Humour

As I Was Saying

The other day, I was out shopping, buying designer purses and vintage lamps, as one does.
When it came time to pay, I had a couple of coupons but wasn’t sure how to use both of them for the transaction. I asked the store worker at the self-checkout, and she said, “It’s easier if I do it for you; it’s like killing two birds with one shovel.” I immediately did a double-take, first because things seemed to have escalated quickly from talking about thrifting coupons to violently murdering birds, and second, because as far as I know, the original saying is “Kill two birds with one stone” and where the hell did the shovel come from?! I mean, the original saying is bad enough—I suppose it means accomplishing two things at once, but who was the sadist who thought the best metaphor for that was the slaughter of our avian friends with projectiles? And now we’ve upped the game to some bizarre game of stealth, because there’s no way you can bludgeon two birds with one shovel unless you have the reflexes of a ninja (and the soul of a serial killer). And it got me thinking about other weird sayings:

1) A bird in the hand is better than two in the bush

Is it really though? Have you ever actually tried to hold a bird in your hand? Those little f*ckers get pretty pecky. I’d much rather have two birds merrily singing in a bush than one of them trying to bite my damn finger off.

2) Eating crow

This saying is interchangeable with “eating humble pie” and let me tell you, I’d much rather eat pie than a crow. Is the crow IN a pie, like in that weird song about some king eating 24 blackbirds? And how is crow best served, anyway? Personally, if I was forced to eat a crow, I’d like it in a stir fry, smothered with spicy peanut sauce and served with a side of rice noodles. Or I could just not eat it at all, because according to the first idiom, I would have to kill it with a stone. Or a shovel. Neither of those options sounds appealing.

3) Throwing the baby out with the bathwater

Were old-timey people really this villainous, with their birdicide and baby neglect? I used to think that this expression meant one thing, but apparently I was wrong:

Me: So throwing the baby out with the bathwater refers to someone being stupid, right? Like “He’s so dumb, he threw the baby out with the bathwater.” And then he had to go get the baby and give it another bath because it was all muddy and whatnot?
Ken: No, it’s an old saying from when people only bathed once a week. First, the grandparents had a bath, then the parents, then all the kids. By the time the baby’s turn came, the water was so dirty that no one realized the baby was in the bathtub.
Me: So the person who was bathing the baby was like, “Yawn, think I’ll go have a drink” and just forgot about the baby? I suspect my initial assumption was right.
Ken: No, it means losing something you really like along with something you don’t.
Me: Well, I like babies. I’m changing this to “throwing the pearls out with the jewelry box”.
Ken: Random, but OK.

4) Like taking candy from a baby

This expression is SUPPOSED to mean that something was really easy, but it’s completely inaccurate. Have you ever actually tried to take candy from a baby? They will scream and pout and generally make your life miserable. I wasn’t even allowed to dip into Kate’s Hallowe’en haul without being accused of grand larceny. Seriously. Just TRY taking candy from babies. They will cut you.

Of course, the current popular expression around our house is “What’s for you won’t go by you” which is something my dad always says, and which I take to mean that if something is meant for you, then fate will find a way to make it happen. I’ve been saying this a lot lately as there are a few things on my wish list. If only wishes were horses, then birds would ride…no wait…I’d be as happy as a bird in sh*t…no wait…it would be the best thing since sliced birds…no wait…

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 25th”. Never did solve that one—August 25th 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.

He’s both in and with a plane.

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”…

Skin Game

Before I start, I’d just like to say a huge thank you to a couple of people. First to my mother—Happy Mother’s Day and thanks for being a great mom! Next to D. Wallace Peach of Myths of the Mirror, a wonderful writer and supporter of writers who just posted an awesome review of my new short story collection Dark Nocturnes, which you can read here. And finally, to Susan Richardson of Flowering Ink and A Thousand Shades of Green, also a wonderful writer and supporter of writers, who’s been reading stories from Dark Nocturnes out loud every week on her podcast. The way she reads them gives me chills, and I WROTE them! You can listen to her podcast here.

I’d also like to say a huge thank you to the universe, because after receiving some disappointing news last week while I was out thrift shopping, I thought maybe the universe hated me, but then no less than 20 seconds later, I turned around and saw this:

The universe loves me. And understands my obsession with drippy, impressionistic paintings of Paris. Thank you, universe. Now off we go…

Not long ago, I had to renew my health card. For those of you who don’t know what a health card is, it’s the card we have here in Ontario that you show at the doctor’s or the hospital or whatnot, and then you don’t have to pay for anything. Everyone in the province gets one at birth and it’s funded through income tax paid by residents and businesses. And for some reason, it’s one of the few things that can’t be renewed online anymore, which meant I had to go into a Service Ontario office (similar to the DMV) and stand in line. I went in the afternoon, and when I walked in, there were only 5 people ahead of me, and the three at the counter were finished quickly. But the next guy in line didn’t know what his exact mailing address was and insisted on looking at Google maps and stood at the second counter calling three other people to figure out the best place to mail him something, and then the woman at the third counter just WALKED AWAY. Which left one poor woman available for the rest of us. But still, she was very efficient, and about twenty minutes later it was my turn. She looked at my health card and said, “No problem. Your driver’s license is coming due at the same time—do you want to renew it now as well?”

And that seemed like the smart thing to do since I was there anyway, so I said, “Sure.”

She filled in some information on the computer, then looked me straight in the eye and said, “Do you want to be an organ donor?” And I was really taken aback, having an actual person ask me this, instead of just ticking off the box on the back of my license, and I froze.

Me: …No?
Woman: Really? Are you sure?…OK.

And then I felt terribly judged and also remembered that I’d had laser eye surgery and now my eyes were pretty good and might help someone else, and also that my kidneys and liver had passed their latest tests with flying colours, so I said, “Wait! I changed my mind. Yes, I’ll be an organ donor.”

She kind of sighed, and said, “It’ll take me a minute to get back to that screen. Hang on.” Then, after a few minutes, she asked this bizarre follow-up question, and my blood froze. “Do you want to donate only for life-saving procedures or also for medical research?”

MEDICAL RESEARCH?! Like I’d be one of those cadavers that medical students experiment on? Would they give me a terrible nickname like Gangrene Greta or Basic Body B*tch or take selfies with me? No thank you, ma’am and I told that woman the same in no uncertain terms, but while in my head I sounded determined, it came out a very whispery “Just the first one.”

Woman: OK, no medical research. Now, are you good with everything, or do you have any exceptions, for example, would you like to exempt your eyes, your lungs, your kidneys, blood plasma, your bones, or YOUR SKIN?
Me:
Woman: Great. Now I need to get a picture so stand over there and don’t smile.

Don’t SMILE? You just told me that when I die, someone is going to flay me and then steal my skin and bones. The license hasn’t come in the mail yet so I haven’t seen the picture, but I’m sure I look absolutely horrified in it. Like, imagine this scenario:

Cop: Do you know how fast you were going? Can I see your license and registration please?
Me (gives him my new license): Sorry, Officer, I—
Cop: (returns my license and backs away): I didn’t mean to add to your trauma. Have a nice day. (whispers to himself) Poor woman. Must have been the ‘skin’ question.

When I got home, I was really disturbed and told Ken what had happened. “I didn’t know what to say! She asked me in front of everyone and I didn’t have any time to think about it. But I don’t want them to take my skin! Don’t let them take it!”

And I know I sounded like a big baby but Ken laughed and reminded me that as my survivor, he had right of first refusal over all my body parts.

Ken: Besides, there’s no need to worry about it. You’ll be dead.
Me: YOU DON’T KNOW THAT, KEN!! And don’t forget, if you let them have my skin, you can’t have me stuffed and put me in the living room.
Ken: I wasn’t going to do that anyway.
Me: You’re so mean.
Ken: It’ll just be one small empty urn on the fireplace mantle…
Me: You better hope I die first.

Beet It!

Here are two truths and a lie about me: a) I’m bad at math b) I do not have an inordinate amount of clocks and c) I really like to cook. Can you guess which one is the lie? And all three tie into a crazy dream I had last week where I started doing math, looked at the clock, saw that I’d been trying to solve a stupid math problem for over 10 minutes, gave up and made Cornish hens in red wine sauce instead. It was bizarre, but it reinforced one important thing–I love cooking. Some people don’t get this, mostly the people who don’t love cooking, but to me, there’s nothing more relaxing than picking out a recipe, getting the ingredients, and spending a couple of hours making something delicious. When Ken and I were first married, my culinary range consisted of Pillsbury frozen mini-pizzas, scrambled eggs, mashed potatoes, and ground beef with prepackaged noodles and sauce. Since then, I’ve had many adventures and misadventures (baking SODA rather than baking powder in the raspberry pie I made for the first time I hosted a family Thanksgiving is the most memorable, and probably the most disgusting), but I’ve steadily improved my abilities over the last 25 years.

Although Ken and I have different tastes (and taste buds, apparently), he loves food and he’s usually pretty good about eating whatever I make—mostly because if he complains, he knows the response will be “Fine. Make your own damn dinner then.” And Ken is one of those people who DOESN’T like cooking, so even though he’s really super-picky, he will tolerate whatever is on his plate and just eat around the stuff he doesn’t like, kind of like a toddler. Or, like a toddler, he gets a little whiny. Case in point—last summer, I was doing home-made corn tortilla fajitas with the awesome tortilla press that I bought online. But Ken was all like, “I don’t want corn tortillas! I want regular wheat tortillas! Just because you and Kate can’t eat gluten doesn’t mean the rest of us should suffer! Wah wah!” and he was adamant enough that he actually went out and bought some wheat tortilla shells right before dinner so he could have things his own way. I mocked him a little, of course, but then later I felt bad about it, because if he wants gluey, ‘stick to your intestines’ wheatiness, then who am I to judge? So the next night, I promised him I would cook him beets. While this may not sound like a big deal, the thing you need to know is that Ken LOVES beets. He’s always mooning about how amazing beets are, and threatening to buy some so he can “boil them, slice them, and eat them with salt and butter.” Even saying it makes me feel slightly nauseated. But I had found a recipe for “roasted root vegetables” and figured that if I put the beets in with enough carrots and potatoes, it just might be edible.

So on the way home from the antique market, we stopped at a Mennonite fruit and vegetable stand (Mennonites are the Canadian equivalent of the Amish, if you don’t know). There was no one around for a couple of minutes and we were just about to give up, when a little girl about six years old flew out of the farmhouse about 300 feet away and came running down the lane in her bare feet. We told her what we wanted to buy—3 cobs of corn, a pint of raspberries and a bunch of beets—and asked how much we owed her. She just stared at us with big eyes. She was adorable but apparently, she didn’t speak English, and couldn’t do math, which made her the perfect salesperson for a small business in Mennonite World. But I shouldn’t be critical. I was as flummoxed by the math as she was, having bought 3 cobs of corn at the price of $4 for a dozen. Luckily, Ken is a whiz at math, and he figured out the total cost with some complex algorithm involving fractions and long division and we were on our way. But I was concerned about the whole strange situation:

Me: What was she, like 6? Is that even safe?
Ken: What do you mean? God, these raspberries are amazing. Can you make cheesecake for dessert?
Me: Well, what if we were in a van? Would they have still sent her out? We could have been kidnappers.
Ken: I’m sure someone was watching from the window. Oh my god, these raspberries! Do you have the stuff you need to make cheesecake?
Me: How could they see from over 300 feet away? By the time someone noticed that she was being snatched, they would be gone! Maybe they have different aged children they send out depending on the vehicle. If it’s a single guy in a van, they send out the 15-year-old with the huge muscles from working in the fields. We’re a couple in a small car, so we get the adorable 6 year old?
Ken: These raspberries will be awesome on cheesecake! I can’t wait!
Me: Sigh. If you keep eating them, there won’t be any LEFT for cheesecake. That’s it. Two more raspberries then the bag goes away. I mean it.
Ken: Aw….

That afternoon, I started getting everything ready—husking the corn, making the cheesecake, marinating the steak—until finally, it was time to tackle the beets. I peeled and chopped the potatoes and carrots first, avoiding the inevitable. Then I pulled the beets out of the bag. They smelled disgusting, like an open grave. I washed and peeled them, and it didn’t help. Kate was sitting at the counter, and I said, “God, these things smell and taste like dirt!” She said that was because they came from the ground. I reminded her that the same was true of carrots and potatoes but they smelled like they were meant to be eaten, not buried in a tomb. Then I held a peeled beet up to her nose, and she was like “God, they DO smell like dirt! I’m not eating any of that!” At this point, I realized that my hands were now dyed an alarming shade of pink, as was my cutting board, and as I mixed the chopped beets into the roasting pan, the carrots and potatoes started to turn pink as well. “Holy sh*t, the beets are spreading their poison to the rest of the food!” I exclaimed. “What if this is how the zombie apocalypse starts?!”

While dinner was cooking, Ken came down and was using my laptop to research more beet recipes.

Ken: Hey, check this out. This website says that people “are very passionate about beets. They either love them or hate them”…
Me: Accurate assessment.
Ken: “A lot of people think they taste like dirt”!
Me: That’s because they do. I told you that about half an hour ago.
Ken: You already read this website! You’re plagiarizing Martha Stewart!
Me: I’m NOT plagiarizing Martha Stewart. Do you think she’s the only one who knows that beets taste like death? EVERYONE knows it. Martha Stewart is plagiarizing ME.

Then I served dinner, making sure that Ken got pretty well ALL of the beets. I had about three chunks, which only served to confirm that I am definitely one of the people who hates beets. But Ken was beside himself with joy, and I felt like I had made up a little for mocking him about the tortillas, especially because the cheesecake and fresh raspberries (what was left of them) were pretty amazing. Then the next day, I was in the bathroom, and I came out and said to Ken, “I think I need to call the doctor. The water in the toilet—“
“That’s just the beets,” he laughed. “Nothing to worry about.”
And I’m not worried about it, because I’m never touching one of those zombie death-bombs ever again.

Frankly My Dear, I Don’t Give A F*ck

As a writer, it’s always interesting when you read reviews of your work. And I say ‘read’, because most of the time, it’s someone who’s purchased your book and writes a review on Amazon or Goodreads or whatnot. Usually, people really like my books, but I’ve certainly had my share of interesting reviews, and by ‘interesting’, I mean things like “The stories in this short story collection are short”, or “the perspective in this book with two different narrators seems to be from two different perspectives”,  but most of the time, it’s a pretty solid ‘great read’. I try not to get too ruffled about reviews—after all, opinions are like ani—everybody has one. But the other day, I was absolutely flabbergasted. I was at the community centre in town helping our local service club get set up for their annual charity auction. There were a bunch of us organizing the tables (and sneaking a peek at the donations, as one does). Every so often, someone local would come in to sneak a peek as well, which was fine, and we would all chat. Then an older woman came into the hall, and she made a beeline right for me:

Old Woman: Oh hi! I bought your book.
Me: You did? Thanks!
Old Woman: And I have to say, I was very disappointed.
Me: Uh, sorry—which book?

At this point, I’m thinking maybe she was disappointed because she wished it was longer, or because she hoped it would end differently, but no:

Old Woman: You know, I’m no prude, but that book had so many F words in it—I was shocked.
Me: You mean the humour book?
Old Woman: And I promised myself that if I EVER saw you, I would tell you EXACTLY how disappointed I was. That many F words is just UNNECESSARY…

And she continued to ramble on. I was so taken aback that I couldn’t even think of a response, aside from “Then don’t f*cking read it!” but I was with a lot of other people that I like and respect, and I didn’t want to cause a scene. So I just walked away and left her droning on. She finally left. But it was super upsetting. I mean, to have someone come RIGHT INTO YOUR FACE and criticize you NOT for the content or style of your work, but because you dropped a few F-bombs? And it wasn’t even that MANY—I went back and checked, and there were 39 instances of the word ‘f*ck’ or its many variations in a book of 50,530 words, or 249 pages. That means I used the word ‘f*ck’ every 1300 words or so, which is WAY LESS than I use the word f*ck in real life. And I just checked, and I’ve only used it 5 times so far in this post which stands right now at 492 words, so once every 100 words, give or take, and that’s not even a RECORD for me.

I guess I was just completely blindsided by such a random encounter. I mean, I would NEVER have the unmitigated gall to go up to someone I don’t know and PUBLICLY tell them that I, a grown-ass adult, was disappointed in their book because it contained swearing. I know that some people consider swearing a tad gauche, but honestly, there are SO many bigger things to worry about in the world right now.

At any rate, the book she was complaining about, What Any Normal Person Would Do, was longlisted/top ten for one of the most prestigious literary prizes in Canada, the Stephen Leacock Award for Humour. I even got stickers to put on the front cover, so I guess the judges didn’t have a problem with my sweary nature. And if you’d like to check it out for yourself, it’s available here. Buy a copy and post a review praising my creative use of the word “f*ck”.

Or if swearing isn’t your jam, you can check out my new short story collection (yes, the stories are short and there’s no foul language). It’s called Dark Nocturnes, and if you like Black Mirror, you’ll appreciate my twisted storytelling. It’s available here.

And have you been watching Black Mirror? That first episode—OMG.

Car Go Beep Beep

Why is it, whenever things finally seem to be going well, that your car breaks down or needs a major repair? It’s like Murphy’s Law or something, if Murphy was a mechanic. I was already due to get my winter tires swapped out, an appointment I made this past week for 2 weeks from now because everybody and his brother are doing the same thing, even though there’s a chance that we’re still stuck in false spring, the season right before second winter. At the time, it felt like my brakes on my 12 year old Sonic were a little shaky, but not squealing or anything, so I said to the guy at the tire place, “While you have the tires off, can you check the brakes?” “Sure thing,” he said. Everything was fine until a couple of days ago. I was driving into another town after work. It had been a wonderful morning—someone had bought a copy of MY book AND asked me to sign it. Then I picked up this cute outfit from someone on Facebook Marketplace, and when I said, “It’s $35, right?” she said, “Oh, just give me $20,” and I was feeling so lucky and upbeat. But on the way home, my car started to shudder. The faster I went, the worse it got. I was freaking out so I did what any normal person would do—I called Ken:

Me: There’s something really wrong with my car!
Ken: Pull over.
Me: But I’m right in the middle of town in heavy traffic.
Ken: I’m googling “What would cause my car to shake?” Says it could be a problem with a lugnut. Are you missing any?
Me: How would I know if one of my lugnuts is missing?! I’m driving!

I finally found a gas station and pulled in to check. Sure enough, my right front tire was sans one lugnut. How the hell that happened, I have no idea. Ken called our neighbour, who is also an excellent mechanic but who doesn’t do tire swaps, and he said to take a lugnut from our daughter’s car to get me home. I was finally able to pull over on a side road out in the country after white-knuckling it for several minutes, and sat there waiting for Ken. He got there pretty quickly and checked out the tire:

Ken: You’re not missing a lugnut. The cap is off but the lugnut is still there.
Me: So I never have to type the word lugnut again?
Ken: Not if you don’t want to.
Me: What a relief.

Then he started hoiking on my tires, reaching in and rocking them and whatnot, and sending me into full-blown “what if my tire snaps off and the car falls on his arms and dismembers him?” panic attack. The only thing to do at that point was to attempt the drive home with him following me, going 30 shaky kilometres an hour, which is like a little over 18 miles an hour, with our hazard lights on, and people honking at us. It took over 45 minutes. And since it seems like the situation is way more complicated that just “having a look when my tires are off”, our mechanic neighbour is going to take it to his shop tomorrow. (Update: he looked at it in the driveway and immediately realized that my brake calliper had seized).

So like I said, every time things seem like they’re going well, and I finally feel a little ahead financially, one of the cars breaks down. But at least I have a new cool swear word to use: “Aw, lugnut.”

Gonedaddy

Last Thursday marked an anniversary for me. But not one that should ever be celebrated; one that taught me an important lesson. A year ago, I opened my inbox and saw an email from Godaddy, a domain hosting service. The email said, “Your domain is about to renew.” And I said, “Nice try, ‘Godaddy’. How stupid do you think I am? I’m not falling for your scam!” I vaguely remembered looking into their services years ago when I was thinking of changing blog platforms, but how dare they try to pilfer money from me! Smug in my own competency, I went to Godaddy and cancelled my account with them as retribution for their fake “you owe us money” trick. They sent me a follow up email but I ignored it and put it in ‘trash’.

About half an hour later, it was time to set up the next day’s authors, so I clicked on the shortcut to the DarkWinter Press and Lit Mag website, which is a WIX website, and I got a message:

This page no longer exists.

I tried again, using a different link and got the same result. Then my blood ran cold. I messaged my neighbour, who set up the website and still does web management for me when I need it:

Me: Hey. Um. Do we use Godaddy for anything?

Neighbour: Yes, it’s the hosting platform for your website.

Me: But my website is on WIX…

Neighbour: Right, but you need Godaddy to find it, remember? We discussed this.

Me (panic rising): Oh, ok. So if I, for some bizarre reason, happened to cancel my Godaddy account…?

Neighbour: You would have deleted your website. You didn’t do that, did you?!

Me: OMG WHAT HAVE I DONE??!!

Over two years of content—poof, and it was all my stupid fault. I started to cry. The only thing to do, my neighbour suggested, was to call Godaddy and see if they could help. I had my doubts, given my “cancel my account now, muthafukka” attitude. It took a few minutes to get through, at which point I was full on sobbing. A woman finally answered, and I managed to explain between sobs what had happened. “Please help me, I’m so sorry, I’ll do anything,” I told her, expecting that it was irreversible. But no. “Don’t worry,” she said. “This happens more often than you think. We have the whole site archived. If you pay the renewal and an additional $25 for the retrieval, we can get it back up in a couple of hours.” And let me tell you, I would have paid a hell of a lot more than that. I’ve never been so relieved in my life. Ironically, the woman’s name was Angel. And sure enough, a couple of hours later, when I clicked my shortcut, DarkWinter immediately appeared like a beautiful beacon in the dim light of my office, just like an angel said it would.

Which is why, last Thursday when I saw the renewal notice, I smiled, nodded, and whispered, “You Godaddy.”

In other news, if you didn’t see my special post from yesterday, let me reiterate that my new short story collection, Dark Nocturnes, was just released. I’m still over the moon and if you want to buy it, here’s the link: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0DY8B6C1K?tag=a_fwd-20&dplnkId=61609a9b-828a-4cb0-aa8f-eed2f61e7541&nodl=1

Go Westie, Young Man

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

1) Martha Stewart for Pretty Litter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2) Scotties Tissue

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

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

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

3) Dove Whole Body Deodorant

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

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

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

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

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

Harmony; Smatterings of Cerulean

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

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

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

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

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

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

Squirrel! Part Deux

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Step into the shadows and explore the hidden corners of existence in Suzanne Craig-Whytock’s captivating collection Dark Nocturnes, where ordinary lives intertwine with extraordinary circumstances, where the line between reality and fantasy blurs with each turn of the page. Wander through the echoing corridors of old manor houses and deep forests, explore hidden rooms and cavernous antique markets, dance with menacing marionettes and life-size dolls. Lyrical, haunting, and occasionally humorous, Dark Nocturnes is a collection of thirty-two stories that explore joy and sorrow, gratitude and grief, and hatred and desire. Open the cover, feast on the stories inside…and if you’re lucky, Mr. Death just might show up for dessert.”