Work

I’m Not The Problem

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?”

Phoning It In

For today’s post, I’m sharing the last four pictures I took on my phone.

1) You might be squinting right now and saying, “Is that some kind of bug?” and you would be correct. I was staying at my brother’s to be there for my nephew while my brother, who has a PhD, was involved in some very important work stuff. I, being retired, was more than happy to fill in. We were going to have one of my nephew’s favourite meals, ‘Thai-Inspired Beef Bowls’. It was in a bag in the fridge from one of those ‘meal kit’ places, and on Monday night, I got it out and started to prep it. I poured the rice into a pot, and one of the grains looked very dark. I put a different pair of reading glasses on (one for REALLY close-up viewing, unlike the pair I was already wearing, which was for medium viewing, and also unlike a third pair in my purse which is for ‘things that are approximately four feet away’), and I scrutinized the rice. And forgive me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe that rice grains have legs. I called my nephew over for his opinion:

Me: Hey, do you think that’s a bug?
Nephew: Definitely.
Me: It looks dead. I could pick it out…
Nephew: You could.
Me: The rice has to be boiled anyway. That would kill any bug corpse germs, right?
Nephew: It would.
Me: Then we’re in agreement?
Nephew: We are.

Seemed a shame to waste a meal that had been so obviously packaged with care. And the ‘inspired’ part? I’m going to try making this at home—without the bugs.

2) This ad is confusing. Mainly because I never get cranky when I drink. But these boxes…and I’m not sure how it works. Do you put the drinks IN the boxes? Do they play music WHILE you drink? No wonder they’re cranky. I’d be pissed off too if people kept clogging up my wind-up mechanism with alcohol. And they’re all in perfect condition except that one…is a plate. It always amazes me though when, rather than looking up the actual term for a thing, someone chooses to just post an ad like this:

Box Owner: I need to post an ad for these weird alcoholic boxes but I don’t know what that thing is called that winds them up.
Random Friend: You could look it up.
Box Owner: Looking up things makes me cranky—oh wait!

3) I took this screenshot from LinkedIn. After my last post ABOUT LinkedIn, I got a message teasing me that people had been looking at my ‘profile’. I get these quite often but they won’t tell you WHO was actually looking until you give them money to upgrade your plan. But now I think LinkedIn is just f*cking with me, because the Canada Revenue Agency is the government taxman, like the IRS, and the Attorney General oversees the court system and I HAVE COMMITTED NO TAX CRIMES, LINKEDIN SO NICE TRY. The other two companies make sense, but when I saw the last one, I was inordinately excited, like why is a steakhouse looking ME up? Cuz it’s usually the other way around and maybe it’s a sign that I should go and get some steak.

4) This is the cutest cat on the planet. Period.

Profiled

This weekend, I’m doing a book event called dReadCon, so here’s a throwback for you!

A few days ago, I saw a red flag hovering above the LinkedIn app on my phone. “Ooh,” I thought. “Is someone interested in being my friend?” Now, I know that connections on LinkedIn aren’t technically called ‘friends’, but what exactly DO you call them? ‘Business peeps’? ‘Corporate posse’? ‘Kudo Klub’? (If you know anything about LinkedIn, you know it’s always pressuring you to send kudos to people as if the mere fact that you’ve been connected to them for five years is cause for celebration, like ‘You’ve never once LIKED MY POSTS, MARCIA, so kudos for that.’ (I spend most of my time on LinkedIn wishing people happy birthday or congratulating them on their work anniversaries with lovely, personalized, auto-generated kudos.) At any rate, when I opened the app, I was even more excited to see that it was a personal message.

So I clicked on the message icon in breathless anticipation. There was a message from ‘Jarod’. It read, “Hi Suzanne! I wanted to reach out because, based on your profile, I thought you might be interested in discussing your sports flooring needs. Please reach out to me anytime!” Now, there were several questions I had about this message:

1) Who the hell is Jarod?

2) What’s with all the exclamation marks? This is LinkedIn, not Twitter/X.

3) What in the name of all that is holy could possibly have led Jarod to read my profile and glean from it that I had ‘sports flooring needs?

4) What even IS sports flooring?

And because I had no interest in engaging with Jarod about his weird flooring fetish, I will answer these questions myself:

1) I have no damned idea. He is neither a Business Peep nor a member of my Corporate Posse.

2) Jarod is very excited about sports flooring and the idea of potentially connecting with me over it. Perhaps he envisions us, sipping wine on a terrace somewhere, enthusiastically discussing whatever the heck sports flooring is.

3) I re-examined my profile. It says my name and that I’m the author of several books and that I’m the editor of DarkWinter Press and Literary Magazine. It also says I’ve been endorsed for Public Speaking and Educational Leadership despite the fact that the only thing I ever post on LinkedIn is my blog. Where, in ANY of that, is there the slightest indication that I’m a) athletic b) interested in sports c) interested in floors? I looked further down and realized that someone had endorsed me for ‘Coaching’. Could that be the tenuous link?

4) The only thing I can even think of is astroturf. Why would I ever in a million years need astroturf? I HAVE GRASS, JAROD. Or is sports flooring that bouncy stuff? Because that MIGHT be cool, maybe in like one room where you could go when you were stressed and just bounce around on your sports flooring like Tigger until you felt better. Then it occurred to me—could ‘sports flooring’ be a euphemism? But I couldn’t for the life of me think what it might be a euphemism for, so I asked Ken:

Me: What could an interest in sports flooring be a euphemism for? Like, you’re a professional killer and you bury someone under concrete at an arena?
Ken: That’s very dark. Hmm. The only euphemism about sports I’ve ever heard is ‘Water Sports’.
Me: Water sports? Like water polo?
Ken: No, like…you know, ‘Golden Showers’.
Me: EWWWWWW.

So I immediately wrote back to Jarod: I DON’T DO THAT. What a creep. Then I looked and realized I had two other messages, one from ‘Matt’, who wanted to know if I was interested in an AI Training Pilot Project. Now, if that’s a euphemism for teaching my robot butler how to bring me wine, count me in. The other was from someone who thinks I like camping. I don’t. And the best way to get me to LIKE camping is definitely not to send me a metal cylinder FULL OF FIRE. So guess which message I’ll be responding to based on my profile?

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.

It’s The Little Things; A Baxter House Announcement

I had the coolest experience last week. A woman came into the antique market with a guy, and as they went around the corner past the showcases, I had an epiphany. “I know her!” I said to my co-worker. “I’m almost positive that she was on Season 2 of this TV show that Ken and I love to watch!”

And what show would that be? It’s called ‘Best In Miniature’. It’s a competition show where miniaturists (that’s people who make miniature things, not tiny people) compete for $15 000 Canadian, which is a lot of Bordens (that’s the Canuck equivalent of Benjamins) even once you factor in the exchange rate. Also, in Canada, you don’t have to pay income tax on prize winnings, so you get to keep it ALL. And the show is awesome—they start with the contestants each building a tiny house in whatever style they want, and then each week, they have to create the stuff for each of the different rooms in their house. In Season 1, there was a guy who created an entire tiny Edwardian mansion complete with a miniature floor-to-ceiling library, and you can imagine how I reacted to THAT. Anyway, I was sure this woman was from Season 2 of the show, but I didn’t want to just come out and ASK her—I mean, what if she wasn’t, and then she would think I was some nutbar with a dollhouse obsession? So I broached it like this:

Me: Hi there, how are you today?
Woman: Great, how are you?
Me: Good, good. So are you looking for anything specific today? Perhaps…miniatures?
Woman (smiles): Miniatures…interesting that you should say THAT.
Me: Are you…?
Woman (smile gets bigger): Possibly…
Me: YOU ARE! YOU’RE FROM THAT SHOW!!

And she was LOVELY. She let me ramble on about how much I loved the show, and told me all kinds of interesting details about where and how it was shot (4 days for each episode), how they had to have any supplies approved by the producers, how they all had to go out after the first episode and buy their own utility knives because the ones provided by the show weren’t sharp enough—I was in 7th heaven.

And having her in the store was SO much better than Gangrene Man, who made not one, not two, but three appearances last week, still on the hunt for rings for his ‘lady’. He was no longer wearing any kind of protective wrap over his stump, and it—and he—was looking even more unhealthy than before. At a certain point, we all decided that there was no ‘lady’—that he was buying all those rings and reselling them or something. Then on Thursday, I wasn’t working, but I got a text from my co-worker:

CW: G-man is back. And he brought ‘his lady’ with him!
Me: OMG, she’s real! What’s she like?
CW: She’s just walking around and pointing at stuff, and he’s buying it all for her!
Me: At least one of them can point omg I’m going to hell for that.

There ought to be a show about this too—hit me up with some good names.

In other news, the first book from Baxter House Editions has just been released: The Places We Haunt by Cecilia Kennedy. Here’s the synopsis of this very cool book:

“When a pastry-obsessed ghost follows Audrey M. K. Summons back to her apartment, Audrey feels compelled to write the story—along with a few others she has collected. The resulting manuscript becomes The Places We Haunt, which a literary scholar discovers when Audrey dies. To the scholar’s surprise, the pages magically fill with more stories from beyond the grave, so she publishes the book in order to put Audrey’s spirit to rest. This collection of 13 eclectic dark tales takes place in museums, swimming pools, houses, restaurants, the cemetery, and outdoors in nature. The stories told are sometimes humorous, absurd, pensive, or cautionary. Those who tell them, don’t even realize they’re dead.“

And you can by it here!



Friends For The Holidays

Over the past couple of months, I’ve noticed a weird trend in my Facebook friend requests—they’re all coming from dudes with two first names. I don’t mean like Joe-Bob Smith; I mean I’m getting requests on the daily from guys called Andrew Mark, John Joseph, or Michael Steven. It’s like someone googled “most popular white man names” and started pairing them up. And before you think I’m stereotyping, ALL of these guys are white. And Christian. And widowed. And either doctors or in the military. Which begs the question, knowing me as you do—why the HELL would a white Christian widowed army doctor want to be MY friend?! But I began to suspect that it was just a scam and that none of these guys were actually real right at the very beginning (based on the fact that none of them had any followers and their pictures all looked like what you’d get if you asked Siri, “Find me a photograph of a generic middle-aged white man”) and I’ve been deleting at least two fake friend requests a day. And then came the icing on the cake last week when I got a friend request from a man named Harry. HARRY NUTZ. Seriously?! You couldn’t snare me with Robert David and you think I’m going to fall for hairy nuts? And Harry also identifies himself as a “Christian” and single (with a name like that, it’s no wonder). Slight tangent: I had a cousin in England whose actual name was Harry Dick. But nobody thought it was funny because back then, people in England didn’t refer to manparts as “dicks”. Now, if his name had been Harry Willy, he’d never have lived it down. At any rate, I deleted Harry Nutz’s request as well, on the grounds that his nuts were probably a front for some scam artist who didn’t know how to manscape.

In other news, we recently celebrated New Year’s Day and when I looked at my Google calendar, I noticed that New Year’s Day was highlighted, but that the 2nd was also highlighted as “Day After New Year’s Day (Quebec)” and I was very confused by this. Do the French need a special reminder that the 2nd comes directly after the 1st? But then I investigated further and became enraged. Apparently, if you live in Quebec, you get an EXTRA HOLIDAY on the day after New Year’s Day, and if you live in Ontario, like me, YOU DON’T. And I had to WORK on the 2nd while all the Quebecois were enjoying their extra day off eating poutine and whatnot. And then I investigated even FURTHER when I realized that my Google calendar highlighted all the different days off that each province in Canada gets and now I want to live in Newfoundland, where on top of all the holidays we get here, they get almost one extra day off every month, including St. Patrick’s Day, St. George’s Day, Orangeman’s Day, and a random holiday to celebrate a BOAT RACE called The Royal St. John’s Regatta. They literally have a holiday in June called JUNE DAY. And other provinces and territories have equally tenuous holidays, like in the Yukon, where they get to celebrate Discovery Day, which commemorates that time Yukon Cornelius discovered gold in a glacier after battling the Abominable Snowman. And I was going to do better research on the whole Yukon thing but then I went down a rabbit hole of holidays and discovered that January 7th is known for several interesting holidays including Distaff Day and National Pass Gas Day, so for the rest of this fine Sunday, I’ll be farting around at a spinning wheel.

Looking Back to New Year

Today’s topic is actually about New Year’s Resolutions, which I do not make, mostly because if I want to change something about my life, I do it when I think of it, not on some arbitrary and imaginary date line. But still, the moving forward of time does give one pause, and by “pause” I mean “let’s stop and think about what the f*ck we’re doing and do we want to keep on doing that?” So here are a couple of things I decided I would or would not be doing in the year 2019. It’s up to you to determine now, 5 years later, which resolution(s) I actually kept:

2019

1) I will no longer be distracted by things when I’m having a serious conversation with someone. For example, once I was speaking with a colleague in my office when I realized that there was something in my boot, like a small piece of gravel or a large piece of lint. Mid-sentence, I reached down, took off my boot, shook the gravel out, looked inside the boot, put it back on my foot, and continued with the conversation. I’m extremely fortunate that I worked with people who didn’t seem to care about things like that, but still, it must be disconcerting to find yourself in the middle of a performance of Waiting for Godot. Or maybe my colleague was impressed by my multi-tasking skills. Another time, I was in a meeting, and someone said, “It’s like an icebox in here” and I started thinking about what if we were actually holding the meeting IN an icebox, and would there be sides of beef just hanging there, and could we see our breath and whatnot instead of focusing on performance measures. I didn’t say anything out loud–I’m not that weird (or maybe I am–don’t judge me). Either way, I feel like it’s a slippery slope from boot examination to toenail clipping. Ken said he had a similar situation once when he was talking to a woman who, during the conversation, reached up under her skirt and hoiked up her pantyhose. I asked what he thought, and he said, “I guess it was really bothering her. I mean, you do what you have to do, right?”

2) I will continue inventing words. You may have noticed that, in the previous paragraph, I used the word “hoik”. I use this word all the time. It means “hoist and yank”. I thought it was a real word until I used it once when I was telling the very nice gentleman I worked with about my roommate and how she had broken my toilet:

Me: She must have really hoiked on that handle!
Very Nice Gentleman: Did you say ‘hoik’? What does that mean?
Me: Hoik? You know, like this! (*mimes hoisting and yanking and makes the appropriate hoisting and yanking sound, which is ‘hoyk’*)
VNG: I’ve never heard of that word.
Me: Well, I didn’t just make it up.

Turns out that I did. I googled it and there’s no such word. But it’s a damn good word, useful for many occasions, and since I am very good at the made-up words, I will continue to invent them. Another one is “stabscara”, which is when you poke yourself in the eye with a mascara wand, as in “Oh my god! I just stabscara-d myself!!”.

Friend: I love your new eyepatch.
Me: Yes, I happened to stabscara myself but it all worked out in the end. Arrr, where’s the rum?

3) I will stop being so bad at potlucks. We used to have potlucks at work all the time, and now that I’m retired, I still attend them occasionally. When I was living in Toronto, I didn’t have a lot of fancy cooking equipment and whatnot, so whenever there was a sign-up, I just put “Drinks”. And while you might think that would make me popular, I learned my lesson after the liquor-filled chocolate meeting snack fiasco of 2017, and when I say drinks, I now mean 2 cases of Perrier, which is terribly boring and probably a let-down for everyone who saw HOW I had signed up for this particular workplace potluck in what appeared to be a very boozy way:

Go home, Suzanne, you’re drunk again.

I arrived at this potluck and people were bringing in crockpots and crystal trays and poinsettias and wreaths, and I was like, “Here. Stow these babies in the mini-fridge”. Well, they all got drunk—the cans, not my colleagues. In the future, I will try to be a little more creative, like putting bows on the Perrier boxes or something. Also, I would love to have the confidence of the person who simply wrote “Something Special”:

Me: So what did you bring to the potluck, Cathy?
Cathy: Something special.
Me: Processed cheese on Ritz Crackers?
Cathy: It’s special.
Me: But it’s just–
Cathy: SO SPECIAL.

4) I will continue to write. My only purpose in writing this blog is to make people happy, so I will keep on trying to do that. I am nothing if not resolved.

If you guessed 3 and 4, you win a Fandangly Award to do with what you will. Because it’s almost 2024, and I THINK I’m better at potlucks now (you’ll have to ask the neighbours) and I’ve definitely kept writing.

And now, just like 5 years ago, here are three questions for any of my friends to answer:

1) What is the most wonderful thing that happened to you this year?
2) Star Trek or Star Wars?
3) What would you bring to a potluck?

Happy New Year to all of you and yours!

Reading Is Fundeathmental; Exciting News

For over a year now, I’ve been tutoring a little girl who struggles with reading. Every week on a Thursday, I go over to her house and we spend an hour reading together, doing writing activities, and a variety of other things designed to improve both her reading and writing skills. She’s also in French Immersion, which for Canadians means that even though you’re not French and no one else in your family speaks French, you take most of your classes in French. So my little protégé not only struggles with reading in English but also reading in French. Luckily, I took French all through high school, right into university, I taught it when I was younger, and I can read it pretty well. And for the purpose of this post, I’ll call my little friend Samantha:

Me: Comment ça va aujourd’hui, Samantha?
Samantha: How do you know so much French?
Me: I studied it for a long time and I used to teach it to students just like you.
Samantha: YOU WERE A TEACHER??
Me: What did you think I used to do?
Samantha: I thought you worked in an antique store.
Me: What, like all my life?
Samantha: Well, you’re not that old.
Me: Très bien, ma chère.

Samantha is in Grade 3 so I spend a lot of time looking for age-appropriate books, usually in thrift stores where you can get virtually brand-new readers for under two dollars. The other day, I thought I hit the jackpot when I discovered a book that was in both French AND English for young readers. The book was called George the Goldfish / Georges Le Poisson Rouge. I looked at the cover—it was a little boy looking lovingly at his goldfish. I opened the front cover and inside was a variety of pictures of the little boy doing a variety of activities with the goldfish: carrying him around in his bowl, playing while the fish watched, showing the fish his Hallowe’en costume (also a goldfish) and so on. The next page was a series of suggestions to parents and teachers on how to use the book to encourage reading in both languages as well as information about a picture dictionary and pronunciation key at the back. Then there was the title page with the little boy looking into the fishbowl lovingly and the fish looking back at him as lovingly as a fish can look. So I brought it with me last Thursday:

Me: Okay, Samantha, let’s get started. First read the English, then read the French at the bottom.
Samantha: Harry has a goldfish. His name is George. Harry a un poisson rouge. Il s’appelle Georges.
Me: That’s great. You have a really good accent. Keep going.
Samantha: George swims around and around in his bowl. Harry loves to watch him. Georges fait le tour de son…what’s that word?
Me: Sound it out.
Samantha: A..quar-um. Oh, aquarium, like a big fish tank. Harry adore le regarder.
Me: Excellent. Ready to turn the page?
Samantha (turns page): But one day, Harry’s goldfish—WHAT? THE GOLDFISH DIES??!!
Me (panics): Give me the book—what?! OH MY GOD.
Samantha (laughing): MOM! The tutor is making me read a book about death!

I started laughing hysterically too, a mixture of horror and absurdity, as she ran out of the room to show her mom. I followed along and we found her mom in the kitchen. I apologized profusely as her mom also started to laugh:

Me: I am SO sorry—I had no idea. I should have screened it more carefully. I just thought it was a nice story about a boy and his goldfish…
Samantha’s Mom (laughing): Until it wasn’t…hey, don’t worry about it. It’s all a part of life–or death.

Fortunately, everyone took it in good humour and Samantha wanted to read the rest of the book, which didn’t get any more light-hearted—in fact, there are lengthy descriptions in English AND French of Harry and his mom burying George in the garden and planting flowers on his grave and in what POSSIBLE world would you write a story for ages 3+ where the main character DIES ON PAGE 3?! And nowhere in the copious “parent notes” was there ANYTHING about this book dealing with the dark theme of the death of a beloved pet! It’s like the Old Yeller of 2023.

In other news, this past week, I was the featured writer on Susan Richardson’s amazing podcast A Thousand Shades Of Green. Susan is a poet extraordinaire and she also writes the blog Stories From The Edge Of Blindness, so having her choose me for this project and hearing her tremendous compliments regarding my writing really made my week. If you want to listen to her gorgeous voice reading my work, or the work of some other wonderful writers, you can find her podcast at floweringink.com

I’m A Barbie Girl

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

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

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

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

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