soon off THAT rose when he realized that it wasn’t a fun trip.
“MY EARS! MINE!” he insisted, shaking and peeing all over the examining table when the vet took a look, but he calmed down when he realized she wasn’t going to do to his ears what she did to his testicles. Yes, it was some kind of yeast infection. And after two weeks of ear drops, and two subsequent visits to our vet (free-of-charge follow-ups), it still hadn’t cleared up. The verdict was in. “No table scraps or treats for at least a week. He’s only allowed to eat his kibble. That way we can rule out food allergies.”
“Liver treat now,” he told her.
“Sorry, buddy. Not today.”
When Kate and Ken brought him home, I was aghast. “How am I supposed to go a whole week without giving him treats?!”
Because I am the WORST dog mom in the world, and I spoil him completely. He immediately recognizes “cookie”, “treat”, “Krispie”, “special”, “yogurt”, “chewy”, “strip”, “stick”, “delicious” and numerous other words that denote foods that NOW he was unable to have, and which I was unable to give him. At lunch that day, I poured out his kibble, and he came running in the kitchen and stared at the refrigerator.
Me: Eat your lunch, sweetie. Atlas: Special, please. Me: No special today. Ooh, look. Yummy kibble. Atlas: Meh.
So the food stayed in the bowl until dinnertime. Atlas sat where he always does, kitty corner between me and Kate, hoping that someone would give him “summadis”.
Me: Can I give him just a little bit of salmon skin? Kate: Mom. He can’t have anything but his kibble. Me: But his kibble is ‘salmon and potato’ flavour. This is just like his kibble. Kate: Here’s a rule. Every time you want to give him something, ask yourself, “Is it his kibble?” If the answer is No, then you can’t give it to him. Me: What about a potato? Kate: IS IT HIS KIBBLE? Atlas: Kate is mean. Me: Yes, she is. Kate: Do you want him to get better or not? Hey! Did you just give him something?! Me: No! I was wiping his drool off my pants! Kate: You BETTER have been wiping his drool off your pants, Mother.
And it was the worst week. At first, he went on a hunger strike, leaving his dinner in his bowl overnight and refusing to touch it in the morning. When he realized that wasn’t working, he started to play on my emotions:
Atlas: Ma. Some yogurt for me? Me: I’m sorry, baby. I can’t give you any. Atlas: Was I bad? Don’t you love me anymore? Me: You can lick the cup. Don’t tell Kate.
But then I realized that if I didn’t abide by the vet’s advice, not only would I face the wrath of Katelyn, but his ears wouldn’t get any better. I started hiding in the bathroom to eat breakfast, and at dinner, we were steadfast. After a few days, he was eating his kibble regularly but he was still mopey, so we went out and bought him some stuffies—a hedgehog, a fish, and an alligator that was advertised as a “tough toy”. He doesn’t normally get things like this because he immediately rips them apart and tries to eat the stuffing out of them, but this time, he was so overjoyed at being given SOME kind of treat that he carried the hedgehog around with him for a couple of days like it was his baby before attacking it and shredding it. Same with the fish. But by the time he’d massacred the alligator (tough toy, my *ss), the week was up. Kate and Ken brought him back from the vet appointment with the joyous news that his ears were all cleared up, and that he could have some treats, but nothing processed, no chicken, and no wheat. I don’t know who was happier:
Me: I put the salmon skin in the freezer for you. You want some? Atlas: Special!! Me: You certainly are.
One Saturday morning last fall, Ken said to me, “Hey, let’s go to the Christie Antique Show.” I did what I always do and immediately said, “Yes! Let’s do that.” Then I did the next thing I always do and immediately had second thoughts and regrets, especially after looking on the website which said that there were free shuttle buses from the parking lot to the show site. All I could think of was the line-up to get into the parking lot, the line-up to get on the bus, and the obvious huge crowds of people that would be there. So I said, “Maybe let’s not go after all,” but Ken was insistent, even when I was all sad and whiny and like, “I don’t wanna go to the antique show. Don’t make me go to the antique show,” but he made me go anyway on the grounds that “it will be fun.”
Before we left… Me: I’m taking my wristlet. I don’t want to lug a huge purse around with me. Five minutes later… Ken: I’m taking my camera. Me: You always take your camera. Why are you telling me this? Ken: Oh, I just thought we were announcing things to each other. Atlas (from outside): Here’s my annoucement. I’m taking a dump in the back yard! This is fun!
In the car… Ken: Why are you staring at me like that? Is there something wrong with my outfit? Me: I wasn’t staring at you. I was looking past you out the window. Ken: No, you were looking at me. Me: How would you even know that?! I’m wearing dark sunglasses. Besides, you look fine. You’re wearing your red plaid shirt and lime green T-shirt. What could possibly be wrong with that?
A moral dilemma…
Me: Did you see that video on Facebook about the job interview question? Ken: The one where you’re driving in a lightning storm and you see three people at the side of the road? Me: Right—“You see your best friend who once saved your life, a beautiful woman, and a sick elderly lady standing by the side of the road in a lightning storm, and you only have one seat. Who do you take?” It was easy. I solved it right away. Ken: What do you mean, “you solved it”? Did you watch the video to the end? Me: I didn’t need to watch it to the end. The old lady sits on my lap in the driver’s seat, my best friend sits in the other seat, and the beautiful woman sits on HIS lap. Ken: You’re not allowed to do that. You only have one extra seat. Me: I can do whatever the f*ck I want. It’s MY ethics. I’m the Kobayashi Maru. Ken: No, in this situation, you’re Kirk. But it doesn’t matter. That’s not the right answer. Why don’t you EVER watch videos to the end? The CORRECT answer is: You give your keys to your best friend because you trust him to take the old woman to the hospital and then come back for you. This leaves you alone with the beautiful woman. Then he comes back and— Me: This is starting to sound suspiciously like that logic problem where you have a rowboat and you have to take a bunch of animals across a river. It’s a MORAL DILEMMA, not a logic problem, Ken. Also, why do I want to be alone with the woman? Ken: So you can hit it off with her. Me: A) She’s not my type and B) That’s why my solution is more ethical. I put the woman on my best friend’s lap so that HE could hit it off with her. I’m self-sacrificial as f*ck. There. I win. ALL THE MORALS ARE MINE. Ken: Sigh. Me: Hey! What if my best friend, the beautiful woman, and the elderly sick woman are ALL THE SAME PERSON? Ken: I can see that. I mean, you’re MY best friend, you’re beautiful, elderly, and you were sneezing yesterday so you MIGHT be sick… Me: I’m ELDERLY? Your outfit sucks.
Then we got to the antique show, and it wasn’t as bad as I thought. We had no problem getting parked, got a bus right away, and made it into the showgrounds less than 5 minutes after arriving. But then we realized that there were 100s of dealers and we needed a system, which was basically to wander down one row and back up another, saying, “Have we been down this aisle before? Oh yeah, I remember the giant elephant statue.” We have a friend who had a booth, and we finally found him. He said he was having a pretty good day, selling quite a bit and whatnot, when Ken pointed to a large box of bones at the front of his tent. They were priced at $5 each. When we asked about it, he said that last month, a guy came into his store with this big box of bones, wondering if he’d buy them. He was skeptical at first, but they sold like hotcakes (if hotcakes were all dirty and decomposed). So when the guy came back with another box, he bought that too, and brought them to sell at the show.
Friend: People are going nuts for them. I’ve already sold most of them. Quite a few people have been teachers, you know—want to use them in their classrooms. Ken: What kind of bones are they? Friend: Cow bones. I think. Me: Cow bones? Friend: Probably.
I don’t know if I want my child in a classroom where the teacher is like, “Hey kids, check this out! It LOOKS like a human femur, but the guy told me it’s probably just a cow bone.” And the weirdest thing was, he wasn’t the ONLY dealer selling bones. There were so many of them that we lost count. There were skulls, antlers, jaw bones, full skeletons of small rodents, you name it. We walked past a booth where a guy was showing a woman a skull that was on top of a log with a branch going through the skull’s eye socket. He was actually saying this: “Sometimes when animals die in the forest, they do it on top of logs and such, and then they go into rigor mortis there. So I’ve arranged the skull and log like this—kind of like a nature scene.”
And while this may seem like a one-off, at the antique market where I currently work, there’s a dealer who has glass vials full of chicken bones, and they also sell like crazy. Go figure.I guess I should have kept last year’s Christmas turkey carcass–I could have made a fortune.
To begin, it’s Father’s Day here, so a heartfelt Happy Father’s Day to my wonderful husband, Ken, who’s an amazing dad, and same to my own awesome father—I love you both so much! And now, on with the show! Here are three quick stories, a tiny trilogy if you will:
1) This morning, I was getting ready for work. I finished brushing my teeth and when I went to put the toothbrush back, it looked weird. There was something black within the bristles. I had no idea what it was. I toyed around with getting it out for a second, then I went and got my reading glasses so I could actually see it properly. IT WAS A BUG. So I did what any normal person would do—I called Ken, who was on his way to my brother’s cottage to help him move some furniture:
Me: So I was brushing my teeth and my toothbrush looked weird… Ken: What was wrong with it? Me: There was a bug in it. I just brushed my teeth with a bug. UGH. Ken: What kind of bug? Me: A squished up dead one that was in my mouth a few minutes ago. Ken: EW. Me: Now I need a new toothbrush. And a new mouth. Ken: Are you sure it wasn’t a peppercorn? Me: From all the freshly ground pepper I put on my TACO last night? No. Definitely an insect of some kind. Ken: Poor you. And poor, minty fresh bug.
2) As you know, I work part-time in a bookstore on the weekends. A bookstore is many things, but a bookstore can’t help you remember the book that you know literally nothing about:
Customer: Do you have that book about the guy, and that woman, and there’s an island, and a storm? Me: That’s maybe like half of all the mystery books in here. Do you know the title? Customer: No. Me: Do you know who wrote it? Customer: No. Me: Do you remember what the cover looks like? Customer: I think it was blue. Me (pretending to search on the computer): I’m not seeing it in our system, sorry. Customer: Okay, thanks.
3)
I’m pretty sure why this guy is looking for wood fence panels. We’ve been lucky this year, and I hope I’m not jinxing anything by saying that Atlas has yet to be sprayed, unlike last year where he was 0-5 against the skunk that took up residence under our shed. This year we just have a lot of rabbits, and they’re adorable, especially the tiny ones. I only wish they wouldn’t eat my lupins. I’ll have to find out where TJ gets his fence panels from…
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.
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!
Happy New Year everyone! Hope you had as much fun as Ken and me, as we hosted our annual neighbourhood “New Year’s Eve In Newfoundland” party. Newfoundland is an hour and a half ahead of us here in Ontario, which means we blow our horns and drink a champagne toast at 10:30 then everyone goes home. That way, the younger people can still party on, and the older people, like us, can go to bed. We really do have the best neighbours, and even though my social anxiety and extreme introvertedness can be an issue in most situations, for some reason, I love hosting this gathering. And the belle of the ball was definitely my new miniature—a shadowbox bathroom that was conveniently placed IN the bathroom, where all the party goers could see it and ooh and aah over it, and no, it’s not quite finished because as you may have noticed, THERE IS NO CLOCK IN THE ROOM YET. But still, I’m really happy with it, and the tile I personally cut my damn self after buying a tile cutter on Facebook Marketplace for five bucks.
And speaking of Facebook Marketplace, a friend recently sent me this ad.
This is, quite possibly, the most Shakespearian piece of furniture I’ve ever seen. So I contacted the seller and went to check it out:
Me: That’s a really nice desk. Seller: It is, for sure. It’s a little…dramatic though. Me: What do you mean? Seller: Have you ever read Hamlet? Me: READ Hamlet? I only taught it for 25 years. Seller: Then you might appreciate— Desk: Ahem. I have of late—but wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, is a sterile promontory. Me (gives desk a shake): I don’t know about sterile—your frame is pretty solid. But the mirth thing? I get that. 2025 seems like a dumpster fire already. Desk: Seems, madam? Nay, it is. I know not “seems”. Me: Sure, sure. (to Seller) Is this an antique piece? Seller: Well…you say tomato… Desk: Antic. I have an antic disposition. Me (to Seller): I’ll take it. Desk: Frailty, thy name is woman.
In other news, I never make New Year’s Resolutions. If I can’t do something whenever it occurs to me, it sure ain’t gonna happen due to some arbitrary date imposed upon us by the Gregorian calendar. But other people in the house aren’t quite so hardcore.
Me: So, are you planning on doing anything different this year? Atlas: What do you mean, Ma? Me: Like, a resolution. Where you promise yourself to make a change in your life for the better. Atlas: But I like my life. I get lots of treats, and pets, and walks, and treats. Me: But isn’t there anything you could do to make it better? Atlas: I could stop licking my butt so much, I guess. And stop chasing that skunk you keep in the house. Me: Again—it’s not a skunk. That’s Ilana. She’s a cat. Atlas: But she looks like— Me: A CAT. Atlas: Says you. How about if I snuggle you more? Me: Best resolution ever.
The other day, Ken and I were doing ‘Fun Thursday’, where we pick an interesting place to visit and go there. It used to be ‘Fun Friday’, but then Ken got a job, and he was too tired to do anything for the rest of the week, but now he’s unemployed (it’s okay—he’s retired and has a pension). I currently have a job at an amazing bookstore, but I have much more stamina when it comes to doing things during the week, even though I’m several months older than Ken. Anyway, we were on our way to Chiefswood Historic Site, which is this really cool mansion built by a hereditary Chief of the Six Nations, and on the way there, I reminded Ken that he needed to finish cleaning out his office:
Me: Taking 10 year old hydro bills out of one binder does not constitute ‘cleaning up’. Ken: When was the last time YOU got rid of stuff? Me: I donated an entire bag of purse straps to Goodwill YESTERDAY, KEN. Ken: Why did you have so many in the first place? Me: Because I live by that timeless adage, ‘It’s better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it.’ Ken: Good point. I might need those hydro bills. Me: YOU WON’T. Although I’m starting to worry about the purse straps…
But then we began making a list of things that it was good to have and not need, than to need and not have:
1) A generator. Occasionally, our power goes off. Like if it’s mildly windy, or slightly snowy, or the rain is falling at more than a gentle trickle. And once, it snowed quite a bit and we lost power for three days, at which point, we went out and bought a generator. We haven’t used it since, but still…
2) One lime. I can’t even count the number of times that I’ve suddenly needed a lime for a spontaneous dish that required a shot of citrus, and didn’t have one. Luckily, we have a lot of neighbours who like Margaritas.
3) Kittens. I have often needed a therapy kitten but didn’t have one. Now, I have a wonderful kitty and while I don’t always need her, I have her at my disposal. On Friday, after we drove an hour and a half to the airport to pick up our daughter and her boyfriend at 5:30 in the morning, only to discover that they weren’t flying in until Saturday, and then had to drive the hour and a half home again, I came into the house, got back into bed, and Ilana settled herself across my chest and fell asleep with my arms around her. I definitely needed that. Dogs also fall under this category. I always have a dog. And I always need one. Atlas is like a therapy dog, if your anxiety is soothed by someone else racing around like a maniac, trying to chase the cat and yelling, “Ma!! A skunk!! It’s a skunk!!” But at night, if I offer him a little wine, he WILL snuggle me.
4) Oil of oregano. Trust me, it’s much better to have this sh*t and not need it. And if you need it, you’d better make sure you have a wine chaser. In the same vein, it’s much better to have wine and not need it, than need it and not have it. I regularly need some wine and I’m lucky that my dad and I regularly bottle A LOT of wine so I always have it.
5) Snow tires. I just got my summer tires swapped out. I’d never had snow tires until 2014 when I got the car that I’m still driving. My previous car was made out of plastic but even still, it never needed snow tires. The first time I drove my current car on a snowy day, I almost ended up in the ditch and I did what any normal person would do—I called Ken:
Ken: What’s wrong? Me: This car is STUPID!! Ken: Why? Me: I HATE IT. Ken WHY?! Me: It won’t drive in the snow! Ken: You should get snow tires. Me: WHERE IS MY THERAPY KITTEN?
6) Husbands: I’m pretty self-sufficient, but still, sometimes I need Ken. Like for reaching up high, or taking the lid off a jar, or driving me around in the dark because my night vision is sh*t, or massaging my shoulder when I’m in pain, or generally just being super-supportive of everything I do. Like last week, I was on the radio again, and after, I did what any normal person would do—I called Ken:
Me: How did I sound? Ken: You were amazing. I’m so proud of you! Me: What did you break? Ken: What? Nothing!… Me: Did you hurt yourself with a power tool again? Ken: No! I just really love you, and I’m so happy I’m married to you!
Yeah—I have him AND I need him. He’s better than a lime, that’s for sure.
Ivory Towers is one of Canada’s leading drag queens. With over 18 years experience she has won many titles including Miss Gay Toronto, Crews and Tangos drag race and many more. She has been featured in commercials with Sephora, Visa debit, Molson Canadian and Ikea.
Living life with a chronic illness is definitely not easy. But I do my best to push through all the barriers this illness puts in front of me! In my heart and mind, I believe maintaining a positive outlook on all situations in life will carry us through to much better times! I hope you find the information that I provide both helpful and inspirational!
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