Writing

Monkey Business

I got an early Christmas present this year by way of an acceptance for my novella, Nomads of the Modern Wasteland by Running Wild Press, which was awesome. Almost as awesome as having a monkey butler…

Right before my birthday, I got a very cryptic email from my mother. The subject line was “VW”, and the text of the message said this:

“Hi Honey: Bought you a present today to do with the above (hint) his first name is Ralph.  See you soon.  Love, Mom xxx”

I pondered for quite a while, and came up empty. I asked Ken, “What do you think this means?” and he replied, “Maybe some kind of stuffed animal?” And I was doubtful at first, but then I had an epiphany that maybe it WAS an animal but not the stuffed kind, and I wrote back this:

“Is it a monkey butler?! I’ve always wanted one of those! Also, there was nothing above except the initials V. W. Is my monkey butler’s name Ralph Van Wooster? Can’t wait to find out! Love you:-)”

I was super-pumped, and waited for a while to get a confirmation. And waited. And waited. But my mother didn’t reply back, and I got worried. There were several possible reasons why I had yet to receive a loving message about how clever I was to have surmised that my present was a simian man-servant:

1) My mother was mad that I guessed her riddle and spoiled the surprise. I could see her reading the email, and then saying to my dad in a low whisper, “How does she always know? Well, let her stew, the smartass.”

2) My mother had actually bought me a Volkswagen, and didn’t know how to let me down gently. I have to say though, Mom, that a VW named Ralph would have been almost as cool as a monkey butler, but only if it was a Beetle.

3) Someone had hacked my mom’s email, and I would eventually learn that in “exchange” for the present, I would have to send $5 000 in iTune gift cards to a Nigerian prince named Ralph Varem Wabara who’s being held captive on the International Space Station by Chris Hadley (a Canadian criminal mastermind/astronaut).

4) My mother didn’t know what a monkey butler was, and my email befuddled her, so much so that she didn’t know what to say in return. I could see her reading the email and then saying to my dad in a low whisper, “What is she on about now? I can’t even dignify this with a reply. It’s your fault she’s so weird,” and then my dad would say, “Och! Yer aff yer heid, woman!”

Number 1, of course, was the most likely scenario, so I spent the next few days feeling a little guilty for being so clever. Then my parents came by the house to drop off my gift. I had read extensively on the topic of how to train a monkey butler, and I had the guest room prepared as per the instructions I found on a weird website which was exclusively devoted to the topic of “How to Train Your Monkey Butler”—it contains pearls of grammatically incorrect wisdom like “When you have your monkey butler serve a person let him take his time and serve one person at a time so he doesn’t get confused and start to get angry, a confused angry monkey is no fun for anyone.” I heartily agree and highly recommend this advice to anyone who might find themselves in my position.

Then Mom and Dad arrived, and I was a little concerned when I saw them coming down the walk “sans simian”. What a letdown. But when they came in the house, my mother presented me with a CD of music by Ralph Vaughan Williams, who, aside from Trent Florence Welch, Reznor, Maynard James Keenan, and Dave Grohl, is one of my favourite composers, and that really softened the monkey butler blow because the other night, Ken had tried to lull me to sleep by playing “Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis” only he had to find it on YouTube first, then he put his iPad directly on my ear so that the music wouldn’t drown out The Weather Channel, which he was watching fanatically as one does. It wasn’t very lulling and more just annoying, although he meant well. Now I can play that, and “Lark Ascending”, any time I want. But I was still curious:

Me: Why didn’t you answer my email? I thought you were mad.
Mom: Your email? You mean the one about the monkey butler? I would have, but I don’t know what a monkey butler is.
Me: It’s a monkey that’s a butler.
Mom: Would you really want one of those? Wouldn’t it be a lot of work to train it?
Me: Yeah. You’re probably right.

And then I realized that every time I had pictured Ralph Van Wooster in my head, he was actually wearing a bellhop uniform, and not a bespoke tuxedo, so it’s probably good that I wasn’t put in charge of training him, because then he would insist on carrying everyone’s bags instead of serving drinks.

Me: I don’t think a monkey would make a good butler.
Ken: Um, what?
Me: It would be hard to train him. I can’t even get Atlas to play dead—he only plays “wounded”.
Ken: You have to make it submit. You know, like “Shock the Monkey”.
Me: If you think the best way to train a monkey is to shock him, then you don’t deserve a monkey butler. Besides, I thought that song was about a guy who pleasured himself in a sudden and rather violent way.
Ken: Um, what?
Me: Like Spank the Monkey, only–never mind. (whispers) You know I’ll have to make this whole conversation up when I write about it. Forget about training a monkey butler—I need to train YOU to be a better “humorous foil”.

At the end of the day, I didn’t get a monkey butler. But I DID get an awesome CD, AND a publishing contract, so it’s still been a pretty great couple of weeks!!

Voluntary Anxiety

I don’t know if you, like me, suffer from social anxiety and if yours, like mine, has gotten worse as you’ve gotten older. Things that I used to do without much stress are now sometimes quite daunting, and I’m constantly forcing myself, it seems, to do things that exacerbate it. For example, this week, I was asked to speak to a group of 45 high school students about being a writer and publisher. Remember, I was a high school teacher for over twenty-five years, so this shouldn’t have been a difficult task. But I’ve been OUT of the classroom for several years, and while I THOUGHT it would be fine, the night before I was wracked with nerves. To make it worse, the morning of the presentation, all the highways were closed due to an accident, and then I also had to worry about finding a way to this school, which was about 45 minutes from my house, and did I mention that I had VOLUNTEERED to do this?

I did make it to the school on time, and then I waited in the library, trying to set up my PowerPoint with the help of the school tech until the bell rang, and all these 16 year-olds came in to see me, and you can imagine how incredibly excited they were to hear all about writing and publishing from a 60 year-old woman. It was the usual suspects: a majority of the kids were fairly apathetic and looked bored for most of the time I was speaking, two boys spent the first half of the presentation giggling and whispering to each other until I laughed at them and told them they were being distracting, and the rest were polite enough not to be rude. And then there was a group of kids near the front, mostly girls and a couple of boys, who were engaged and seemed like they were enjoying my “journey as a writer, publisher, and radio host”, and it was very nice, especially at the end when I raffled off two of my books and the winners seemed genuinely happy about getting them and asked me to sign them. BUT. There was this one girl in particular, a girl who smiled and nodded encouragingly as I went through the presentation, who laughed at my dumb jokes with what seemed like sincere appreciation, and clapped heartily for me at the end, presenting me with a thank-you card on behalf of the group. And that one young woman—she made all the difference. I don’t know her name, or anything about her, except that I wish her all good things in her life, and I’m grateful to her.

And now, in other news, here is the best marketing strategy I’ve ever seen.

I have only three words: Buzz buzz, baby.

All The Colours; Nice Boots

As you may remember, Ken and I recently took a trip out East. What was the purpose of the trip, you ask? To see the colours, of course. I’m not sure if people in other countries do this, but in Canada, we will literally drive hundreds of kilometres to see the fall colours and ooh and ahh over the reds, oranges, and yellows, where once it was only green. So I don’t know if it’s something peculiar to Canadians, but here, it’s considered completely normal to drive around all day taking pictures of trees in the fall. So that’s what Ken and I did a week and a half ago, having spent a lot of money to fly to another province and rent a car. Then immediately after we came back home, OUR colours had started to change, and we could see them for free. This of course means any time we go out, we have to plan a country route, and I drive so that Ken can take pictures like these:

In other news, I had to have an ultrasound guided needle biopsy on my swollen and painful collarbone joint. But I’m not going to talk about THAT as much as this:

Nurse: So I’ve just checked and these gloves and bandages are latex-free—oh my gosh, I love your boots!
Me: Thanks! I just got them!
Nurse: They’re adorable!
Ultrasound technician (walks into the room): What’s adorable? Oh, those boots! They have embroidery on them!
Me: I know! It’s the first time I’ve worn them!

And we all oohed and ahhed over my boots like they were the fall colours until the surgeon came in. He, on the other hand (or foot), was not impressed by my boots, if the way he stabbed me full of lidocaine was any indication.

In other other news, I’m currently doing a book event, sitting outside a book store with my books, smiling at people and hoping they buy one. And it would be so nice except I’m in a mall right across from a seating area, and there are these two old Muppets who’ve been there all morning and haven’t stopped loudly complaining to each other about anything and everything the entire time. Seriously, Statler and Waldorf—go the f*ck home, or at least buy a book! Maybe I should show THEM my new boots…

Pushing The Cart; Thank You For Your Kind Comment

First of all, I’d like to take a moment to thank my wonderful publisher Jane Cornwell of Jane’s Studio Press for nominating me for a Pushcart Prize for my short story “Mr. Death Comes To Town.” It’s a real honour to be nominated, especially for a story about a character that is near and dear to my heart and has appeared not only in both my short story collections, Feasting Upon The Bones and Dark Nocturnes, but is also featured in my novel The Devil You Know. If you’d like to know more about Mr. Death, aka Mort Sterven, you can get either of my short story collections here:

Feasting Upon The Bones

Dark Nocturnes

And now, on with the show…in which I respond to spam comments on my website:

1) Buy Adderall online

I don’t need to. I am my own speed. Have you not met me?

2) Buy weed online

I don’t need to. I live in Canada, dumbass. I can go to the strip mall and get all the weed I want. Also, my neighbour has two weed plants that rival my quince bush in size, which explains why I keep thinking I smell skunk in the backyard.

3) Buy African grey parrots for adoption

Why am I paying to adopt a parrot? Also, does it swear? If not, I have no interest…unless I can teach it to swear.

4) Great article

Thank you, ‘Benefits of CBD’. I didn’t reference CBD in my last post, but it’s nice to know that you’re following along.

5) i am a child who lacks knowledge but i always read your website. This website is very helpful in doing various homework that i do. i like your website.

Apparently your lack of knowledge resides in the realm of capitalization. Silly child.

6) Wonderful

Thank you, ‘RVs For Sale In Your Area’. I am.

7) On Monday, my sister and I went to the market to buy cakes and it would take 1 hour to travel from home to the market. During the trip, I watched content on this site which was very useful and entertaining.

You drove an hour to buy cake?! Is this some kind of weird math problem, like if my sister drove one hour to buy cake and I spent an hour watching a blog post, who wasted the most time? Also, how did you ‘watch’ my content? I literally just write what comes into my head. Wait…are you in my head? Do you have cake?

8) when I came home from school my uncle and I went to the city and would buy clothes at the biggest clothes shop in my city, from school to the mall selling clothes it would take 3 hours, while waiting for the trip I felt bored and finally I remembered this blog which can entertain me while traveling

Dude, you put the cake girl to shame. 3 hours?! No wonder you were bored. Tell your uncle to get a dvd player for his van or whatnot. Then you can watch my favourite movie Alien Vs. Predator. That one’s a banger.

9) 1 week ago I tried to go to a lake to clean it and let the fish live in peace and comfort, and that’s when I found this blog which helped me refresh my life.

That’s me—doing my best for the environment and refreshing all the fish.

10) 3 days ago I tried to find pleasure by going to the beach and feeling the sea breeze, but then I felt very comfortable because there are several things that make life more enjoyable, namely this blog to read.

Based on the number of you who are going to the beach to feel the sea breeze and then making your life more enjoyable by reading this blog (27 of you to be exact), I really think you should start a beach volleyball club and stop bothering me.

11) I went to a city 3 days ago with my partner and there I saw an inn that was exactly the same as the blog I read, and I finally read this blog again to make sure and it turned out to be true I was very happy.

My blog is an INN?! You need to hook up with that ‘Buy weed online’ dude—you’re smoking the wrong stuff.

12) Wow, it’s really amazing, finally I found information that presents unique news and is very interesting for me to read while drinking coffee.

How dare you?! If you know anything about me at all, you know I hate coffee. Blocked!

13) 7 days ago I went to a place to get various kinds of pleasure which started from seeing this special blog

I am NOT a porn site. Get your pleasure somewhere else, you pervert.

14) 1 week ago I tried to get some inspiration by fishing in the middle of the deep and wide ocean to get lots of valuable experience, and in the end I saw this blog which is very special for my entertainment.

So you were fishing in the middle of the ocean, and then you saw my blog? Dude, who’s your cellphone provider?! I need to get in on this—I can’t even get a signal on Township Road 2.

15) In the evening my friend and I decided to go hang out with my friends at a cafe and in the middle of that I opened my cellphone and started reading this very constructive blog.

Seriously? And when you looked up, had all of your friends left for a party because they knew you were more interested in your phone than hanging out with them? JFC, get a life.

There are literally THOUSANDS of comments like these that automatically get routed to my Trash folder on a daily basis. Most of them are from someone, or many someones, named ‘bokep’ and when I looked up what that meant, it’s Indonesian for PORN. So thank you, PORNBOTS for clogging up my comments with your weird families, friends, and outings to the beach, the mall, the village, the coffeshop, the lake, and all the other places you go to read my blog. What an incredible fanbase.

Heavy Metal

For the last year at least, I’ve had a swollen sternoclavicular joint, and if you don’t know what that is, it’s the joint at the end of your collarbone in the middle of your chest. No one can figure out why it’s swollen, and it’s extremely painful, so I was sent to see a rheumatologist who ordered an MRI. When the hospital called to schedule it, they told me not to wear any metal and asked me if I had any metal in my body. I ran through a mental catalogue, at which point, after having made a detour into a delightful reverie about becoming a human forklift, I determined that I was metal-free. I had carefully considered the surgeries I’d had over the years, and I assumed if a surgeon had left any metal in me, I would know it by now and therefore could enter the MRI tunnel without any worries.

I was WRONG. I am FULL OF METAL.

And how did I arrive at this horrifying conclusion? Well, I recently had an upper chest X-ray as a precursor to the MRI, and on Thursday, I was able to access the report through the radiology clinic dashboard. It was pretty humdrum, and I was getting more than a little miffed once again at the liberal use of the term “unremarkable” (although I was pleased to note that my lungs are apparently “well-aerated”) when it said this: Cholecystectomy clips noted. I was like “What the f*ck is a chole-thingy?” so I googled it, and it’s when you have your gall bladder removed, and I did that about 20 years ago. I realize I’ve just made it sound like I reached into my own abdominal cavity and pulled it out myself, and if that did indeed happen, you will note that I would have accompanied the pulling out of my gall bladder with a flourish and the words Abracadabra, but a surgeon did it, and he was a terrible magician. And I KNOW this because in the same way that a terrible magician would accidentally sit on the top hat and kill his rabbit, this person left METAL CLIPS inside my body. I’ve been setting off the airport security alarms for years and telling them it was MY BELT when, in fact, I am a human IED.

According to my research, there are different kinds of clips for this—some dissolve and some are permanent, but the issue is that no one even asked me if I wanted to become a cyborg, and normally I would have said YES, but in this case, there’s no upside—I mean, it’s nothing AT ALL like having forklift arms, and I was initially very upset (not to mention worried that an MRI might dislodge them, and then I would be slowly stabbed to death from the inside while I was in the MRI machine), but then I remembered the latest Suicide Squad movie. There was a variety of new characters, including a guy called Polka Dot Man, who could shoot polka dots out of his body and eviscerate people with them. Polka dots are a stupid weapon, but you know what’s not? METAL CLIPS. So now I’m going to write to James Gunn and suggest that, if he ever does another Suicide Squad movie (doubtful because both versions received terrible ratings), there should be a new character introduced. Her name is Heavy Metal and her superpower is shooting sharp pieces of steel out of her body:

Criminal: Who the hell are you?!
Heavy Metal: My name is Heavy Metal, loser.
Criminal: You look rather unremarkable to me.
Heavy Metal: Prepare to die.

Make Alignments Great Again

Before I start, I’d like to just express my eternal and deeply felt gratitude to the wonderful Susan Richardson of Flowering Ink’s Stories from the Edge of Blindness, and most importantly for today’s purpose, the podcast A Thousand Shades of Green. Many weeks ago, Susan undertook to feature my short story collection Dark Nocturnes on her podcast for Story Sessions. She has faithfully, tirelessly, and brilliantly read every story in the collection, all 32 of them, over the last few weeks, and I can’t tell you how much that means to me. She finished yesterday with the final story, Mr. Death Goes To Market, and like the rest of her readings, it was phenomenal. If you’d like to hear Susan basically turn my collection into a fantastic audiobook, you can hear her read each story by going here: https://athousandshadesofgreen.com/story-sessions/ And if you like what you hear, leave a comment or a review, or even buy Dark Nocturnes for yourself–here’s the link!:

http://a-fwd.com/asin=B0DY8B6C1K

And now on with the inanity. A couple of weeks ago, my car was making some awful noises so I took it to my mechanic. Turns out all the tie rods were worn out, which explained why my cute little Sonic was creaking and groaning like my joints in the morning, only I’m almost 60 and my car’s only 12. I got what amounted to basically a new front end “but,” my mechanic said, “you’ll need a wheel alignment and we don’t have the rack to do it here.”

So I asked around and got a recommendation for a place up the road. The afternoon before my appointment, I decided to go there and see A) where exactly it was and B) to see if I could drop off the car later that day instead of first thing the next morning, because I’m retired and I don’t go anywhere early if I can help it.

When I saw the sign for the business, I had an uncomfortable revelation—the long laneway led to a “community farm”, which was occupied by people, part of a religious cult, who live communally in large barrack-type buildings on several acres. And the mechanics were apparently part of the cult. I’d never been there, but let me tell you, it was incredibly eerie, and not because of all the zealots. No, the place was completely deserted—no adults, no children, even in the summertime–literally no one. I found out later that over time, most of them had left. Or died, based on the creepy cemetery they had on the property.

I couldn’t see anyone, and the garage looked deserted too, so I drove around the back—just in time to see an elderly man taking a piss against some bushes. Like, do religious cults not have BATHROOMS? He looked at me as if he couldn’t imagine why I was there. I explained, staying IN the car, and was told yes, I could drop the car off later. I wasn’t thrilled but Ken came with me after dinner to make sure there were no more urinary shenanigans.

Then, the next day we went to pick the car up. We walked into the office and there was a guy sitting there on the phone. Sitting on a shelf above him like some kind of weirdass trophy was a bright red “Make America Great Again” ball cap. And while this might be de rigeur in America, I live IN CANADA. So it was very f*cking off-putting, and why wasn’t I surprised that a business run by members of a religious cult would be displaying something like that? And then he had the nerve to tell me that they couldn’t get my wheels completely aligned because there might be something wrong with one of my tires. And I so badly wanted to say, “Then keep it and FIX it” but at that point, all I wanted to do was hightail it out of his Stephen King-esque MAGA Christ Cult Compound. Needless to say I won’t be going back there anytime soon. And I really hope they get their plumbing fixed.

I Am A Delight

As you may or may not know, I’ve been hosting a radio show once a month since March-ish. And while I love the idea of being a radio host, you also may remember that I find it extremely stressful. The studio is about 45 minutes away, in an old, run-down factory that is most definitely haunted, and I have to go there on a Sunday when no one else is around. This necessitates Ken accompanying me, when he could be building me a new garden house (his current project) or napping because he’s exhausted from being awake. And it’s a good job he comes with me, because the station is unstaffed, and every time I go, something has been unplugged or a button that’s supposed to be pushed isn’t, and I never know until the very second I start the show, when Ken will pop up behind the glass between the studio and the ‘green room’ (it’s green—that’s the only thing about it that resembles a Green Room) and frantically mouths “It’s just dead air!” Then it’s a mad dash to figure out what’s gone wrong THIS time.

But this month, due to a variety of reasons, none of my guests were able to make it to the studio for today’s episode of Reader’s Delight. Normally, when someone can’t come in, they just pre-record themselves doing a reading, but then I had a brainwave. Why couldn’t I interview these writers remotely via Zoom, and upload the audio to the station’s scheduled playlist? Never mind that I had ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA how to do any of that, but it was okay because the one thing I DO have, the most important thing, is a daughter who is a WHIZ at sh*t like this:

Me: Hey honey, do you know how to splice together three audio tracks into one and then convert the whole thing into an MP3 file?
Katelyn: Sure.
Me: I WILL GIVE YOU TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS IF YOU DO THIS FOR ME.
Katelyn (laughs): Okay, Mother.

And that’s just what we did. I interviewed 2 people remotely (I already had one pre-recorded track because the author was in Europe) and then sent the files to Kate.

Me: Are you sure you know how to do this?
Kate: What? It’s already done. Check your email.

And I was SO thrilled…until I listened to the whole thing through. It was terrific, the authors were engaging, the audio was edited so smoothly…the only problem was ME. Specifically right at the end. I don’t have professional Zoom, so I only had 40 minute sessions, and the last author and I had had a wonderful chat at the beginning, using up a lot of Zoom time, unbeknown to me. It wasn’t until she was in the middle of her reading that I got a pop-up that said, “You have 10 minutes remaining” so I started to panic. She finished with about 4 minutes to spare, but I was so flustered that, at the end of my outro, I said—and I’m not joking—“Until next time…uh, listen to me then.” And if that’s not the WORST tagline that a radio show host could have, I don’t know what is. So now I’m brainstorming for really punchy taglines. Maybe “Until next time, keep reading!”? “Until next time, keep adding to your TBR pile!”? I don’t know—if you have any ideas, PLEASE tell me! Because hopefully, I’ll be doing this remotely from now on, depending on what happens this afternoon at 2 pm when the show airs. Until next time…listen to me then (by streaming it on CKMS Radio Waterloo 102.7 FM).

I Just Want What I’m Owed; Book Advice

Whenever I go anywhere, I like to take back country roads. But the more I do, the more there’s something I’ve noticed, something I’ve become painfully, jealously aware of:

Me: I want to move to the country.
Ken: Why?
Me: Because I want a camper and a boat.
Ken: What?
Me: Because when you move to the country, you automatically get a camper and a boat. Obviously. Apparently, it’s a rule.
Ken: Whose rule?
Me: The government, I assume. Like, it must be a government program or whatnot. When you move to the country, the government gives you a camper and a boat. It’s probably some kind of incentive—you know, to reduce congestion in the cities.
Ken: You know that’s not true, right?
Me: Not true? Look around, KEN. Every single place you drive by in the country has at least one of each. Bob has TWO campers—AND a horse! See, this is why I love socialism. Universal healthcare, social security, free campers and boats. It’s awesome.
Ken: They’re NOT free! And you HATE camping.
Me: I hate camping in a TENT. I’d totally go camping in our cool free government camper.
Ken: And what about the boat? We aren’t anywhere near a lake.
Me: No one EVER IS, KEN. But we have a trailer hitch. We can tow it places. Or, it just sits next to our barn. That’s what most people do with them, as far as I can tell. It’s ‘Farm Chic’.
Ken: We’re not moving to the country.
Me: You’re so mean! I want my boat and camper. It’s only fair—I pay my taxes! I want MY DUE! (starts scrolling through Realtor.ca for a cute country property)
Ken: Sigh. Let me know if you find anything.

Unfortunately, I don’t have any pictures of a country property with a camper and a boat because the government doesn’t want people to know about it—it’s a state secret.

In other news, as an author and owner of DarkWinter Press and Literary Magazine, I often get asked what comes after the initial thrill of a book’s release. Here’s a fun little article I was asked to write by Women Writers, Women[s] Books about things you can do once your first book gets published to keep the momentum going! https://booksbywomen.org/so-your-first-novel-just-got-published-now-what/

The Butler Did It

Big news first! A few days ago, I finished my new manuscript, the one I got the grant to write. It’s called Murder Most Novel, and it’s a humorous murder mystery. All I need now are some good blurbs and a publisher, so if you know anyone who likes funny books about people getting killed, let me know! Oh, and the title of this post has nothing to do with MY book—there wouldn’t be much point in writing a whodunnit and then telling everyone who did it!

And now onto something completely different. A while ago, our air conditioning unit in the attic leaked and ruined the ceiling in our upper hallway and landing. Ken decided to repair it himself, which meant clearing all the furniture and accessories out. We have a very large flat-to-wall cupboard up there where we’ve kept some of Kate’s favourite childhood books. Ken finally finished the renos and we thought it might be a good time to cull some of the stuff that we had in the landing area. I started going through the books, reminiscing about Molly and her new washing machine, and the hours we spent playing I Spy, which was a popular series of books when Kate was little. And then I found a book called Dinosaur Bob And His Adventures With The Family Lazardo. I couldn’t remember ever buying it or even reading it to Kate when she was little, so I started flipping through it. Here’s the gist of the story: An American family named Lazardo goes on safari and finds a dinosaur which they bring back to the States and it causes a lot of issues but in the end, (spoiler alert), the dinosaur helps their town baseball team win a big game. And that explanation is only slightly longer than the title of the book. But that’s not the weird part. The fact that they go on an AFRICAN SAFARI with their small children and find a dinosaur isn’t even the weird part. No, the thing that absolutely confounds me is this. On the cover of this book (which was written in 1988 by the way) and on almost every page, there is a man wearing a regimental uniform and a turban. He is briefly described on the first page, when the family initially encounters the dinosaur, thusly: “Jumbu, their bodyguard, said nothing.”

Okay, first, why the hell does this family need a bodyguard?! And why is he some kind of Sikh warrior? But then things get even weirder because based on the illustrations, it turns out that he’s not really their bodyguard—he’s actually their MANSERVANT, and on the second page, the Lazardos are lounging on the dinosaur’s back in their swimsuits while Jumbu is in some kind of ceremonial beachwear and he’s SERVING THEM ALL DRINKS. This book was published by Scholastic and can you imagine the pitch meeting?

Author: So there’s this white family and they find a dinosaur…
Scholastic: Like, dinosaur bones?
Author: No. A real dinosaur. And they bring it back to the United States to play baseball for their hometown team.
Scholastic: Interesting. Are there any quirky unexpected characters?
Author: Well, they have an East Indian manservant–
Scholastic: Manservant? That might be perceived as racist. This IS 1988 after all. Better call him a bodyguard.
Author: Oh, okay.

Throughout the entire book, no one talks to him, no one mentions him, even though he’s on almost every single page serving drinks to the family, playing catch with the kids and whatnot, and no one even thinks to ask “Hey Jumbu, you’re a bodyguard, right? Do you think it’s safe to bring a dinosaur back to the Unites States to play baseball?” Because I’m sure all the chaos could have been avoided by letting Jumbu do his damn job. The only time we hear about Jumbu again is on the last page where the family is celebrating the big baseball game win and “Jumbu brought out the musical instruments” so the family could sing and dance. But then it felt like there was some ominous foreshadowing because right at the very end, it says, “Jumbu smiled.” I’ll bet he did. And the sequel to this book is called, Jumbu Gets Even.

Euphemistically Speaking

I belong to a Writers’ Group that meets twice a month. I don’t always get to go because my schedule is nuts, but they’re really nice people so whenever I can, I attend. It’s always fun—everyone gets to share what they’re working on, and do a little reading out loud if they like, which is good for getting feedback. This past week, I showed up, and there weren’t that many people sitting around the table (the group meets at a library that has cozy seating AND a fireplace so if that isn’t reason enough to attend, I don’t know what is—the only thing better would be cocktails). We did a little attendance check, i.e. So-and-so can’t be here because she’s on vacation; Bob isn’t here because he had an appointment, and whatnot. Then someone said, “Oh, Mary’s not here because her Irish uncle is visiting.” And I was like, “That’s a new one—what’s it a euphemism for?” because all I could think of was those other sayings/excuses about visits, such as ‘I can’t come because my Aunt Flo is visiting’, or ‘I need to visit the little girl’s room’, and it occurred to me that maybe ‘a visit from your Irish uncle’ meant you’re drunk or hungover or something. AND I’M SORRY, because I KNOW that’s a terrible negative stereotype and that overall, I’m sure Irish people don’t drink anymore than the rest of us. But still… At any rate, the person who said it responded, “No, her uncle from Ireland is at her house right now,” and that clarified it a little bit, although it could STILL be a euphemism, and all I could think of was Mary, prone on her sofa, waving a glass of wine merrily and yelling “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya!”

And speaking of things you WISH were euphemisms, on Saturday, I was in a store looking for body lotion that DIDN’T contain coconut or aloe vera because I’m allergic to both. A sales woman was helping me scan the shelves. She pulled out a pump bottle that said, “Rice Lotion.”

Saleswoman: I think this one would be okay. It’s made in Korea, and the base is rice.
Me: (checks ingredients) It looks like it would work.
Saleswoman: Here’s another from the same company. It says ‘Snail Lotion’.
Me: What’s in it? (checks ingredients). It says…snail mucus.
Saleswoman:
Me:
Saleswoman: Um…
Me: Pass. I’ll stick with the rice.

Because I’d need several visits from my Irish uncle before I EVER slathered snail mucus all over my body.

Speaking of my body, I got a new tattoo to commemorate the publication of Dark Nocturnes. One of my favourite stories is Landscape With The Fall Of Icarus. I’m so lucky because I have an amazing tattoo guy who did this for me, and I love it: