Relationships

Deer Me

I’m feeling particularly lucky to be here right now after what almost happened to us last week. Ken and I were coming back from a family get together—it was dark and we were on a rural road, chatting and looking forward to being home. Ken was driving my little Sonic since he claims it gets “better mileage” but I think he just likes the turbo engine. There were no other cars on the road so we had the high beams on. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement ahead on the opposite side of the road and then I realized what it was and screamed “OMG, stop!!” But it was too late to stop, and as I continued to scream “Deer!!!F*ck!!!”, Ken slammed on the brakes and simultaneously cranked the wheel to the right. As we started to skid sideways towards the gravel shoulder, the head of the giant buck running across the road was next to our hood, so close that I could see the panic in its eyes, and as we slid past it, I could have sworn I heard its hoof click against my back bumper. The buck, and the doe following it, continued running and made it safely to the forest they were heading for. We sat there a minute, catching our breath—or Ken was, because I was hyperventilating so badly that I couldn’t breathe. It was TERRIFYING.

And here’s why I’m lucky. First, Ken had just gotten hearing aids. So when I initially screamed, he clearly heard me instead of responding by looking at me and asking, “What?” Let me tell you, these are top of the line, super fancy hearing aids too—he can answer his cell phone by tapping them, listen to music, and they even monitor his heart rate and the number of steps he takes every day. The problem is that HE can talk on the phone with them just fine, but for the person he’s talking to, usually me, it’s torture because they pick up the slightest noise and amplify it by a thousand. The other day, I called him from my car and we were chatting when suddenly this horrific noise almost split my eardrums.

Me: What the hell was that?!
Ken: What? And of course, I’m not asking you to repeat yourself, just asking what you’re talking about.
Me: That noise! What was it?
Ken: I just zipped up my coat…?
Me: Don’t do it again!

And the second reason why I’m lucky is that, when I screamed, Ken didn’t question it, didn’t hesitate for the fraction of a second that might have made the difference between surviving and ending up in the hospital with a car that would have been written off. And also, we didn’t kill any deer, which was also nice for the deer. I just hope Ken applies the same standard of behaviour the next time I need another glass of wine instead of saying, “What? Hang on a minute.”

In other news, Ken and I are leaving this afternoon for Germany. We fly out at 6 pm–let’s just hope our plane doesn’t encounter any reindeer. See you next week!

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 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.

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!

Tiny Me

It’s been another crafty week at the mydangblog household. First, you may remember the peel and stick wallpaper that Ken and I used to create the illusion of a bookcase door which leads to our secret library? Well, it’s not much of an illusion when it starts to fall off the panel attached to the door (as if the illusion wasn’t already problematic based on the size, and worse, the bizarre titles of the books on the peel and stick bookcase—Dawn Fly Stuff is still my favourite and you can read about all the rest in a previous post called Lost In Translation). But my tremendous disappointment at the less than sticky stickers was relieved when Ken said, “I have a great idea—I’ll get some trim and moulding and tack it all down with actual wood that looks like a bookshelf.” And that’s what he did. It looks even better than it did before the books all started to fall off, especially since the giant fake candle sconces in the middle are now hidden. But of course, the trim had to all be painted the same colour. Which I volunteered to do before I realized that I would have to use painter’s tape to protect the books in EVERY SINGLE SQUARE. It took me 3 minutes to paint the trim. It took me OVER AN HOUR to tape it all up. Still, at the end of the whole process, I think it looks even more realistic than it did before, and the stickers so far are staying stuck.

And then, because I was in A MOOD, I decided to tackle my new miniature room, and for the record, let me just clarify that it’s a miniature room, NOT A DOLL HOUSE because that’s a road that, as much as I’d love to go down, is also a rabbit hole that I may never emerge from. But last week, before we went to that awards banquet, I made Ken stop at an antique market up north because I had seen a Facebook post from one of their vendors who specializes in miniatures. Not only him, as it turns out—this place is the MECCA for tiny things and I was super-excited by what I bought, I mean, I got a cute little HARP among other things. I’d been thinking about it all for several days and rearranging things on the counter and looking for ephemera and whatnot, so after our secret library door success, Ken built me a box and I started the room. It turned out even better than I’d hoped and I’m so happy with it. Ken took a look when I was finished though:

Me: What do you think?
Ken (silently calculating): There are 3 clocks in this room.
Me: Of course there are 3 clocks. How else will Tiny Me know what time it is?
Ken: None of the clocks work.
Me: Tiny Me is aware, KEN. Time is a construct.
Ken: That…doesn’t make any sense.
Me: It’s my room—Tiny Me can have as many clocks as she wants!
Ken: Okay, Susab.

In case you’re confused, ‘Susab’ was the name on my place card at the awards banquet we went to. So to recap—they spelled my last name wrong on the press release, they had ‘Susan’ on the seating chart, and then ‘Susab’ on the place card. No wonder I didn’t win—they didn’t even know who I was! I should have just told them to use Tiny Me.

The Most Dangerous Game

Here’s something that I recently discovered. Anyone who thinks that today’s young generation is coddled, babied, overprotected, love luxury and all those things that people have liked to sling around ever since Socrates have obviously never seen 13 year-olds play lacrosse. I had the distinct pleasure of doing this on Friday night as we went to watch our nephew in a local tournament. Now, our nephew is an athletic kid, slim build, and as we stood in the bleachers watching the team enter the arena, I couldn’t figure out which one was him:

Me: He’s one of the goalies, right?
Ken: Yeah…the goalies are over there.
Me: But neither of them could be him—they’re both HUGE.
Ken: I think they wear a lot of padding.

A lot of padding is an understatement—it was indeed my nephew and he looked like he had several couch cushions hidden underneath his uniform. I was trying to figure out how on earth a goalie could move around in equipment like that, then I saw the actual net, and it was only marginally wider than the kid in it, so it looked like not a lot of moving was actually required. And what was even weirder is that none of the other kids, the ones who weren’t goalies, were wearing ANY padding at all. Okay, I thought—I guess they get really violent with the goalie, shooting the ball at him hard and whatnot, but they must have a LOT of rules to protect the other kids. And then they started playing, and I was like, what the actual f*ck?? I mean, I coached high school senior rugby for several years and it’s a pretty aggressive game, but I swear, 13 year-old lacrosse players are MANIACS. They were whacking each other with sticks, knocking each other onto the concrete, shoving, tripping, tackling—it was unreal—at one point, there were four players in the penalty box, 3 from the other team and 1 from our side. My nephew’s team won something like 16-1 but they have a mercy rule (the irony of which has not escaped me) so they only show the score up until 8. And then, when the final whistle blew, they all shook hands like it was no big thing that they had just survived The Hunger Games.

After he got his equipment off and we hauled several large cushion bags to the car, we took him for some fast food:

Me: That was pretty violent.
Nephew: Yeah. The other team was playing a little dirty though. And the refs weren’t calling very many penalties.
Me: You mean they could have called MORE? So you’re not actually allowed to take your lacrosse stick and slam it into the back of another player?
Nephew: If they don’t have the ball, you shouldn’t.

And the best part was that I had the whole thing completely backwards—the goalie is the one LEAST likely to get hurt because no one is allowed to go into the inner crease plus the goalie is dressed like a giant mattress and everything just bounces off him. Well, off my nephew. Not the other goalie, who let in 16 goals. As my nephew succinctly pointed out, “Their defence sucked.” But their offense? That was killer. Literally.

Ring A Ding Ding

Last Monday, I was getting ready for work. The last step is usually to put on all my rings before I head out the door. I love rings—I wear them on five different fingers and both thumbs (great for drumming along to songs on my steering wheel) and I’d like to wear them on all my fingers but I think we all agree that would be overkill. Most of them are sterling silver bands of different types, and over the years, Ken has treated me to a couple of Tiffany’s sterling bands, which are my pride and joy. So I was putting on my rings, and I fumbled the last one. It fell, hit the edge of the cupboard, landed on the floor and rolled towards the kitchen island. “Ah damn!” I muttered as I dropped to my knees, just as the ring disappeared under the edge of the island. But the island has skirting board surrounding it, so I wasn’t too concerned—just scoop it back up and put it on, right? But when I peered under the edge of the island, it was nowhere to be seen. I was perplexed—had it careened off the skirting board and ended up somewhere else? Time was getting tight—I never leave for work a second before I have to, and any delay will make me very late. So I did what any normal person would do—I yelled for Ken:

Me: I need help!
Ken (loping down from upstairs): What’s wrong?
Me: My ring—the one that looks like a laurel wreath—rolled under the island and now it’s gone. Can you help me look?

He looked under the island and couldn’t see it either. Then he scoured the kitchen with me, shaking out rugs, moving aside furniture—no ring. He pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight to look under the island again.

Ken: There’s a hole under here from when we moved the sink to the other end.
Me: THAT hole? No way it’s big enough for a ring to fall down. I mean what are the chances that a ring could roll across the floor in a perfect line towards that hole and then manage to fall down it without getting stuck? (Puts finger in hole) See, my finger barely fits and I’m doing it on purpose. A ghost took it. That’s the only explanation. I have to go to work—can you stand in the middle of the kitchen and yell “Give it back!” for me?
Ken: The hole goes down into the basement. I’ll take a look and call you if I see it.

On the drive to work, I was pretty distraught. It was one of my favourite rings and fairly expensive, and after about ten minutes, I pre-emptively called Ken.

Me: Did you find it?
Ken: Maybe…
Me: Where are you?
Ken: The basement. You know the old cistern down there? I think I see something glinting in the far corner of it.
Me: Oh no! How can we get it out?
Ken: The only thing I can do is climb up over the wall and crawl into the cistern.
Me: What?! Wait until I get home.
Ken: No, it’s okay. Give me a minute—I need a broom to sweep away all the cobwebs and then I’ll get the ladder. I’ll call you back.
Me: I’m not hanging up until you’re out of the cistern!

And then he put the phone in his pocket. I could hear the muffled sounds of him moving around, the ladder being brought into the house, and then a lot of clanging and grunting. Then “I got it!”

Me: It WAS my ring?! OMG. Wait, are you out of the cistern yet?
Ken: No, I put my phone on the ledge. I must have been in here before because there’s a milk crate by the wall that I can stand on to get out. Give me a sec…sh*t, I’m stuck!
Me: What?!! Hang on honey, I’m turning around and coming home!
Ken (laughing): Just kidding. I’m out. And I have your ring. I can’t believe it fell through that tiny hole and ended up in the cistern. Good job it was dry.

Good job, indeed. And now, I can never get mad at him again. I mean, he CRAWLED INTO A COBWEBBY BASEMENT CISTERN for me.

In other news, since Ken and I both got so invested in the miniatures show I told you about last week, for Valentine’s Day, Ken got me one of those Book Nook kits and let me tell you—it’s the best thing ever. This one is a little bookstore, and we just finished building it. It’s quite addictive–in fact, I’ve already ordered another one, and if things go well, I might be auditioning for Best In Miniature Season 4.

A Colourful Little Number

You may remember me telling you that in December, I submitted my humour book What Any Normal Person Would Do to a fairly prestigious competition, The Leacock Medal for Humour. I was worried that my books wouldn’t be received by the deadline, since I’d decided so late in the year to submit, but I got notified that they’d made it safely into the hands of the judges. As part of the competition, every entrant gets put on the website along with the title of their submission, a headshot, and a biography. My headshot was really cute, featuring me wearing a black leather vest just to give me a little bit of a bad-ass vibe. I know I probably don’t stand a chance because Rick Mercer published ANOTHER book last year, and there are quite a few other famous Canadian humourists from huge publishing houses on the list. But still, I was excited to see myself on the website. I went there last week and called up the list. I scanned. I scanned. I continued scanning, but I wasn’t worried because I assumed that since it wasn’t in any kind of alphabetical order that I could discern, then it must be in the order that submissions were received. And then finally, I found myself:

Me: OMG. You won’t guess where I am on the list!
Ken: At the very top.
Me: I love how supportive you are, but no!
Ken: Where are you then?
Me: Number 69!!

And it just seemed so damned appropriate that a weirdo like me with the most absurd sense of humour would be NUMBER 69. I laughed my ass off and then I did what any normal person would do—I posted it on Facebook. And it’s a credit to my friends that only ONE person even remarked upon it. I had 88 likes and 39 comments and NONE of them aside from the first person mentioned it at all! I mean, the congratulations were wonderful, but I hadn’t posted it to brag or anything—I just thought it was outrageously funny, and then I felt dumb because no one else did, and then I was worried that I might have offended people and they were too nice to say anything about it. But then I went to get a tattoo and I was telling my tattoo artist about the whole thing:

Me: And I’m on the list…at number 69.
Tattoo Guy: WHAT? Bwah haha! That’s hilarious! Of all the numbers to get, you had to get the dirtiest one!
Me (relieved): I know, right?!
Tattoo Guy: Well, now you’ve got to win.

So yeah. That’s me. Number 69. I feel like I’ve already won.

In other news, Ken and I are still hard at work on transforming one of our bedrooms into a secret library room with the idea of turning the whole back part of the house (bedroom, secret library, and private bathroom) into a Writer’s Retreat that we can rent out. We’ve been doing it on a dime, getting furniture and accessories second-hand and so far haven’t been scammed like we were initially. We got a gorgeous leather loveseat from a lady for fifty bucks on the condition that we also took the sofa, which was badly damaged. But the dump was on our way home, and if you know anything about me, you know I LOVE the dump. But sadly, this was the kind of dump where they watch you ALL THE TIME to make sure you don’t take anything that other people have dumped. How fair is that? Then we finally got the loveseat home only to discover, after Ken and our neighbour made several attempts, that it was too big to go up the stairs. So now, I have a gorgeous leather loveseat in my office on the main floor and my green leather couch is in the new secret library. I hope people appreciate my sacrifice.

He Has A Cute Earring

The other day, my phone rang. I looked at the screen and gasped. “Someone is calling me from Russia!”

Ken: What?
Me: From Russia!
Ken: Prussia?
Me: No! Should I answer?
Ken: Answer what?

And there are two notable things about this whole conversation. First, that I was very panicked. You may or may not remember, but I’ve written extensively in the past about my complicated history with Russia, which began when I mocked them about experimenting with head transplants and then realized that someone from Russia was reading my blog and maybe it was the KGB, and ended when I jokingly offered them some of my body parts for research if they left me alone (at the time, most of the body parts I was willing to part with weren’t very functional so the joke would have been on them). That was the last that I had any Russian readers, according to the WordPress map anyway, and I thought I was in the clear. But now…had they found out about my laser eye surgery? My vision is currently better than 20/20 which makes my eyes a hot commodity. Were they calling in their chit? So I summoned up my courage and answered the phone:

Me: …Hello?
Guy on the other end: Good afternoon, how are you today?
Me: You don’t sound Russian.
Guy: What?
Me: It says you’re calling me from Russia, but you don’t sound Russian.
Guy: I’m not understanding.
Me (emphatically): My phone says you’re calling me from Russia. ARE YOU IN RUSSIA?
Guy: I’m calling to offer you a very special offer on duct cleaning.
Me: How are you going to clean my ducts from Russia? Do you even accept Canadian money or do I have to pay in rubles?
Guy: I…I am not understanding.
Me: Must be a bad connection. Do svidaniya.
Ken: Who was that?
Me: A Russian duct cleaner.
Ken: Ducks?

Which leads me to the second thing. Ken has terrible hearing. He refuses to admit it, but he doesn’t hear half of what I say, and he ignores a lot of the other half. Here’s an example: when he was sick a few weeks ago, I got the thermometer for him so we could see if he had a fever. He put the thermometer in his ear and left it there.

Me: What are you doing? You can take it out now.
Ken: Are you sure?
Me: It beeped.
Ken: I didn’t hear any beeping.
Me: IT BEEPED RIGHT IN YOUR EAR.

And he still wouldn’t admit that he has a hearing problem. But then this past Friday, we went to get the mail, and the only things in our mailbox were letters from TWO different companies offering him a free hearing test.

Me: I think they’re on to you. Maybe it’s time to see how much hearing you’ve lost.
Ken: I didn’t lose it. I just stopped wearing it.
Me: Wearing what?
Ken: An earring. Are you deaf?
Me: Haha. Very a-cute.