Work

Breaking The Mold

Update: I posted the following, and then went to WordPress and saw all the comments–from NOVEMBER 2023! I have no idea what’s going in. I literally couldn’t find any evidence that this post had EVER gone live, until I published it, seemingly for the first time, and discovered that it had, indeed been previously posted, to very great success. I had done keyword searches, looked through all my posts, and nothing. So my only conclusion is that it’s The Pirate’s Revenge!

Every time I look at my list of posts on WordPress, I see one in my drafts folder called Blow Molds. I remember writing it—Ken remembers reading it after I initially wrote it, and it never even occurred to me that I had never posted it. It was supposed to go live on Sunday, November 19 2023. I realized this week after investigating that IT NEVER GOT POSTED AND NONE OF YOU EVER SAID “WHERE IS THIS WEEK’S POST, MYDANGBLOG?!” At any rate, it was really funny, so I’m posting it this week so I hope you enjoy it, even almost 2 years later when I no longer work in an antique market:

It’s gotten quite a lot busier at work lately. First, because the summer construction project that was supposed to finish in September is finally done, and people have actually stopped using the antique market parking lot as a bypass/speedway and are now parking and shopping, and second, because Christmas is coming and everyone buys their Christmas antiques in November. The current trend, carried over from last year is BLOW MOLDS. If you don’t know what a blow mold is, it’s a large plastic figure in the shape of a Santa or a Snowman, made out of plastic which has been blown into a mold—hence the name. They plug in and light up at night, turning your house into a veritable winter wonderland, even if you still don’t have any snow. These things are getting as expensive to buy as ceramic Christmas trees (you know, the ones everybody’s grandma had in the 70s). And the more savvy collectors are looking for the extra, the unique, the really hard-to-find ones. Currently, about the cashier’s counter, we have a giant blow mold Santa in a blow mold sleigh, with a team of blow mold reindeer pulling him. Along the side, it says “Noel”, which already caused a stir because one of the young bosses had apparently never taken French in school and thought that Noel was Santa’s first name, like “Noel Santa Claus” and we all had a good laugh until someone corrected him.

And it’s no surprise that on Wednesday, my boss came to the till with an older couple. He pointed up to the shelf above the cash counter and told his brother to get a step stool so they could get a purchase down. I was standing ready as the couple came to my till. My boss called over the vendor number and the price, which I thought was extremely high, but then again, it WAS a lot of blow mold, and in the item description I typed “Santa Reindeer Blow Mold” as one would. The woman who was buying was quite excited:

Me: That’s a really awesome one. Good for you—great find.
Woman: I know. It’s so cool.
Me: I’ve never seen one like that before—really unique.
Woman: It’s perfect. Our foyer is a pirate ship.

And if you’re like me at all, you probably just did a double take. “Our foyer is a pirate ship”?? And several things went through my mind simultaneously, like 1) What the f*ck does she mean? Does she actually LIVE on a pirate ship, the bow of which she considers her foyer or 2) Is the foyer in her home DECORATED like a pirate ship? And 3) Why the f*ck would anyone a) live in a pirate ship or b) decorate their home like one and 4) The biggest question of all is HOW THE HELL IS THIS GIANT SANTA/SLEIGH/REINDEER COMBINATION A PART OF THE PIRATE MOTIF??!!

I had a vision of the whole thing hanging from the ceiling above the foredeck with pirates down below all gesturing and threatening it with their pirate swords and whatnot, when I suddenly realized that the guys had simply moved the whole blow mold out of the way to retrieve a huge, framed shadow box that was full of replica pistols. And then the whole thing suddenly made sense in that weird “it doesn’t really make sense that anyone would be that jazzed about pirate decorating” but at least the fake guns were more aligned with the aesthetic. Afterwards, my boss had to correct the item description in the computer system so the vendor wouldn’t be confused over someone paying $600 for a blow mold instead of his gun box. But it was surreal.

No One Expects…

And if you finished the title of this post with …The Spanish Inquisition! then you know I wrote this for you. It’s been a slow week, so here’s a Monty Python flashback…

A couple of years ago, I wrote about watching a woman walk up to the front of a train, hitting everyone in the head on her way by, and I remarked that it was like something out of a Monty Python sketch. For those of you who don’t know, Monty Python was not a person; it was an absurdist comedy troupe that formed in the late 60s. Over the course of the next couple of decades, they had a TV series, live concerts, and several movies including Monty Python and The Holy Grail and The Life of Brian. If you’ve never heard of them or seen any of their work, then I don’t even know what to tell you. But if you ARE familiar with Monty Python, you’ll understand when I say that it has occurred to me on more than one occasion that my life is pretty much one long Monty Python sketch. They’re well-known for numerous hysterically surreal scenarios, and below you will find the parallel circumstances of some of these moments in my own life. There are five below—4 are slightly exaggerated for comedic purposes and one of them is absolutely as it happened. See if you can guess which one.

Pet Shop

Late afternoon. The 11th floor.

Me: I’m having an issue with my computer.
IT Guy: Ah, yes. The Lenovo. What’s the problem?
Me: I’ll tell you what the problem is, my lad. It’s broken.
IT Guy: Broken? Have you tried turning it off and on again?
Me: Yes. It’s definitely broken.
IT Guy: It’s probably just doing updates. Remarkable machine, the Lenovo. Lovely keyboard.
Me: The keyboard doesn’t enter into it, mate! It’s broken! (*bangs laptop against desk*)
IT Guy: There, see? It’s fine—the screen flickered.
Me: No, it didn’t! (*opens and closes lid rapidly*) Cortana! Oh, Cortana!! See, it’s not working. And don’t tell me it’s pining for the fjords.
IT Guy: Fjords? In Canada? Give it here. Right—it was just a password problem. I’ve unlocked it for you.
Me: I wish I was a lumberjack.
IT Guy: You’re ok.

Argument Clinic

Early morning. Alarm goes off.

Me: Ergh. I’m so tired. I wish I could just call in and take the day off like some people can.
Ken: Dan’s not coming into work?
Me: Who’s Dan?
Ken: Isn’t he the person who’s not coming into work?
Me: No, I said ‘Like people can’.
Ken: Was he off yesterday too?
Me: Who?!
Ken: That Dan guy.
Me: What the f*ck are you talking about?!
Ken: What are you trying to tell me?
Me: I’m tired and I don’t want to go to work! Why don’t you either follow along or go back to sleep?!
Ken: Be like Dan.
Me: This argument has gone on way too long.
Ken: Are you staying home today?
Me: This is futile.

Michelangelo and the Pope

Via email

Literary Magazine: Greetings. We really enjoyed your short story and would like to publish it. We just need you to make a few minor revisions.
Me: I can do that. What were you thinking?
Lit Mag: Get rid of the family next door. They’re not important to the plot and they push the word count up.
Me: Get rid of them? But they add a bit of colour to the setting. Plus, the father’s presence allows the reader to infer a lot about the way the town perceives the main character. He’s like an Everyman.
Lit Mag: All right. We can live with the family, but we need you to lose the last paragraph. Just end it with the boy and the woman eating watermelon.
Me: Lose the last paragraph?! That’s where you find out the husband is dead all along!
Lit Mag: The husband’s DEAD?! Thanks for the spoiler. Regardless, it’s not necessary.
Me: NOT NECESS—look mate, you don’t want a writer, you want a bloody stenographer!
Lit Mag: We’re a bloody small university press, we are! We may not know writing but we know what we like!

Four Yorkshiremen

Lunchtime. Jack’s Office.

Jack: Who’d have thought we’d be sitting here using “Teams” on our Iphones. I miss the old days. Do you know, they’re not even making laptops with CD drives in them anymore? I remember my first computer—it was a Commodore 64.
Me: Commodore 64? You were lucky. I typed my honours thesis on a Vic 20.
Jack: I remember doing a lot of my high school essays on an electric typewriter.
Me: Electric? Ooh, we used to DREAM of electric typewriters. I learned to type on an old manual that weighed more than you did.
Jack: At least with computers, you could save everything on diskette instead of having to use carbon paper. Remember those floppy discs?
Me: Floppy discs? You were lucky. Back in my day, we had to save all our data on CASSETTE TAPES. And when the data was saved, we had to go outside and lick the road clean with our tongues.
Jack: What?
Me: Nothing. Remember when we all had Blackberries?
Jack: Blackberry? You were lucky. I had a flip phone for years.
Me: Flip phones?! You were lucky to have one of THEM. Back in my day, we had car phones the size of a laptop bag that plugged into the car. And they were RADIOACTIVE. We DREAMED of flip phones.
Jack: But you try to tell the young people of today that–
Me: And they won’t believe you.

The Spanish Inquisition

9 pm. The front door opens.

Me: Oh! It’s you!
Ken: Who were you expecting—the Spanish Inquisition?
Atlas (*flies into room*): NO ONE expects the Spanish Inquisition!
Me: Nice cloak.

Our chief weapon is the element of surprise…

I’ve linked each title to the corresponding Python sketch, and here’s the link to all the Monty Python scripts from A-M here and from N-Z here in case you want to see how life imitates art.

That’s Not My Name

It’ll be a quick one today—I’m up to my eyeballs in things to do and of course, today is radio show day. Last month was better, and I’m hoping I make it through the whole show without any glitches—I’ll keep you posted. And of course, I just got back from an overnight stay at a hotel, because Ken and I were at the wedding of our lovely neighbours. I do love a good wedding and I always say, “Meh. I won’t cry.” And then the bride comes walking down the aisle, and the groom lights up, and my eyes fill with tears every time. My favourite part of the ceremony, aside from the joy in the eyes of our neighbours as they tied the knot, was the officiant, who was pretty laid back. She had a microphone that kept cutting out a bit, but at the point where the rings were brought out, she very clearly said, “Ooh, nice box!” And it WAS nice, being velvet and all. Then there was the reception at a local winery. The groom’s uncles were the MCs and they were hilarious, as was the best man—it was a fantastic comedy show, and I don’t think I’ve ever laughed that much at a wedding reception—not even my own.

Then of course, we had to stay overnight at a hotel because it was a bit of a distance from our house. It was an interesting hotel, and by interesting I mean, I will not stay there again, because our room was on the main floor and it had a floor to ceiling window with only a thin window blind separating us from the restaurant patio where several many people were drinking to loud music—I could have stepped out of the window right onto the dancefloor. It was freezing in the room but we couldn’t open the window because of THE PEOPLE RIGHT OUTSIDE IT. But the music shut off around 10:30 and I actually had a decent night’s sleep. In the morning, I got out of bed and the room was still freezing despite the fact that I had turned the A/C completely off. So Ken pulled up the large blind and I opened the window to get some warm air in, and literally 10 seconds later, this old guy yells, “Hey Emma!! Is that you?” And I’m standing there in the window, wearing a shortie nightie, my hair all frizzled from the humidity, bare legs, boobs hanging out, and this old guy is WALKING TOWARDS MY OPEN FLOOR TO CEILING WINDOW. He’s like five feet away from me and staring at me and again, he yells, “Emma!! Is that you?” I yell, “NO, IT’S NOT!!” and slam down the blind. It was like that scene in Life of Brian where he gets up, completely naked, throws open the curtains, yawns and stretches, then a whole crowd screams his name. But instead of thinking I was the messiah, this guy just thought I was his friend.

And I ask you—if you have a friend staying at a hotel, why would you EVER assume that the one person standing in the window of one of over 60 rooms MUST be your friend? All I can hope is that when he DID find Emma, she was fully clothed. Here’s a little earworm for your Sunday: (That’s Not My Name by The Ting Tings in case it doesn’t show up for you)

It Is What It Is

To begin, it’s Father’s Day here, so a heartfelt Happy Father’s Day to my wonderful husband, Ken, who’s an amazing dad, and same to my own awesome father—I love you both so much! And now, on with the show! Here are three quick stories, a tiny trilogy if you will:

1) This morning, I was getting ready for work. I finished brushing my teeth and when I went to put the toothbrush back, it looked weird. There was something black within the bristles. I had no idea what it was. I toyed around with getting it out for a second, then I went and got my reading glasses so I could actually see it properly. IT WAS A BUG. So I did what any normal person would do—I called Ken, who was on his way to my brother’s cottage to help him move some furniture:

Me: So I was brushing my teeth and my toothbrush looked weird…
Ken: What was wrong with it?
Me: There was a bug in it. I just brushed my teeth with a bug. UGH.
Ken: What kind of bug?
Me: A squished up dead one that was in my mouth a few minutes ago.
Ken: EW.
Me: Now I need a new toothbrush. And a new mouth.
Ken: Are you sure it wasn’t a peppercorn?
Me: From all the freshly ground pepper I put on my TACO last night? No. Definitely an insect of some kind.
Ken: Poor you. And poor, minty fresh bug.

2) As you know, I work part-time in a bookstore on the weekends. A bookstore is many things, but a bookstore can’t help you remember the book that you know literally nothing about:

Customer: Do you have that book about the guy, and that woman, and there’s an island, and a storm?
Me: That’s maybe like half of all the mystery books in here. Do you know the title?
Customer: No.
Me: Do you know who wrote it?
Customer: No.
Me: Do you remember what the cover looks like?
Customer: I think it was blue.
Me (pretending to search on the computer): I’m not seeing it in our system, sorry.
Customer: Okay, thanks.

3)

I’m pretty sure why this guy is looking for wood fence panels. We’ve been lucky this year, and I hope I’m not jinxing anything by saying that Atlas has yet to be sprayed, unlike last year where he was 0-5 against the skunk that took up residence under our shed. This year we just have a lot of rabbits, and they’re adorable, especially the tiny ones. I only wish they wouldn’t eat my lupins. I’ll have to find out where TJ gets his fence panels from…

Gonedaddy

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

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

This page no longer exists.

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

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

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

Me: But my website is on WIX…

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

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

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

Me: OMG WHAT HAVE I DONE??!!

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

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

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

Go Westie, Young Man

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

1) Martha Stewart for Pretty Litter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2) Scotties Tissue

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

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

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

3) Dove Whole Body Deodorant

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

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

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

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

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

Harmony; Smatterings of Cerulean

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

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

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

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

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

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

Radio Gaga

You may all remember a few weeks ago when I was interviewed on a local radio show. It was a lot of fun and I posted pictures of the haunted factory building where the station is located. Well…earlier this week, I received a newsletter from the organization that runs the show. It turns out that the host is taking a leave for several months and if they couldn’t find a second host to fill in, the radio show would be cancelled. I thought about it for a minute—running a live radio program all by myself in a studio at the heart of a haunted warehouse? That sounded super stressful. So I did what any normal person would do—I immediately composed an email to say that I would be happy to fill in. Then I hit send…Then I had a panic attack. Was I going gaga in my old age? What was I thinking?! Didn’t I already have enough on my plate? So I poured myself a glass of wine, and consoled myself by thinking that probably a ton of people would have offered to do this—I mean, who wouldn’t want to be on the radio? They were probably inundated with emails for this very cool gig.

The next morning, I was feeling less stressed…until I got a reply. Yes, it would be amazing if I could fill in—I felt faint. But it’s only one afternoon a month, my logical brain reminded me. Then I talked to my daughter, whose equally logical brain reminded me that I’m a very competent person, and that I shouldn’t let my anxiety get the better of me. “Mom,” she said, “you’ve been a radio host before AND a club DJ—you can do this!”

Well, yeah, sweetie, but that was 40 years ago—believe it or not, my first actual DJ-ing job was at the exact same radio station when I was in university, a job for which I had to audition in their sound booth (which was located on the university campus as opposed to a building that could use a good exorcism). I did well enough for university radio—I’d been a club kid for years and was pretty familiar with that scene—and was given a position subbing in for a friend when she was unavailable—her show was called “Your Grandma’s Tractor”, and it was alternative music featuring bands no one had ever heard of. Then I was offered my own show. This might sound amazing, but they needed to meet some kind of broadcasting regulation, and they’d just lost their Classical Music DJ. Yep. Classical music. Luckily, I’d grown up on that sh*t, and my parents had enough albums to start their own record store, so “Symphonic Gestures” was born. I did that gig for over a year, putting together intro notes from the backs of record covers, then just letting the music play for the next half hour. I didn’t have any listeners per se—I know this, because one time, the radio station ran a contest during my show for prizes but the only person who “called in to win” was my Mom, to whom I’m forever grateful for making it seem like I had an audience. I was like, “Hey random caller, guess what?! You just won a five dollar gift card to Tim Horton’s” and she was like, “Oh wow! This is my lucky day!”

It was great experience back then, but being a DJ now is most likely very different from the days when I had two turntables and a microphone. However, I will be receiving professional training, and I’ll be able to job shadow the current host, so by the time I have to fly solo, it should be fine. More than fine, because I’ll be interviewing other writers and listening to them read their work, which is always a fun thing to do. And I’ll be in a super-haunted factory, so be prepared for some wild stories. And if you want to read more about my illustrious and DJ-ing history (and why I once shut off the music and walked out of the club), you can go to My Week 81: When I Was A DJ.

Not A Good Read

So I’m currently in a metaphorical battle to the death with “Tevin” from Goodreads. For anyone who is blissfully unaware of what Goodreads is, let me enlighten you. It’s a website where people can read a book and then post a review about it. I’m on there as an author—authors can have a “dashboard page” where all your books are listed, and this is where the fun began. Last January, the publisher of both my short story collections apparently had a chat with God, who advised him to stop being a publisher and “unpublish” all his company’s titles (and I’m not sure why “God” told him to do that—if I was having a conversation with an invisible deity, it would tell me that if I wanted to stop publishing, I should at least keep the active titles available instead of crushing people’s hopes and dreams, and also drink some wine and get a therapy kitten). Anyway, the one particular book is still on my author dashboard and I don’t want it there because it NO LONGER EXISTS. In addition, I WROTE IT and I HOLD THE COPYRIGHT. But try telling any of this to “Tevin” who has been insisting that it’s impossible to remove my own book from my own author page. His rationale? It is “crucial that our members are able to find books they may have read or been interested in reading.” No, Tevin. It’s “crucial” that homeless people don’t freeze to death in parks, or that we take care of the environment before climate change kills us. It is NOT crucial that “Danger Kitty” can read my non-existent book and post a random review. And that’s the other bizarre thing about Goodreads—there is no consistent system for book reviews. It’s a free-for-all, with everyone and their brother/sister reviewing other people’s writing in the most nonsensical way. Here’s an example:

Book That Was Written By Someone

Review 1: Bob gives this book a rating of 3 out of 5 stars and says “It was a great read. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Review 2: Frank gives this book a rating of 3 out of 5 stars and says, “I didn’t enjoy this book. It was poorly paced.”

Review 3: Danger Kitty gives this book a rating of 1 rubber duck out of 5 slices of cake and says, “This is the best book I’ve ever read in my life.”

(Side note: Danger Kitty reads and reviews approximately 1 book every 2 ½ days, so I have my doubts about the integrity of their opinion).

Another example: my first book, Smile, was a Young Adult novel. It has two 5 star reviews, and a 1 star review. The 1 star review is from a man in his 70s. Did it occur to him as he began to read the story of two weeks in the life of a 16-year-old girl struggling to come to terms with her father’s death that he perhaps might not be the target demographic for this novel? Yet, he persevered, and went to the trouble to give it a bad rating. Also, his profile picture is right there next to the rating, and it’s SOMEONE I KNOW. One day, I might mention it to him, but honestly, given the random nature of Goodreads, it could mean that he adored it. Who the hell knows?

But back to “Tevin”, who claims to be a Goodreads Expert and who simply cannot delete my non-existent book from my author page because “it wouldn’t be fair to the readers.” So I went in and edited the book description to “This book no longer exists.” And now I have to wait for a “Librarian” to approve the change and you just know this person will NOT be an actual librarian, just like a “Pet Detective” is a dog food salesperson (I found this out the hard way when I saw the job ad, got super-excited, and clicked on the link, only to be bitterly disappointed.)

At any rate, just for the record, I give Goodreads 0 out of 5 llamas.

Update: I kind of won. It’s a bitter victory though.

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!