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That’s My Name

Last Tuesday, I was in full recovery mode from our trip—jetlag was over, the unpacking was finally done (yes, I took my time, don’t judge me), and we were back to routine. I was at the computer, working on the new book that DarkWinter Press is releasing soon (a poetry collection titled Ever Striding Edge by the wonderful Paul Brookes, and you can see the gorgeous cover, created by wonderful artist Jane Cornwell, at the end of this post) and revising my own manuscript for Nomads of the Modern Wasteland after receiving a lot of feedback from both Kate and Ken. I decided to take a break, as one does, and peruse my social media. Lo and behold, there was a notification that I had received a comment on a vacation photo (I believe the photo was one of the whale tails from our excursion). I checked the comment and it was this:

Not only am I charming, but also attractive and stunning? Wow! I was almost sold on this guy but then he said: “You have the name with my late wife”? Do you mean to tell me, James Sam Gibson, that your dead wife was ALSO called Suzanne Craig-Whytock?! What kind of crazy coincidence is THAT? And how did it come to be? Your last name is Gibson, so wouldn’t she be Suzanne Craig-Gibson? Or did she take on the name, kind of a nom de plume, after reading about the semi-famous writer, Suzanne Craig-Whytock?

Donna Gibson: My darling James. I have come to a sudden decision. I hope you won’t think it too impetuous of me.
James Sam Gibson: My darling honeyboobookins. Whatever is it that you have decided? A new hairstyle perchance? I do love a good bob, as you are well aware.
Donna Gibson: Alas, no. Please gird your loins against that particular disappointment. The decision is regarding my name. I have recently come across a marvellous writer—a strange person yes, but someone with a wonderful way of words, nonetheless, a true inspiration. And thus, I will be changing my name from the somewhat mundane Donna Gibson to…SUZANNE CRAIG-WHYTOCK!!
James Sam Gibson: Oh my darling! What an incredible choice! And of course, when you die, I shall reach out to your namesake and attempt to rekindle our love with HER!
Donna Gibson: It is indeed a wise path to take. And now I must go and buy several clocks.
James Sam Gibson: But my darling turtledove, we already have a clock.
Donna Gibson/Suzanne Craig-Whytock: As a wise, charming, attractive, and stunning woman once told me, you can never have too many clocks.

Anyway, as you can imagine, I deleted the comment and blocked the troll. What is with these bot accounts anyway? If you knew anything at all about me, you’d know that if I was single,  “former military Christian widower” is the very last thing I’d ever be interested in. Now, if the profile said “Retired clockmaker and man about town with a penchant for designer handbags. Ask me which bathroom in my Victorian mansion is my favourite”, then you might have a shot.

In other news, I forgot to tell you that the weirdest thing about our cruise was that one of the lounges was booked every day for a “Private Function.” And that function was “KNITOPIA”. Yes, a very large number of passengers on the ship were there as part of a large knitting group. No, not a company that specialized in woollen textiles—an actual unrelated factum of knitters. While the rest of us were on shore excursions exploring Greenland, they were sitting in their windowless lounge knitting. While we were watching incredible Cirque du Soleil type shows, they were sitting in their windowless lounge knitting. While we were enjoying the social activities or watching the glassblowing in the Hot Glass Studio, they were sitting in their windowless lounge knitting. At one point, Ken and I were coming back from a fun game show in the Observation Lounge—it was after 10 pm, and as we went by the knitting lounge, there were about 50 people in it and they were all watching A KNITTING VIDEO and following along as the person in the video knitted one’d and purled two’d. I ask you—what the hell is the point of spending that kind of money on a cruise, if all you do is sit in a room and knit? And apparently, they had to pay EXTRA to reserve the lounge for 12 days. I actually saw one of them when we were in Greenland—she was sitting at a café table inside the local grocery store and SHE WAS KNITTING. Seriously—give me 10 grand and I will make your meals and turn down your bed every day while you knit in the comfort of your own home. And I’ll be charming and attractive and stunning while I do it.

Now available for pre-order!

Friends For The Holidays

Over the past couple of months, I’ve noticed a weird trend in my Facebook friend requests—they’re all coming from dudes with two first names. I don’t mean like Joe-Bob Smith; I mean I’m getting requests on the daily from guys called Andrew Mark, John Joseph, or Michael Steven. It’s like someone googled “most popular white man names” and started pairing them up. And before you think I’m stereotyping, ALL of these guys are white. And Christian. And widowed. And either doctors or in the military. Which begs the question, knowing me as you do—why the HELL would a white Christian widowed army doctor want to be MY friend?! But I began to suspect that it was just a scam and that none of these guys were actually real right at the very beginning (based on the fact that none of them had any followers and their pictures all looked like what you’d get if you asked Siri, “Find me a photograph of a generic middle-aged white man”) and I’ve been deleting at least two fake friend requests a day. And then came the icing on the cake last week when I got a friend request from a man named Harry. HARRY NUTZ. Seriously?! You couldn’t snare me with Robert David and you think I’m going to fall for hairy nuts? And Harry also identifies himself as a “Christian” and single (with a name like that, it’s no wonder). Slight tangent: I had a cousin in England whose actual name was Harry Dick. But nobody thought it was funny because back then, people in England didn’t refer to manparts as “dicks”. Now, if his name had been Harry Willy, he’d never have lived it down. At any rate, I deleted Harry Nutz’s request as well, on the grounds that his nuts were probably a front for some scam artist who didn’t know how to manscape.

In other news, we recently celebrated New Year’s Day and when I looked at my Google calendar, I noticed that New Year’s Day was highlighted, but that the 2nd was also highlighted as “Day After New Year’s Day (Quebec)” and I was very confused by this. Do the French need a special reminder that the 2nd comes directly after the 1st? But then I investigated further and became enraged. Apparently, if you live in Quebec, you get an EXTRA HOLIDAY on the day after New Year’s Day, and if you live in Ontario, like me, YOU DON’T. And I had to WORK on the 2nd while all the Quebecois were enjoying their extra day off eating poutine and whatnot. And then I investigated even FURTHER when I realized that my Google calendar highlighted all the different days off that each province in Canada gets and now I want to live in Newfoundland, where on top of all the holidays we get here, they get almost one extra day off every month, including St. Patrick’s Day, St. George’s Day, Orangeman’s Day, and a random holiday to celebrate a BOAT RACE called The Royal St. John’s Regatta. They literally have a holiday in June called JUNE DAY. And other provinces and territories have equally tenuous holidays, like in the Yukon, where they get to celebrate Discovery Day, which commemorates that time Yukon Cornelius discovered gold in a glacier after battling the Abominable Snowman. And I was going to do better research on the whole Yukon thing but then I went down a rabbit hole of holidays and discovered that January 7th is known for several interesting holidays including Distaff Day and National Pass Gas Day, so for the rest of this fine Sunday, I’ll be farting around at a spinning wheel.

It’s All About The Attitude

Well, it’s been an exciting week at the mydangblog household. First, I got it into my head suddenly, and I mean VERY suddenly, that it would be an amazing idea if I did a live reading for my new short story collection in August. And if you know anything at all about me, you’ll know that like most things I do (e.g. the quilt), I went into it with a lot of determination but without a single clue about how it should be done. I messaged a couple of friends (thanks Susan and Cecilia!) and got some advice, but still ended up spamming all my friends, not once but twice, with Facebook invites. I really have no idea what I’m doing and whether or not it will work, but if you’d like to join me on Wednesday, August 11 at 7 pm Eastern Time, you can access the reading by either going to the Feasting Upon The Bones Live Reading Facebook page or join via this link even if you don’t have Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/108877348159254/live_videos/

I hope some of you will come, either to see me read some stories and drink wine or watch dead air and imagine me frantically trying to figure out how to get the live stream going whilst simultaneously drinking wine. Either way, there will be wine.

And I’ve been getting great feedback on the short story collection, so again, I’d super-appreciate if anyone could leave even a short review on Amazon or Goodreads or whatnot, or even just some stars. I know a couple of you have already and it totally made my day.

In other news, we took down the old side porch on our house last week because the columns were rotting and discovered that most of the old side porch structure was also rotting, so it was extremely fortunate that we’d embarked upon this particular reno project before one of us fell through the balcony. As Ken was dismantling the roof, he found a champagne cork sliced open with a penny stuck in it tucked next to one of the rafters:

Ken: What do you think this is for?
Me: Some kind of weird superstition? A sacrifice to Dionysus?
Ken: I’ve never heard of that. Let me google…champagne cork with—oh, it autofilled. Guess it’s a thing after all.
Me: Well, we have to keep it and put it back once we’re done. Ooh, we could pop another bottle and do it with a second champagne cork for double the luck!
Ken: And drink the champagne.
Me: Obviously drink the champagne, KEN.

Photo of a cork with a penny in it.

And in honour of our rotten porch, I present to you three other inanimate objects that have attitudes of their own, according to these ads:

Photo of a very nice bird house with the description Obnoxious bird house - make an offer

1) This birdhouse looks really cute and rustic but apparently appearances can be deceiving:

Me: Ooh, I love your birdhouse. Could I offer you twenty-five dollars for it?
Birdhouse: Twenty-five dollars?! F*ck off, lady.
Owner: I’m so sorry. My birdhouse is a bit of a dick.
Birdhouse: You can f*ck right off too, JANICE.
Me: What an obnoxious bird house.
Owner: Hence the ad.

Photo of a child's bicycle with the description Huffy bike

2) In the same vein, this little bike is adorable but…

Buyer: What a lovely little bike. And only ten dollars!
Bike: Hmph.
Buyer: What’s wrong?
Seller: Oh, don’t mind the bike. He’s in one of “his moods”, that’s all.
Bike: HMPH.
Buyer: Does he get like that a lot?
Seller: He’s just a little huffy because I wouldn’t take his training wheels off for the ad.
Bike: I don’t NEED THEM, STANLEY.
Seller: Yes, but they make you MORE MARKETABLE, BRIAN.
Bike: HMPH!

Photo of a sign that says "Please inform one of our staff if this room is in need of some attention."

3) And finally—I’ve seen warehouses with self-esteem issues but this bathroom is a bit of a drama queen:

Customer: Excuse me, but I think your bathroom needs some attention.
Staff person: Good lord, what’s it doing now?
Customer: It’s a little weepy. But when I asked what was wrong, it said, “Oh, nothing. Don’t worry about ME. Obviously I’m JUST FINE”.
Staff: Sigh. Yes, it can be quite passive-aggressive when it’s unhappy. Look, I hate to pry, but were you in there for a…(whispers) poo?
Customer: I—uh—well, yes. But it was just a small one.
Staff: That explains it. Time for the lavender air freshener. That usually does the trick.

A-Muse-ing

This week, D. Wallace Peach of  Myths of the Mirror challenged her readers to write about their muses. She has many, all with distinct personalities, and the one who appeared to her cut quite an imposing figure. My muse, on the other hand, isn’t corporeal, doesn’t have a name, and annoys the hell out of me.

Cue frenetic electric guitar.

A screaming howl rising to a crescendo.

I can’t stand it, I know you planned it…

Me (groggy): What the f*ck…?
Muse: Hello!
Me: Why are you making me listen to Sabotage at 3 o’clock in the morning?!
Muse: You weren’t asleep anyway. You had an idea and you need to write it down.
Me: No, it’s fine. I’ll remember it in the morning.
Muse: No you won’t. Write it down.
Me: It was only two damned lines. I’ll remember it.
Muse: That’s what you said last time. Then you went back to sleep and when you woke up in the morning, you couldn’t remember the fantastic idea you had. It was only mediocre, if I’m being completely honest, but you were still really furious with yourself.
Me: But I’m all warm and snuggly.
Muse: WRITE IT DOWN.
Me: Fine! Where’s my damn phone? There…are you happy? And since we’re both up, any ideas for the blog this week?
Muse: Two words. Weird clock.
Me: Oh right! You’re the best muse.
Muse: I know, right? Now that you’re wide awake, do you want to discuss the sequel to The Dome? Any more progress on Chapter 2?

Luckily, I was saved from the rest of that conversation when Atlas decided to throw up. As for Weird Clock, no, it’s not one of mine. Get ready for more Facebook ads that make no sense:

1) Weird Clock

I can only imagine the conversation regarding the existence of this particular item:

Guy: Hey honey, I think I’m going to sell this weird clock. It’s so small that I can’t see the time from over here.
Wife: Well, it’s no use to us. Do you think anyone would even pay good money for it? I mean, the only way you could even see what time it is would be to wear it on your arm or something.
Guy: On your arm?! What a ridiculous idea. Who on earth would want to do THAT?
Wife: We’ll be lucky to get 2 dollars for it.

2) Room For Rent in a Workout Basement

And you thought a gym membership was expensive! $550 a month and be forced to work out on top of that? No thank you! My only question is “Where’s the workout equipment?” All I see are two boxsprings and two mattresses. Is it a trampoline workout? Because that ceiling is REALLY low.

3) W.w.1 Gift Box

Is it the shadow of a grenade? Is it an extreme close-up? Is the person being purposefully mysterious? Because there’s another picture and it’s exactly the same as this one. Even the description below just says W.w.1 gift box. Is it a box that contains a gift from World War 1 or—hear me out—is it a box that CONTAINS World War 1?:

Guy 1: Hey, I got you a present!
Guy2: Ooh, what is it?
Guy 1: Well, you know how you’re always talking about how much you like war?
Guy 2 (excited): Yes…
Guy 1: I got you one of your own!! It’s an original!

4) Jullery Box

Perfect for holding all your jullery.

5) Brass candle holders for carriage or hearse with eagle tops

Not only is it the longest title for an ad, I think it’s a little misleading. That puppy is NOT made of brass and I don’t see any damn eagle tops anywhere. I know you’re not allowed to sell pets on Facebook Marketplace, but if you’re going to try anyway, couldn’t you just advertise the puppy as Con Rear Stairs? Or a Temporary Sheep/Goat Fence?

Sonic Boom or Bust?

Last week, Kate and I went out shopping for “cute fall sweaters”, because the weather here has suddenly gone from heat wave hot to bone chilling cold, as it does here in Canada, and if there was a prize for the country with the most ridiculous weather, we would win every year. Don’t complain to me about YOUR heat—we have that. And your rainy season? We have that too. Arctic vortex? Absolutely. Can we have all three things in the same 48-hour timeframe? You bet your ass we can. And we’ll throw in some fog just to make driving even more exciting and dangerous.

Anyway, Kate and I went shopping, which was tremendous fun, because we did that thing where we each put on something, count to 3, and come out of the change room at the same time like Ta-da! and then compliment each other on our fine fashion choices. We hit the checkout with several cute sweaters then went out to the car. I may have mentioned my car on a couple of occasions—it’s a black 2013 custom Chevy Sonic Turbo with a red trim kit and racing stripes. I adore it, and it only has a little over 80085 kilometres on it (not quite 50, 000 miles, but that doesn’t look as fun on a digital readout), which isn’t bad for a 7-year-old car.

 

As we approached the car though, I noticed something on the windshield, something which was, more precisely, tucked under the windshield wiper. It was a piece of notepaper torn out of a notebook.

My heart immediately sank, thinking that someone had hit my car in the parking lot and left a note either of apology—“I’m so sorry I hit your adorable car. Please forgive me”—or of defiance—“Your stupid, albeit adorable, car was in my way and I had no choice but to hit it. Next time, park somewhere else”—but in neither of these scenarios was there anyone standing around looking sheepish or angry, holding insurance papers. I pulled the paper out from under the windshield wiper with trepidation and turned it over. Written on the paper were four words: Ontario Sonics On Facebook.

My sunken heart rose again, like a ship that had hit an iceberg, floated down to the bottom of the seabed, and was then winched back up by one of those other ships that they use for documentaries on shipwrecks and treasure and whatnot, and to make a long analogy short, I went from worried to excited. A Facebook group JUST for Chevy Sonic owners? I mean, I’ve never been a club-type person—I don’t suffer from FOMO, the fear of missing out, as much as I have a FOBI-a, which is the fear of being included. But still, I’d always secretly envied those people on motorcycles who always give a knowing wave when they pass someone else on a motorcycle. And now, I could be just as cool, nodding my head approvingly or flashing my lights as I passed another Sonic on the road (although it’s often hard to tell if a Sonic is approaching you until it’s close enough to read the tiny chrome nameplate).

The second we got in the door, I raced over to the computer to look up the Ontario Sonic group on Facebook. And after a few minutes, I came to the undeniable conclusion that it doesn’t exist. Cue heart sinking again, like it was a shipwreck full of treasure and whatnot, and the winch that was bringing it up to the surface of the ocean had suddenly snapped because Carl, the guy responsible for keeping the winch all lubed up, had a hangover and had forgotten to oil it, or whatever you do with winches anyway. There were several things that came up in my search: Ontario Antiques and Collectibles, Master Gardeners of Ontario, and Ontario Tornado/Blizzard Watch (it has hundreds of thousands of members, proving my previous point about the weather here, where you have to simultaneously watch out for tornadoes AND blizzards). And all I can do now is wonder: Why would someone write the name of a non-existent Facebook group on a piece of notepaper in turquoise ink and then put it under the windshield wiper of my car? Or…was it a suggestion? Perhaps the anonymous admirer was hoping that, with some encouragement, I would CREATE a Facebook group for Sonic owners. Alas, I would be the worst person to start a Facebook group, mostly because I would never go to the meetings I’d scheduled and would bring gluten-free cupcakes to the bake sale. But I would JOIN such a group if it existed. And now I’m off to join the Ontario Tornado/Blizzard Watch group. I hope they like gluten-free cupcakes.

(Update: Apparently there IS a group–thanks to Babbitman for his intrepid sleuthing. I’ve sent a Join request so we’ll see what happens next. To be continued…)

(Update to the Update: I am now a member. It’s a very strange group and I don’t think I want to be part of it. Someone posted asking about a “catless downpipe” and another person is asking for help to perform a “second cat delete”, and all I can think is these people hate cats…)

My Week 120: Search for a Roommate, The Liquor Store, K and I Discuss Religion

Tuesday: The search for a roommate ends

A little while ago, I found myself in an unusual position. No, this is not a weird sex story, so get your mind out of the gutter. What I mean by that is, “in a situation that I have NEVER dealt with before”. I needed to find a roommate. And before you jump to any more hasty conclusions, Ken and I are just fine. However, in case you’ve forgotten, I work for a secret agency in the heart of the big city during the week, and come home to Ken’s loving, and sometimes sarcastic, arms on the weekend. It was a great arrangement—I have a condo in the city and a house in a lovely small town where the Jehovah’s Witnesses can easily find me. Everything was fine, until just recently, when I accepted a permanent position with the agency, which means they will no longer cover the cost of my urban housing. And that’s OK—I’m thrilled with the whole thing, considering that I work with wonderful people and my position is very stimulating (In an INTELLECTUAL way! God, what is wrong with you people?!) And the best part is that I never have to go back to work with the small but horrifyingly toxic group of people that I used to have to spend most of my day with.

Bob: You’re so mean. We don’t like you.
Marcia: Yeah. You think you’re so great with your “professionalism” and sh*t.
Me: Um…aren’t we all adults here?
Bob: What’s your point? Oh, and if you don’t add me on Facebook, I’m filing a grievance against you with the union.
Me: Sigh. I can’t even.

So it’s a win-win situation, except for the fact that living in the heart of the big city is excruciatingly expensive. I looked into moving into a cheaper condo, but anything cheaper was further away, and the cost of the subway every day offset any savings I might have seen, because right now I live literally across the street from my office. It’s the best commute I’ve ever had in my life. Plus, I really like SkyLab. Being 300 feet above sea level helps put things into perspective. Or not. The other day, for example, I was looking down at the street, and I saw someone walking the weirdest looking dog. Then suddenly, it flew away, and I realized it was a pigeon. Anyway, I decided that the best thing to do would be to get a roommate for my second bedroom. I never use it anyway, and a roommate could help with the rent. That way I could stay where I was. But how do you find a roommate? Was there a magicky noticeboard in the heart of the city where trustworthy people could be found? Well, just like “The Club”, it was elusive. Then I was messaging with a friend who said, “You can advertise on the university Facebook pages—people are always looking for rentals there.”

Great idea, right? So I went to one of these pages, and right away, I saw a girl who was looking to rent a room. I immediately messaged her on Facebook and she sounded super-excited. She said she’d come at 1 pm that Thursday to see the place. Wednesday night, I cleaned the condo from top to bottom because I wanted to make a good impression. I made arrangements to take a late lunch, and I popped over to my lobby around 12:45 to wait for her. At 12:50, she messaged me to say she wasn’t coming. WTF? I had CLEANED!! What was wrong with kids today? After fuming for a bit, though, I suddenly realized that maybe it was my fault. First, some of you may remember me railing on about how I was fiddling with my name on Facebook a while ago, hit the wrong button, and the next thing I knew, my Facebook name was Mydangbog. No, that’s not a typo. At least not here. Yes, I had spelled my own blog name incorrectly, and according to Facebook rules, I couldn’t change it back to my own real human name for 60 days. Well, it was embarrassing at the time, but my friends got used to it, and I didn’t give it much thought after a while. Second, for a laugh, I had changed my profile picture to a shot of me when I was 17 years old, and going through what the kids today might call my “Goth phase”. Third, right after the young lady had initially messaged me, I changed my profile picture to a photograph of the garden house that Ken built me years ago. It’s a barnboard structure, out in the middle of our lawn. So, OK, here’s the deal: You’re 18 years old, and you’re contacted by someone with an incomprehensible name who looks like a vampire. After your initial message, the person changes their profile picture to an isolated barn in the middle of nowhere. If that doesn’t scream “potential serial killer”, I don’t know what else does. The only way I could have made things worse is if I’d started sending her random GIFs of Charles Manson laughing. (I just googled this, and there’s actually a website called serialkillergifs.tumblr.com—I’m going to save that for future reference). So I forgave her. After that fiasco, I was finally able to change my name back, replaced the barn with a picture of me wearing a tiara (because nothing says “normal” like a middle-aged woman wearing a crown) and got permission to post my own ad on the university’s Facebook site. I got several responses right away, and ending up meeting a very nice student doing a co-op term until the end of April. So if it doesn’t work out, it’s not forever. Well, as long as she never looks in the freezer.

Friday: The liquor store

On Friday, I went to the liquor store. This is the opening line of all my favourite stories. Anyway, I went with K, who’s 18 and a half. But the liquor store has instituted this ridiculous rule that unless you’re 19+, you’re “not allowed to handle alcoholic products while in the LCBO”. LCBO is the name for the only place in Ontario where you’re allowed to buy alcohol (except for The Beer Store, which is the provincially-licenced…well, beer store). K looks like she’s at least 19, but I’m a rule-follower, so there was me trying to juggle a 12-pack of Smirnoff Ice coolers and a bottle of wine, while she wandered after me saying, “Just give me the case of Smirnoff—no one’s going to know.”

Me: It’s a stupid rule. I’m complaining.
K: Oh god—you promised you would stop harassing random store clerks with your “complaints”.
Me: I’m not harassing anyone. I’m just pointing out how stupid it is. (To cashier) This is a stupid policy. These things are heavy and I’ve had to lug them around the store and HE’S not allowed to help me.
Cashier: There are buggies when you come in. And baskets.
Me: Putting all this in a basket doesn’t make it any lighter.
K: God no, please stop.
Cashier (sighing): Do you have air miles?
Me: Don’t even get me started on air miles. So, let me just clarify. If I put this in the basket, is he allowed to TOUCH THE HANDLE in order to carry it out to the car, or is that still considered “handling alcoholic products”?
Cashier (exasperated): You’ve paid for the products. They belong to you. He can touch them now….
Me: But we’re still technically in the store—
K: OMG, just stop. She can’t do anything about the policy. She’s just a cashier.
Me: What? I’m simply pointing out how ridiculous this is. I was POLITE. I didn’t swear at anyone.
K: THIS time.

It’s a stupid rule. I stand by that. Good job I didn’t tell her the coolers were for K.

Here’s a sign with even weirder rules. Guess where it comes from:

weird-sign-smaller

 

Sunday: K and I discuss religion

Earlier this morning, I was driving K back to uni. She was scrolling through her phone and said, “Hey—there’s this really funny thread about which religion is the weirdest. Someone just posted, “the one where there’s an invisible man in the sky who’s really interested in what two people do in bed.”

Me: Haha. Scientology is weirder though.
K: What’s Scientology again?
Me: The one where they believe that everyone on Earth descended from aliens that landed on Easter Island in metal tubes. One day, the Supreme Lord Naboo will return from the Underverse to reclaim them.
K: I think you’re mixing in a bit of Star Wars and Chronicles of Riddick there.
Me: Scientologists, Necromongers, whatever. Anyway, Scientologists are kind of like Mormons, but without the orgies.
K: Orgies?!
Me: Isn’t that the point of polygamy? Orgies were the reason a lot of religions got invented. Seriously—watch Sister Wives. I could never be a Scientologist though—I couldn’t follow a religion that didn’t believe in modern medicine.
K: I think you’re talking about the Christian Scientists.
Me: Aren’t they the same thing? I always get confused by the “science-y” part of their names. Although none of them are really scientists when you think about it. Science Fictionists, maybe.
K: People have always believed in some crazy sh*t. Look at Greek mythology.
Me: I know, right? Let’s talk about Uranus.
Both: Mwahahahahaha!

Yep. I raised her right.

My Week 99: Jet Lag Grumpiness, The Tragically Hip

Jet lag makes me grumpy. I’ll be the first to admit that, or maybe the second, as Ken is well aware of the fact that I’ve been a little pissy this week. The poor guy has a bad cold and slept on the couch the other night because he was coughing and didn’t want to wake me up. My reaction?

Me: What the hell are you doing?
 Ken: Um…whuh?
Me: How many times have I asked you NOT to use the couch cushions as pillows?! They’re expensive, and you’re making them all squishy!
Ken: But I—
Me: NO, Ken. You need to stop treating the couch like a flophouse. Use your own damn pillows. It’s not like you don’t have 6 of them all cluttering up the bed and sh*t.
Ken: *weak cough, sneeze* Sigh.

At any rate, I hope he forgives me for my pillow rant, although it’s true that he has like a thousand weird pillows on the bed that he just can’t sleep without—unless he’s on the couch. The fact is that I’m in a continual state of grogginess, thanks to the 6 hour time zone change, and as I get older, I find it harder to readjust my body clock. But Ken wasn’t the only one who felt my ire this week. I hope you’re prepared for this, because I’m about to vent. Here’s the list of 4 things that are REALLY grinding my gears this week:

1) Telemarketers who can’t even be bothered trying.

Twice in the last week, I’ve been the target of a completely uninspired, or blatantly bulls*t phone sales pitch. I’m not sure what’s going on—maybe it’s the brutal heat we’re experiencing in Canada, but people aren’t even TRYING. The phone rang yesterday. We don’t normally use our landline, but the caller ID said “C. Becker”, so I thought it might be, like, a normal human person. I answered the phone:

Me: Hello? HELLO? (sounds of talking in the background).
 Guy: What? Oh hi. Mrs. __________? (mispronounces my last name)
Me: No, it’s _____________.
Guy: Haha. Right. Sorry. So….this is just the duct cleaning people calling.
Me: The duck cleaning people?
Guy: No, ducts. You know, like your furnace ducts and stuff. So, we’re having a promotion.
Me: Ah, sorry. We heat totally with wood.
Guy: No problem! Thanks!

“Just the duct cleaning people”. Is that seriously how a company expects to make money? And why the hell are their sales agents using their own damn phones? Anyway, I had his name and phone number on my caller ID, so the other day, I randomly called him back. Don’t worry; I blocked my number first. I didn’t get to talk to “Chris”, which is what I’m calling him, but I left this ominous message on his answering machine in my best Count Dracula voice: “Would you like your ducts cleaned?! Mwah hahahaha!!!” Then I hung up, turned around and realized that K was staring at me.

Me: The duct cleaning guy…
K: I condemn your actions.

But it still wasn’t as bad as the other day, when I answered the phone and a guy with a VERY heavy accent said, “Hello. My name is John Smith and I’m calling from Windows. There seems to be something wrong with your computer—“, and I said, “F*ck off” and hung up the phone. Then I felt terrible, because I’m usually really polite to telemarketers, but how stupid did he think I AM? Now I’m worried though, because when we were in Iceland, I wrote most of last week’s post on a netbook using Windows, and when we came back to Canada, the netbook crashed. All I could do was call up the post on Word, then retype the whole thing, which took me hours. So maybe that’s my karma for being all swear-y at John Smith, and now my Windows might really be f*cked up.

2) Olympic Sexism.

Like many people, I’m disturbed by the level of sexism in the current Olympics. There have been many articles written on the subject regarding women’s achievements being downplayed or overshadowed by constant references to what they’re wearing or who they’re married to. And while I agree with all that, I also think that there are a couple of sports in which women are their own worst enemies by not saying “Screw this.” The first one that comes to mind is Gymnastics. How can you seriously expect people NOT to make a distinction between the genders when you have such a different approach to the floor routine? The guys are all serious and badass and tumbling around, and when they finish a run, they take one weird swivel-y step to turn around. The women, on the other hand, look like they’re trying out for Little Miss Gymnastic Universe—they do their routines with perma-smiles, and shimmy their shoulders and shake their pre-pubescent-looking booties for the crowd in between THEIR tumbling runs. I don’t get it. At one point, I was like “Shouldn’t there be a pole somewhere on that mat?” These women are all INCREDIBLE athletes—why is it the expectation of their sport that they act like pageant princesses? Do they lose marks if they don’t look pretty and sexy? Dump the glitter and gyrating, and bring women’s gymnastics into the 21st century. And don’t get me started on the seeming necessity of the women’s Beach Volleyball team wearing bikini thongs compared to what the guys wear. They claim it’s comfortable and allows them to play better—maybe having sand in your lady parts is a great incentive to win. And just for the record, I’d have absolutely no problem with any of this if the guys were similarly dressed in thongs or glitter or whatever. In fact, it might make me MORE inclined to watch men’s Beach Volleyball.

3) Kidbashing.

This one has been making me grumpy for a lot longer than a week, but hey, in for a penny, in for a pound. Is it just me, or are other people sick as f*ck of all the childbashing that seems to be de rigeur in the last little while? My social media outlets are jampacked with “50 Reasons Why Being a Parent Sucks”, or “10 Things I Hate About My Kids” or “Why Being a Mom Is Crap”. From Twitter hashtags to nasty memes, this whole cyberbullying of our children has to stop. Being a parent is AWESOME. There. I said it. I’m deeply sorry that I don’t want to cash in by appealing to the frustrated parent in you all, but I actually LIKE being a mom. My daughter didn’t drive me to drink (I did that all on my own, thank you very much). She didn’t give me gray hairs (do I have any? I’ll have to ask my hairdresser), and I would never dream of embarrassing her by openly mocking what she does on the internet. Sure, I talk about her, but it’s with affection rather than mean-spiritedness. You know what she DID give me? Laugh lines. Because kids are hilarious. But you’d never know this from some of the negativity aimed towards parenthood lately. I actually read a post by someone who described being a parent as being akin to living in a barren wasteland with an empty soul. WHAT?? All I have to say to that is “Grow the f*ck up. Did you really think that your life would stay EXACTLY the same as it was before you had children? Did you think you could still ‘party with my ladies’, have your semi-annual girls’ weekend, or continue to hit the bars on a Friday night? If so, then hire a nanny and stop complaining.” I’m not wholly unsympathetic—I understand that spending time with the wee ones can be a little overwhelming at times, and when I was raising K, there were certainly occasions (few, I have to admit) where I needed to vent. You know who I vented to? My mom. Or a good friend. Or Ken. I didn’t share my thoughts and feelings with thousands of strangers on the internet where my momentary self-doubt would be archived forever, and where my negative thoughts about childrearing could be seen by my child at a future date. The worst part is that it’s making younger women fearful of becoming parents. I read an article the other day by a journalist who was considering having children, but after reading some “mommy blogs”, she was so scared off that she was re-thinking the whole thing. The most ridiculous thing I read lately was by someone who was so unhappy about being a mother, and the worst part was that her husband got to go out working and be with adults. But then he would come home and leave his underwear on the bathroom door handle, and ON TOP OF EVERYTHING ELSE, she would have to put his underwear away. My first and only thought was, “Why the HELL are you picking up after a grown man?! Did you know that after a while, if you don’t pick up after him, he’ll have no clean underwear and will be forced to do his own laundry like an actual normal human person?” And now this poor guy feels like a dick because everyone on the internet knows he hangs his underwear on a doorknob.

Honestly, I don’t know how anyone can rightfully complain about being a parent. It really is the best gig in the world. You get to spend time with someone who is NEVER boring, and you get to teach them all the stuff they need to know. When you repeat “Can you say Mama,” over and over again, you’re creating neural pathways and networks. When you say “No, that’s hot—danger!”, you’re developing logic and reasoning. And when you say “Play nice and share,” you’re contextualizing the social construct. You’re a f*cking scientist, that’s what you are. So start embracing your inner Ph. D.—the internet, and your children, will thank you.

4) People who try to screw you over on Facebook buy and sell sites.

Ken and I are still trying to offload a lot of the furniture we had at the cottage we sold recently. The best way has been by using local Facebook buy and sell sites, but it can be frustrating at times. Most people are great—they come when they say they will, they give you the money, and they take away your stuff. Then you get the people who take two days of constant messaging and questions like “Is it in good condition?” (no, I posted it because it’s a piece of crap) to finally arrange a time to pick up an item. THEN they suddenly want to know if you’ll take half the asking price. You say No, then they come over when you’re out and try the same sh*t with your unsuspecting husband. But he’s no dummy (because you told him what the price was and he knows better that to barter on his own) so they leave empty-handed, having wasted everyone’s time. People like that are jerks. Enough said.

5) Amid all the grumbling this week, there HAVE been some good moments. Ken and I repaired the broken down antique settee that I got a garage sale and it looks great. I made risotto for the first time and it turned out almost OK. I bought groceries and it didn’t cost me a small fortune as it would have in Iceland. I saw Lisa, my Lancome lady, and she gave me a lot of free stuff. Which brings me to the thing that made me laugh my ass off this week. I saw my parents yesterday, and I gave my mom some peach-scented foot lotion, Calvin Klein body lotion, and lipstick that I got from Lisa. She called me last night:

Mom: I hope you don’t mind, but I gave the lotion to your Dad.
 Me: No, that’s fine…
Mom: He’s decided to become a chick magnet so he needs soft skin.
Me: I—what?

So ladies, beware. If you see a really cool old Scottish guy who smells like peaches, you’re in trouble.

Saturday Night: The Tragically Hip

hip2

Last night was the final show of the Tragically Hip’s final concert tour. The lead singer, Gord Downie, has incurable brain cancer, and rather than fade away, he’s going out in fine Canadian style by bringing the country together. You might have seen the memes about Canada being closed for the night because our national broadcaster, the CBC, was showing the concert live across the nation for those who couldn’t get tickets to be there in person. Free. No commercial breaks. 3 hours of song. So that we could all embrace the band whose music was the soundtrack to so many of our lives. Hundreds of thousands of people watching all at the same time, some at huge parties with massive screens, some at home with the people they love, watching a man give everything he had left to the nation HE loves. It was inspiring and heartbreaking all at the same time. In a year that we lost Bowie and Prince, two other icons of our youth, it seems incredibly unfair that Gord Downie, man, machine, poem, should be lost to us as well. And when the time comes, we’ll miss him fully and completely. Just wait and you’ll see.

Here’s the link to one of my favourite Hip songs—Nautical Disaster.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e8Fi46BFAF0