Humour

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.

It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like…?

We’re officially into the festive season now, and maybe it’s just me, but everywhere I go, things seem to have taken a dark turn. First, there is the incredible abundance of giant inflatable figures that always seem to be either drunk or on the verge of dying. From the Santa on his back on the neighbour’s front lawn, to the Snowman who’s half in the bag, to the Vixen that looks like it’s trying to hump Rudolph, the town’s decorations have decidedly gone over to the dark side–or to OnlyFans. And it’s no better online. After perusing Facebook marketplace for some cool deals, I discovered that even there, people are having a bleak midwinter. Case in point:

Why would ANYONE hang something like this on a tree?! Talk about Silent Night, Hole-y Night. But then there are the wings, which are so pretty and delicate, like someone STAPLED DEAD BUTTERFLIES to these creatures…I guess there are some goth families who’d love to decorate like The Nightmare Before Christmas, but me? I prefer vintage blown glass to a bony ass.

And of course, why dress up as Santa Claus and bring joy to the children when you can put on a Skibidi Toilet costume?

I read the description and yes, it seems to be in English but I’m unfamiliar with many of the terms so I had to look them up. “Skibidi” can mean either “good, cool, bad, or evil” according to the interweb. I’m going to let you decide which one it is in this context but you can probably imagine what I’M leaning towards. “Rizz” is apparently “charisma”, and I’m not sure how charismatic you can actually be with a toilet on your head. And please, I’m begging you–don’t look up Dom Dom. I did, and both Atlas and I are scarred for life. Finally, I think the person selling this isn’t very confident that people will understand it’s a costume and not HIM because the ad uses the word “inflatable” or a variation thereof, FOUR times in one short ad. Yes, we get that it’s INFLATABLE. And either child-sized or one size fits most…

And finally, here’s the most terrifying thing of all. When you think of the choir eternal, does this ever cross your mind?

Whatever happened to winged cherubs, or lovely children in choral robes? No, this is what we’ve come to–a choir of robot babies who all look like they’re about to feast on your flesh instead of the fruit cake you’ve been diligently soaking with rum for days. Why the hell does ANYONE have this many baby CPR dolls and WHAT ARE THEY SINGING?! It’s most likely a cacophony of screams from one of the circles of hell instead of O Hole-y Night.

And speaking of the bowels of hell…

Last week, as if it wasn’t enough that I was interviewed on the CBC (Canada’s national network), I had the honour and privilege of doing an interview and reading on Reader’s Delight, a local radio show. And while the show is terrific, the radio station is in the bowels of a derelict factory building that is most assuredly haunted. Here are some pictures of the halls.

Just around the corner though, is a clothing store and I can’t even imagine who shops there. But if you want to hear me read from my new work-in-progress, Murder Most Novel (the one I got the grant to write), you can listen to it here!

Knocking It Off

One of the nice things about having an antiques and collectibles business is that I get to go shopping frequently. Thrift shopping to be exact. I’ve always been a thrifter, ever since I was a teen and the trend with my friend group was vintage 50s clothing done up in ‘New Wave’ style. The only place to get things like that was, of course, second hand shops. There were some good ones locally, like The Recovery Room, and then of course, there were more than you could count in Toronto, particularly in Kensington Market. One of my favourites was a place called ‘Courage, My Love’, even though I could only make the trek there by Greyhound once in a blue moon, living an hour and a half away from the big city. Now of course, I can go wherever I want, being a grown-ass adult with a car. And also, there are a lot more thrift stores now than ever—Goodwill, the Sally Ann, Talize, and of course, Value Village. A lot of my buying and selling lately has been around vintage and designer handbags and accessories, so wasn’t I THRILLED this past week when I went over to the showcase in Goodwill (the showcase is where they put all the stuff that they THINK is valuable—often it’s not, but it’s still worth taking a look) and lo and behold, there was a set of Louis Vuitton baby clothes, brand new, in the original box for only $14.99! Did I buy it? You’re darn tootin’ I did. And I was feeling pleased as punch with myself for finding such a treasure, even though I was pretty sure it was a knock-off set. But then, I always price things very reasonably and never make the claim that anything is REAL Louis Vuitton unless I can validate the date code. The baby set though—who the heck would ever know? It was adorable, and looked real in every way…until I closely read the description of the articles contained therein:

Now, Louis Vuitton is a French brand, so I can imagine that they could afford proper translations of their products. I mean, ‘trousers’—okay, that’s what some people MIGHT call them, but ‘Jacket For Body’? I was starting to suspect that this set was produced somewhere other than France. By the time I got to ‘Mankerchief’, I was 90% certain that hands rather than les mains had produced this set. ‘Bip’ proved to be the death knell for my excitement. Then I looked more closely at the box (Narrator: she finally put on her reading glasses instead of squinting) and in the bottom corner of the box, there was a small logo that said, ‘Turkey’. And I don’t know whether that meant the set was made in Turkey or whether a turkey reverse-engineered the descriptions into English, but either way, the re-sell price dropped significantly. Still, someone out there isn’t going to care about the packaging and will dress their baby, or their dog, or their teddy bear, in a really adorable mankerchief, body with coordinating jacket for body, and beret, and everyone will say, “Ooh fancy!” Or “Ooh, with a whirl way!”

In other news, I have to go into work early to help set up the Santa Photo Booth (for all ages including pets) so I’ll catch up with you later and yes I love my job. Then I’ll be on the radio reading from my new work in progress, Murder Most Novel. I just received a grant to write the rest of it so I better get cracking!

I’m Not The Problem

Last Monday, it was my birthday. I’m at that age now where I don’t need to celebrate too intensely—in fact, some days I’d rather just forget about it, no problem. But my family is wonderful and makes sure that it’s always a memorable occasion, and this year was no different. However, based on my gifts, I’m starting to think that maybe everyone ELSE thinks that I have a problem.

It started on Saturday, when my parents came out to visit and brought me a gift. It was a lovely bottle of wine. On Sunday, because Ken and I were going to Toronto on my actual birthday to attend a poetry reading by one of my wonderful authors, Bill Garvey, as well as an upcoming poet Paul Edward Costa, we had my birthday party. I got home from work at my new weekend job at the best bookstore in the province, the Riverside Bookshelf, and Ken announced that he, Kate, and Max had prepared a Scavenger Hunt for me, Clue style. I started in the kitchen with the following clue:

The ‘smallest rooms’? Obviously one of the bathrooms, but I was immediately chastised:

Me: There’s nothing in this bathroom—let me check the other one…
Ken: Bathroom?! It says ‘smallest ROOMS’! Come on!
Me: Oh wait—my miniatures!

Sure enough, there was a present there on the shelf between my conservatory and dining room—a lovely bottle of wine. Then I got the second clue:

I ran up to our bedroom and sure enough—a lovely bottle of wine was nestled against my pillow. Carrying two bottles of wine in hand, I ran to the cat tree as per the next clue:

…and Ilana was snuggled against yet another lovely bottle of wine. The Scavenger Hunt continued for 3 more clues, each culminating in increasingly more lovely bottles of wine. Total so far: 7 bottles of wine. (We also played an actual game of Clue, and I finally won—it was Mrs. Peacock in the dining room with the wrench) and by the end, I was quite tipsy.

The next day, we headed to Toronto to my brother’s house with the intention of leaving our car there and taking the subway to the poetry reading. My brother, who has a Ph.D., wasn’t home, but he messaged that he’d left my birthday present on the counter in his kitchen. We arrived, and I went straight for the gift bag, which contained…3 lovely bottles of wine. Final count: 10 bottles of wine.

Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. I LOVE wine, and I was THRILLED by my gifts, and that is no lie. I will drink them over the next few weeks and silently thank each person for understanding me so well. But is it TOO WELL? I asked Ken:

Me: Am I that much of a wino?
Ken: Of course not—people just know what you like.
Me (taking a sip of lovely wine and sighing): They really do.

And then of course, it was Thursday, and I did what any normal person would do—I bottled a batch of wine with my dad. Cheers!

In other news, yes, I recently started a weekend job at a local bookstore so I’m living the dream. Except for the part where I have to leave the delightful coziness of my bed on a Sunday morning and go somewhere. Still, it’s a bookstore, so there’s that.

It Takes A Village

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

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

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

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

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

It All Comes Out In The Wash

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Will never launder his passport and is very sweet.

The Unique Kingdom

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

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

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

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

Husband: Happy anniversary, darlingest!

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

Husband: Anything for you, sweet angel!

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

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

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

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

Tweet Tweet, Twiddle Twiddle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Present and Accounted For

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

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

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

Here are some of my favourites:

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

Kennedy – flaming arrow to the chest

Zack – burned in a public place on a giant pyre

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

Jimmy – killed fighting a bear

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

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

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

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

Contest Winners; Quince-A-Rama

Contest Winners; Quince-A-Rama

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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