Travel

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.”

Squirrel!!

Last week, Ken’s 2011 GMC Terrain finally bit the dust. It had already had a complete engine rebuild a couple of years ago, but the repairs it needed now were too expensive to consider keeping it on the road. Thus began the search for another vehicle. We didn’t want something new—Ken used the Terrain as an all-purpose trailer-hauling, cargo-carrying, dog-transporting workhorse, so anything fancy was out of the question (and as an aside, let me tell you that we can’t even SAY the word ‘car’ in our house without Atlas losing his mind—he thinks going for a car ride, even to our local hardware store two minutes away, is cause for tremendous crying, leaping, and swooning. He’s adorable, and also VERY good. He always has a safety go before he leaps in, and once he’s actually in the back, he stays put. Also, a safety go is when you pee even if you don’t need to, just in case. I don’t know if men do that, but a lot of women I know, myself included, ALWAYS do it.)

Anyway, we had to start looking for another vehicle. We test drove one—a 2017 Terrain (but Ken was leery about more engine problems), and then we looked at a 2015 Chevy Traverse. We’d pretty much decided on the Traverse and headed to the car lot to move forward on it, but no one was around, so we headed next door to a different car lot. There was a fully loaded 2016 Dodge Journey there, and after test driving it, we decided it was the right vehicle. So on Thursday, we made an appointment to put down a deposit and fill in the paperwork. And that’s when the fun started. Because the guy who owns this lot—he’s fairly young, and very nice and smart, and COMPLETELY OUT OF CONTROL. This is what went down:

Car Guy: Hey, good to see you. I stink. My dad’s dog got sprayed by a skunk and my dad doesn’t smell so the dog went all over the house and do you know how to get skunk out of a suede couch because the dog was laying all over it and—hey, it’s really cold in here. (gets up and leaves the room). I don’t think the furnace is working, which is weird because it was fine yesterday, but who knows, anyway how much did you want to put down as a deposit?

Ken: We were thinking five hun—

Car Guy: (gets up and leaves the room and continues talking) Sometimes the thermostat gets stuck and you have to turn it off and then on again…oh wait, do you hear something, like it’s firing up? Once, I came in and it was like minus 5 in here. Wow, I really smell, sorry about that, but I couldn’t even put the dog outside because it’s so cold. (comes in and sits back down). So here’s the report on the Dodge. It’s pleasantly boring, which means it’s been well taken care of and I should probably be asking more for it but there you go. Did you want new plates?

Ken: Yes, the old ones are kind of peeling—

Car Guy: But it’s okay because I really rely on volume sales, which is why my cars are all so cheap, like I just LOVE buying stuff so if I can move things out fast, then I can buy more, You see that 2005 Toyota over there? I picked it up this morning, got two grand on it but someone will buy it—the mileage is only like 45 000k. Crazy, right? Hey, do you think the exhaust pipe for the furnace might be blocked?

(At which point, he and Ken go outside to investigate while I sit there shivering in my winter coat. After a few minutes, they come back and Car Guy is carrying an empty Tupperware container. It’s not clear why. It never becomes clear.).

Me: Did you find the pipe? (Ken shrugs).

Car Guy: No. Maybe. I’m not sure. Anyway, I think I’m just gonna have to put the dog in the shower with some of that stuff, whaddaya call it?

Me: Skunk Off?

Car Guy: Yeah, although that might smell worse than the skunk. Does it sound like the furnace is on yet? (leaves room to fiddle with thermostat). Anyway, let’s get that paperwork done (phone rings). Hello, Honest T’s. The Journey? Sorry, man, it just sold, like literally just now, but hey, I have a 2012, come on by and see. (hangs up). Wow, you guys have great timing. If you could just initial here and here and sign here…okay now we have to go into the other office where the debit machine is, but it’s warmer in there. I just have to go to the bathroom first because I’m seriously dying. Hey Ray! Can you get the ladder and go onto the roof to see if the furnace pipes are up there? Be right back guys.

We were there for over an hour, just to sign some paperwork. But I can’t complain because it was the most hilarious hour I’ve spent in a long time, just listening to him. We pick up the Journey this coming Thursday, so I’ll let you know if he still smells like skunk—and if he finally got the furnace going.

Recent Movements

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve been having a harder time getting over jetlag. I’m fine going overseas–I can stay up as long as I need to and then my body adjusts to a new clock. But on the way home–it takes weeks before I readjust. And a certain bodily function seems to have a clock of its own, one that takes forever to revert back to regular movement, and has been waking me up in the middle of the night, telling me it’s actually morning. If you don’t know what I’m talking, the following will soon make it clear.

Today’s topic is something that we’re all very aware of. We do it every day. We were fascinated by it as children—in fact, some children like to make art with it. As adults, we examine it, consider it, pretend it never happened, or fixate on it, but we rarely discuss it. It goes by many names: dump, turd, doodie, dingleberry, fudgebunny, rosebud, or in my own family’s case, trump (which makes sense, considering…) Yes, I’m talking about poop. Admit it—we all, in our own way, are interested in this subject, at least our OWN subject. Most people really don’t care to think about other people’s sh*t—well, their LITERAL sh*t anyway. In fact, most people are FAR too interested in other people’s figurative sh*t for their own good, and are always happy to express their opinions on things that never concern them.

At any rate, I’ve come to realize that I may just be weirdly interested in poop. It started years ago, when I was in the hospital after having major surgery. In the bathroom, there was a chart that had images of different kinds of poop on it, and descriptions of what each one meant. Like there was the “normal” poo that looked like a sleek log, then there was the bulky poo that looked like really long, dry cookie dough and was described as “a sausage shape with cracks in the surface”, which meant the person was somewhat dehydrated. (If you’re interested in more of this, just google “Bristol Stool Chart”—I know you’re saying out loud “No way”, but we both know you’ll secretly look at it). Then, a few years ago, I saw a giant poo in the doorway of a defunct sushi restaurant in town. Right away, I was like “Whoa! That’s the biggest poo I’ve ever seen! Also, its owner needs to drink more fluids.” Later, it was still there and I tried to point it out to a friend, but she was like “No! You need to stop. I do NOT want to see an unhomed person’s poop.” I realize some people are just really uncomfortable with random feces, but this was like World Record stuff—it literally haunted my thoughts for days, and every time I passed the doorway, even though it was long gone, I pondered the size, and diet, of its owner.

Sometimes it occurs to me that just maybe I should keep my fascination with poo to myself, but I can write about whatever the hell I want, and you can judge me, but you can’t argue with the fact that deep in your secret heart, you also think poo is, if not cool, at least interesting and informative. Seriously, nobody is watching as you nod and smile. Or when you look into the toilet in the morning to inspect your offering. The other day, I felt the urge, and afterwards I snuck a peek. My reaction? “Huh. Impressive!” Then I giggled a little, because I said it out loud, but no one else was in the bathroom to hear me.

And please don’t try to tell me that you have never passed judgement on your own sacrifice to the porcelain god, because we all do it. We’ve all gone, “Holy hell! What did I eat yesterday?” or “Why doesn’t corn digest like regular normal food?”, “Alcohol sure does a number on my bowels”, or just “Good one!” I think the world would be a much happier place if we all discussed our poop on a regular basis—after all, no matter what colour, gender, or religion you are, it’s something we ALL have in common. I was thinking last night about how best to use modern media to bring us all together via bodily waste and I came up with a TV show that would address the issue :

A beach scene. People in uniform milling around. A body lying on the sand. Camera pans to a large poo beneath a palm tree. Cut to Danny.

Danny: It’s not looking good, boss.
Horatio: Tell me what you’ve got, Dann-o.
Danny: Large male, judging by size. Probably a vegan, based on the amount of broccoli and self-righteousness smooth texture. Well-hydrated. Looks like the Number 2 Killer has struck again.
Horatio: (gazes sternly into distance). I’m making the Number 2 Killer my Number 1 priority. He won’t get away with this shit again. Let’s roll.

Camera cuts away and credits roll to the sound of “Squeeze Box” by The Who. The title appears: CSI: Excremental.

I know, right? There’s also a twist on the new Sherlock Holmes drama which I call “Alimentary”. It’s the same basic premise as CSI: Excremental, but with more deductive reasoning:

Sherlock: I’ve come to the conclusion that our victim is indeed a beet farmer.
Watson: How could you possibly know that?
Sherlock: For God’s Sake, Watson—look at the colour of his scat. That slight pink tinge is a dead giveaway. Have I taught you nothing?!

So the next time you secretly poke through your dog’s crap with a stick to see if he ate some tinfoil, or jump with joy at your baby’s ginormous diaper dump, know that you’re not alone. Here’s a vintage cookie jar for you that looks just like the poo emoji.

Third Time Ain’t The Charm

I’m finally back from my European adventure and what a time we had! The cities, the museums, the history—it was all incredible—except for the food. Now, don’t get me wrong—we ate on shore once in Amsterdam (because we were late back to the ship for lunch and they claimed they had ‘no more food’), and it was excellent. No, I’m talking about the food on the ship. Ken and I have done quite a few cruises and we’ve never had complaints about the food, but this time neither of us (and none of the people we talked to) were very happy about it. Let me start with the ‘Angus Ribeye’. It was neither a ribeye, nor was it named Angus. I’m not sure how to describe it. But if you know anything about me at all, you know I love a good steak, so the first night, I was dying to try it. It came—it was mostly fat, but I forgave it because the dessert was cheesecake and that was awesome. Three nights later, I ordered the Angus Ribeye again on the grounds that the first one was just a bad cut. Again, it was mostly fat. But the dessert was chocolate mousse and it was great. Most of the other nights, the food was blandly non-offensive, but on our last night, I was determined. We sat with a mother and son duo quite often and when the son found out I was going for steak number 3, he was appalled:

Ron: You’re not serious. You’re ordering it AGAIN?!
Me: It can’t always be terrible. Third times the charm.
Ron: Okay, but you’re nuts.

Ron was right. It was horrible the third time as well. Another passenger, a dirty old guy who was always a) talking non-stop and b) hitting on all the younger women in front of his wife, was shocked when I told him I thought the food was bad:

Dirty Old Guy: What did you order?
Me: The so-called Angus Ribeye.
Dirty Old Guy: Really? I had that the other night. It was great—at least the half I could eat was great…
Me: I rest my case.

The most notable and weird dish I was served was the Taco Salad one day at lunch. The menu said “Iceberg lettuce, crushed nacho chips, cheese, and salsa, with a Ranch dressing. I ordered it. A giant bowl was placed in front of me. It was an entire head of iceberg lettuce, sliced into 3 huge sections. On top of it was a smattering of nacho crumbs, no cheese, a tablespoon of salsa in the corner and a little runny dressing. I looked at it, then I looked at the waiter:

Me: I don’t know how to eat this.
Waiter: I know, Madam. I’ll get you the grilled salmon.

Anyway, aside from a few subpar meals, everything else was wonderful, but wow, am I ever happy to be home.

In other news, as promised, I have faithfully recreated one of the paintings that we saw in the Museum of Contemporary Art. Below, you’ll find a photo of my painting and a photo of the original. Which one is the copy? Bonus marks if you know the original artist:

I hope you appreciate my efforts—it took me almost an hour. I just wish I got the same kind of money for MY paintings as the original artist—then I could have Angus Ribeye every night.

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!

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.

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?”

Moving On, Thankfully

It’s been an absolute whirlwind of a week. Our daughter and her boyfriend had agreed with their landlord that if he could find a tenant by the end of August, they would move out early and not have to pay September rent, and live with us for a couple of months while they looked for work closer to home. Which was all fine and good, but the landlord called them on TUESDAY AFTERNOON to tell them he’d found a tenant. And so it began. First thing, finding a rental moving truck on the busiest end of the month/long weekend/students returning to university in Canada. After several calls and being told that nothing was available, we managed to get a truck in a city on the way to their apartment, which was around 4 hours away from us. Second thing, figuring out the driving—Ken would drive the truck back, Kate’s boyfriend would load up his vehicle with boxes, and Kate and I would drive her car back. We got to their place at 4 pm on Wednesday and started frantically packing. Ken and I had a hotel room for the night, and we got up early to go back and finish. By noon on Thursday, the entire place was cleared and Ken was on his way in the moving truck, having taken a head start since he would have to drive more slowly. I’m no use with heavy lifting thanks to my bad shoulder, so I spent the time packing up the kitchen and cleaning the apartment.

By 1 pm on Thursday, the landlord ( a very nice man) came, oohed and ahhed at how clean everything was (YOU’RE WELCOME, CHILDREN) and we were on our way. Or were we???

45 minutes outside of the city we’d just left, we were in heavy traffic when an alarm sounded…

Me: The car says it’s turned the air conditioning off because the engine is very hot!
Kate: Weird. I’m sure it’s fine. It’s a hot day and we’re just crawling along. Put down the windows.

2 minutes later…

Me: The car says the engine is overheating and to switch to idle!
Kate: We should pull over.

The car was toast. And there we were, alongside the busiest highway in Ontario, transport trucks zipping by, almost 4 hours from home. I called our roadside assistance:

Me: I need some help. Our car has broken down on the 401 West.
Dispatcher: We’ll send someone out. Under your plan, the driver can tow you up to 10 kilometres—every additional kilometre will be $4.50. He will be there in approximately 132 minutes.
Me: WHAT?

And this is when I went into full blown panic mode. And for me, that doesn’t mean freaking out externally—it means I go into complete silent shutdown. How the f*ck were we going to get home? I was too upset to even cry. Then I got a text message that the driver was on his way, and that he would actually be there in 30 minutes. We could track him in an app and sure enough, he arrived in under 30. When the driver, a really young guy, looked at the car, he shook his head and said he couldn’t tell what was wrong, like maybe we needed oil or maybe it could be more complicated, like a part. We checked the nearest garages on google maps, and they were all over 10km away. I’d resigned myself to paying the extra charge to get towed to a repair shop, Uber to a car rental, and do the 4 hour drive another day for the car, when suddenly the driver said, “Hey—if you call right now and ask to upgrade your plan to Premium, I can tow you all the way home if it’s under 320 km.” AND IT WAS 297.4 KM. I immediately called and paid for the upgrade, and we were on our way, Kate in the tow truck passenger seat and me in the back on a bench seat with no seatbelts, but he assured me that “it was safe.”

And you know what? It was a long drive but we had a great time. He stopped at a roadside service centre for a bathroom break and snacks, we made fun of personalized license plates that we saw on the road, and he played very cool techno music. He got us home in under 5 hours (the traffic going through Toronto was horrifying) and dropped us and the car at our literal door. I gave him a huge tip, rest assured, and then Kate and I both collapsed into the arms of our loved ones.

So while this post might not be as funny as usual, and maybe not even funny at all, it’s full of gratitude for the guy who drove us almost 300 kilometres and then had to drive back home himself. And yes, he said it was fine because he got paid by the hour, but he could have just towed us to a garage and left us there to figure it out. He didn’t, and for that I’m truly thankful.