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!

Falling For It

Well, it’s almost Christmas and you can tell because the ads on my social media are getting more and more weird. Case in point:

Is it me, or does that dude look a little too excited for his bath time, like maybe it’s also his “special man time”? And he looks almost too large for the bathtub—based on my knowledge of human proportions, where the hell are his legs?! At any rate, a one-person spa is absolutely perfect for me—I already take my own pillow whenever I travel, so now I could take my own bathtub with me. I looked up the translation of the company name and in English it means something like “glamorous water” and isn’t that what bathing is all about—being glamorous in the water? That guy in the ad sure thinks so. And the best part is the ad next to it, which is cut off, but that’s the beautiful irony of it–I looked up “glark” and it literally means “to figure something out from context”. So here’s the challenge: can you glark the glarks?

But I’ve had my ups and downs lately because I keep getting scammed online. First it was a purse company that seemed legitimate until I paid for it and immediately got a message telling me that my item wouldn’t ship until I sent a SCREENSHOT OF MY CREDIT CARD. After a lot of back and forth, they finally agreed to ship the item without the photographs and then sent me a fake invoice with a tracking number button that did nothing. So I contacted my bank and the rep in the Disputes department that I spoke to was very nice and he made me feel better about being so dumb:

Me: I can’t believe I fell for this.
Rep: It happens all the time. If something’s too good to be true, it probably is. What was it that you bought?
Me: A Louis Vuitton purse. I mean, I figured it was fake, but I should have known it was also a rip-off—it was way too cheap.
Rep: No kidding. Those things cost a fortune. And the reason I know that brand is because just last week, I had to deal with a woman who got taken for over $1500 for a pair of Louis Vuitton shoes.
Me: …They make shoes?

But I don’t need their shoes. I just want my fifty bucks back. And then, Ken and I decided that instead of moving, we’d turn one of our bedrooms into a secret library room and doesn’t every secret library room need a tufted leather loveseat? I found a perfect one on Facebook Marketplace and I contacted the seller. He told me it was available and when I asked if we could pick it up on the weekend, he said sure, but that he’d need a deposit to hold it, since he had “so many people interested in it”. And that kind of thing isn’t unusual, and he seemed legit, so I sent a small deposit. And that was the last I heard from him. (I even had a friend contact him pretending to want to buy the couch, and he pulled the same sh*t with her—he refused to give her an address for pick-up until she gave him money up front and when she wouldn’t, he ghosted her.) Again, I contacted the bank, but this time, because my e-transfer was auto-deposited, I couldn’t get it back. We actually called the police and filed a report, and the cop said the same thing, after lecturing me for a while about “overseas scams” and “fake IP addresses”. But the best part was that I (and my friend) reported him to Facebook, and they said they wouldn’t do anything because he hadn’t “violated their terms of service”. You learn your lessons the hard way, I guess. This was my face when I learned that I would be receiving neither a very cute handbag or a very stylish couch:

But never mind all of that. Christmas is almost here, and I have a lot to celebrate, including the fact that my publisher, DarkWinter Press, has submitted my humour book What Any Normal Person Would Do to the Stephen Leacock Medal for Literary Humour. My publisher can be a real pain in the ass and falls for a lot of scams but she’s very thoughtful so I forgive her. (It’s me. I’m the publisher.) Wish me luck! And if you want your own copy (which I just updated and filled with even more funny stuff) it’s available here:

Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays, Happy New Year, and all that great stuff to you and yours!

I’m A Barbie Girl

Last week at work, some of the younger staff decided to dress up for Hallowe’en, and I, never passing by an opportunity to wear a costume, agreed to participate. The theme was Star Trek, but since I didn’t have anything remotely Spock-y, I scoured the closets until I discovered the blonde wig that I had worn in the past to impersonate Taylor Swift. I didn’t actually want to dress AS Taylor Swift, since I’m not that angsty and don’t wear my heart on my sleeve (although that would have been an awesome costume idea in retrospect—blonde wig, red dress, anatomically correct plastic heart tied to my arm oozing fake blood), so I did the next obvious thing. I decided to go as Barbie. But not just ANY Barbie—mostly because I don’t own anything pink. But Ken had a fedora, and I had a vest, so I decided to go as Barbie-Heimer. It was, I admit, decidedly weak when compared to other Barbie-Heimer costumes I’ve seen on the internet, but I thought it was cute. And at work on Hallowe’en, I got a lot of compliments. At a certain point, I stopped calling myself Barbie-Heimer (because most people were confused and didn’t get the reference) and started calling myself the One Of A Kind Barbie, and customers were like, “Oh, that’s adorable.” And I was. Or at least I thought I was.

Close to lunch, a customer I know slightly came in and she was all excited. “The Goodwill up the street has Louis Vuitton handbags! I just bought one, and they have more!” My heart leapt, because as you may or may not know, I am currently obsessed with LV bags since the little fake one I had mysteriously disappeared. I asked my 23-year-old boss if I could take lunch early and I raced over to the Goodwill. Sure enough, there were two Louis Vuitton handbags (replicas, of course) in the showcase for like 25 bucks each, so I took both and lined up to pay. The girl who had gotten them out of the showcase for me looked like she was in her late teens/early twenties, and she was wearing gothic makeup and some kind of spiderwebby costume under her smock:

Me: I like your costume.
Girl: What costume?
Me: Oh nothing. I’m Barbie!
Girl (looks me up and down): No.
Me: You don’t think so?
Girl: Noooo.
Me: I was going for a kind of Barbie/Oppenheimer vibe…
Girl: Hmmm. Ok, maybe.

And while many people might have been offended or upset, I thought it was hilarious and laughed about it all the way back to work, clutching my new fake Louis Vuitton handbags. When I brought them home, I told Ken the story:

Ken: She’s nuts. You look just like a Barbie doll.
Me: I know, right?
Ken: And you’re going to sell the purses, right?
Me: What? No way! Barbie needs designer bags, KEN.

Just Try To Relax

The other day my chronic shoulder pain was worse than usual, so I finally called a local health centre to find out what to do about it. I’ve already run the gamut—physio, massage, shock wave, barbotage, cortisone shots, and I’ve had more ultrasounds than you can imagine, as the calcium deposits in my tendons grow, shrink, turn into kidney stones, and other demonic attacks on my body. I explained my issue to the receptionist, who recommended that I see their consulting chiropractor on Friday morning at 8:30 AM…who the hell does medical appointments that early in the morning?! I’m RETIRED for crying out loud! But I bit the bullet because I really needed to do something about the pain. On Friday morning, I got to the clinic and sat there for a while watching a woman about my age doing some kind of weird exercises with a younger man that I assumed was the chiropractor and I had two thoughts: a) I was NOT doing any kind of exercise that early in the morning even though I WAS wearing yoga pants, but that’s just for show, obviously and b) if the chiropractor suggested chiropractic-ing me, that was going to be a hard pass for a variety of reasons which are too lengthy to go into here. But eventually it was my turn, and the doctor was very nice and not at all pushy about wanting to crack my spine. He actually suggested a course of accupuncture and I agreed. He told me to lay down on the table with my face in a convenient face-shaped hole, then he started putting the needles into my shoulder. It was virtually painless and I couldn’t feel them going in at all. “Everything good?” he asked. I agreed that I was just fine, and then he said, “OK, dear, lie there, close your eyes and just relax.”

RELAX? Did he know who he was talking to? Because this was the order of events that played out in my mind IMMEDIATELY after he walked out of the room:

1) How many needles did he put in? I couldn’t feel them all—was it five? Ten? How does he know when he takes them out that he hasn’t missed one, and when I put my hoodie back on, I’ll get stabbed?!’

2) There has to be some kind of system. Does he have an excel spreadsheet to write down how many needles he puts in so he knows how many to take out? And if he doesn’t have an excel spreadsheet, that would be a good idea. Maybe I should suggest that to him. But then, you’d still need someone else to VERIFY the number of needles because you could very easily miscount.

3) My arm is getting stiff. Is it safe to move it? If I move it, will one of the indeterminate amount of needles shift and stab me?

4) How long do I have to lie here? He didn’t say anything about a time limit. Wait—is he TREATING SOMEONE ELSE RIGHT NOW? I can hear him through the wall—did he forget about me? How long do I wait before I get up and look for him? CAN I get up? What about the needles? What if I got up then tripped and landed on my arm, jamming the needles deeper into my skin?

4) My face hurts. This face hole is stupid and not very face-shaped at all. I might as well close my eyes—all I can see is the carpet anyway…nope—if I close my eyes, all I see is needles.

5) What time is it? Is he ever coming back? I’m going to start counting and when I reach 10 minutes, I’m getting up, finding my phone and calling for help, needles or no needles.

Luckily for everyone, when I reached 4 minutes and 27 seconds, he suddenly opened the door. “How are you feeling now?” he asked, taking out the needles.

“Just fine,” I said, putting my hoodie back on VERY carefully.

And now I have to do this twice a week until the pain starts to go away. Wish me luck.

Mousetrap update: Still no sign of it. We upgraded to a fancy new live trap that we borrowed from my aunt and we caught a big one this morning, but he refused to talk. And now other things are going missing, including my second-favourite handbag, which has apparently vanished from the coatrack by the door, never to be found, as well as an LV makeup bag. So if you see a mouse sporting a fake-but-very-realistic-looking Louis Vuitton mini-Speedy, tell him I’m looking for him–and I’m bringing an indeterminate amount of needles.