Monkey Business

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!!

No One Expects…

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.

Pet Shop

Late afternoon. The 11^th floor.

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.

Argument Clinic

Early morning. Alarm goes off.

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.

Michelangelo and the Pope

Via email

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!

Four Yorkshiremen

Lunchtime. Jack’s Office.

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.

The Spanish Inquisition

9 pm. The front door opens.

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.

Getting An Earful

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.

It Is What It Is

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.

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…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And speaking of mysteries…

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

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.

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

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 5^th. 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!

New Year, New Disposition

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.

In other news, DarkWinter Press had a great year. Here’s the link to our end-of-year post, in case you’re wondering what we got up to in 2024: https://www.darkwinterlit.com/post/thank-you-for-an-amazing-2024

And while 2025 might already seem like a dumpster fire, at least DarkWinter Press has some great books coming out.

Need Versus Have

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.