ChumpletWrites

What You Hear Is Probably What You'll Say in Forty Years (Or: Just You Wait Till You're My Age)

2012-01-11T01:05:00.002-05:00

After a twelve hour shift at work, I stopped by the grocery store to grab a few things. My mind was already on the light snack I planned to make when I got home.

An elderly gentleman stopped me in the bulk food aisle, asking where he could find walnuts.

"They're for my wife," he said. "The doctor says they build up immunity."

After I pointed out the walnuts and extolled their health virtues, he commenced to tell me all about his wife's two-month stay in the hospital with phlebitis, how the nurses were too rough with the bathing, opening her bedsores, and how one heavy-set nurse listened to him and connected with him.

He barely took a breath, talking so quickly, spit formed at the corners of his mouth. It was as if he were afraid I'd walk away if he stopped.

I didn't walk away. I listened, nodded and made sympathetic sounds as he told me his wife's 40-year gynaecological history, from the time she had her second child. "She had this problem ever since then," he said. He went on to say he didn't trust the younger doctor who ignored his wife's complaints.

"Older doctors have more experience. I told this young doctor I'd sue if anything happened to her," he said. "Her leg was swollen like a balloon." He finally got the doctor to recommend the best guy he knew, who later said, "Thrombosis. If it was caught earlier, I would have prescribed a simple medication that would have cleared it up."

He interrupted his story several times to say, "To make a long story short", and then he continued to make the long story longer. At one point, he mentioned his wife was an avid reader, and that he brought boxes of books for her to read in the hospital. She would mark the one she finished with an asterisk or an X, so he'd know to take that one back.

I wanted to suggest an e-reader, but of course I didn't have a chance to squeeze in my suggestion.

His concern for his wife and his rheumy eyes reminded me of my old neighbour Uncle Bob, who passed away what seems like five years ago, but was probably more like ten. He had lost his wife Dora several years before that, and I remember listening to his concerns about her hospital stay.

I also remember seeing Uncle Bob in his last days, a tiny man who'd seemed so huge when I was a kid.

The man's loneliness struck a chord with me, reminding me that many older people live alone and have no one to talk to. Some embrace technology, like my widowed 90-year-old neighbour, who I also knew since I was twelve years old. She received an iPad last year and loves to email her grandchildren and play cyber-scrabble with her sister in Britain. My own father is technology-savvy, and my mom at least knows how to handle Facebook.

Not everyone has access to such technology, nor the desire to embrace it.

The fears of people whose loved ones are at the twilight of their lives seem to live on in a never ending cycle. Will I stop a young mother on the street and tell her about my family drama? Will the nurse who neglected to use a gentle hand while bathing an old woman with bedsores complain of the same mistreatment forty years later? Will the young doctor who admitted his ignorance think outside the box when he is older and more experienced, thus saving a life?

After I wished him luck, the gentleman said, "The doc told me what started it all. When she had the baby, he made a incision (I knew what he was talking about) with instruments that weren't clean. Watch out for dirty instruments."

With that advice in my head, I went off in search of boneless chicken on sale.

Picture: My Grampy, who didn't have a chance to tell me stories, except for the Halifax Explosion when he was six. I am counting on my parents to tell me more stories. And I'll listen.

Exotic Dancing

2011-11-30T21:16:00.000-05:00

First, let me thank Sandra for allowing me to occupy her blog for a day. Second, let me introduce myself.

My name is Travis Erwin. I suppose I am many things but for this post's sake I'm going to label myself as a writer, a Texan, an observer of the world.

Sandra is one of my favorite twitter buddies. I first met her via the blogosphere but these days I keep up with her life in exotic Ontario via twitter and facebook.

And yes, you read that correctly, I did write EXOTIC Ontario, because it is exotic to me.

*****************

ex·ot·ic [ig-zot-ik]

adjective

1. of foreign origin or character; not native; introduced from abroad, but not fully naturalized or acclimatized: exotic foods; exotic plants.

2. strikingly unusual or strange in effect or appearance: an exotic hairstyle.

3. of a uniquely new or experimental nature: exotic weapons.

4. of, pertaining to, or involving stripteasing: the exotic clubs where strippers are featured.

noun

5.something that is exotic: The flower show included several tropical exotics with showy blooms.

6. an exotic dancer; stripper.

*****************

If, I'm being honest I've seen enough strippers in my day that they no longer qualify for "exotic" status, but no doubt y'all are all fine puritan folks so perhaps you find scantily clad dancers quite exotic indeed.

And that, FINALLY brings me to the point of this here post.

When I first began writing I thought the stories I created had to be about far off places. I thought they had to be stocked with strange and mysterious characters. I thought my plots had to be spectacularly unique.

Long before I was a writer seeking publication I was a storyteller. A Texas bullshitter prone to cracking open a longneck or ten. Once my vocal cords were well lubricated I could talk for hours telling tales of my misspent youth. At parties, in hunting camps, and even at more than a few writing conferences I told stories about my teenage years, when I worked at a dusty Texas Feedstore. I regaled my audiences with stories of my immoral but vivacious boss.

Being serious about the craft of storytelling I of course enhanced the stories where I deemed necessary. I thought I had to because well I thought without spice no one will care about the happening at a common place called Pearl's Feed & Seed. Sure the stories were funny, but embarrassing tales of bulldog masturbation, headless parakeets, ex-wives with murderous intent, and feed room fellatio are far from exotic. I mean hasn't everyone stolen a prosthetic leg, lost their virginity to a disenchanted goth girl, and fought off an angry emu?

Turns out that NO, not everyone has had those experiences. Turns out my coming-of-age tales centered around Pearl's Feed & Seed didn't really need much dressing up. Turns out my listening audiences found the tales of my youth quite exotic indeed. So one thing led to another and bam, I wrote a book.

And the best thing is TAG Publishing found it exotic enough to add it to their lineup.

THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES was released November 1st and is now available via Amazon, Barnes&Noble, and very soon in electronic format for both your nook and kindle.

And of course if you live in in some exotic locale like Ontario, you can order from Amazon's Canadian branch but wow, is the shipping slow. I suppose that's what happens with you live someplace exotic.

I write this not only hoping to sell a few copies but also a word of advice to all my fellow writers for it is easy to discount your own experiences as uninteresting or not worthy of creating a story, but fact of the matter is the grass is usually green on both sides of the fence.

Hi guys, Sandra here. Wow... two posts in a month! It's a Christmas Miracle and Hell froze over! But I'm glad to help my buddy Travis out with his debut novel-slash-memoir-slash-comedy. I've known Travis almost since I was a wee little writer (as in about 4 years ago) and he's always been supportive and gosh darn funny.

Here is Travis.

Here is his book:

You can check out Travis' blog here.

Hope to see you before Christmas!!!

Burning Bridges

2011-11-24T07:00:00.001-05:00

An Open Letter to Bridge Burners Everywhere:

I remember when you kicked me in the shin for saying, "Hey, what's the big idea"

I remember when you took a leather strap to my hand in first grade because I kept pushing a boy's hand off my desk.

I remember when you showed up an hour late for our movie date and I missed all the best parts because of you.

I remember when you didn't visit me in the hospital, even though you said you would.

I remember when you grabbed my pigtails and pulled them, hard.

I remember when you told me I was beautiful, but I then discovered you were just playing me like a gullible violin.

I remember when you made fun of my book on Twitter.

But guess what? I forgive you, my best friend, my teacher, my first boyfriend, my book reviewer. You're lucky you were only cruel to me because I'm not the kind of person who holds onto a good mad.

Some people might not be so forgiving. If you choose to be insulting, abusive or hostile in person or online, you might get the attention of the wrong person -- like an agent or editor or employer. Remember that when it's your turn to query or apply for that job, because they'll sure remember you.

Sometimes I think writers have a distinct advantage because they can exact subtle revenge by incorporating their past nemeses into their fiction. Too bad plumbers, shopkeepers and wait staff don't have such an outlet. But... maybe they do. *Checks soup for spittle*

People say stupid things, all the time. I've said them and I almost instantly regret them. Sometimes people say stupid things and they don't remember, or don't care.

People can be hurtful and cruel, or just plain ignorant. It's too easy to be careless online and cause pain to another person. You might think it's a passing moment, but that moment is burned in, forever. Not just in someone's memories, but on the world wide web.

Think before you type... and if you're ever on the receiving end of a careless post or email, I hope you can forgive your adversaries. Or at least turn them into trolls on paper.

On a lighter note, I'd like to wish my American friends a Happy Thanksgiving. May your tables groan, and later, your stomachs.

Picture credit: I don't know... this picture is EVERYWHERE!

You Can't Always Get What You Want

2011-09-28T22:52:00.000-05:00

I'm going to start this post with the dreaded rhetorical question: Did you ever set out to do one thing, and find yourself taking a completely different path? One you didn't think you wanted? One that led to self-fulfilment and satisfaction?

That old Stones tune struck a chord with me last week. I looked back at all the goals I had set when I was a fresh young newbie in the big bad world. I thought I was going to be the next Robert Bateman (except a girl). That dream was dashed when I discovered it wasn't easy to get a job after graduation painting stuff. So I chose Graphic Arts. That was a bust -- medical problems forced me to drop out halfway through my second semester.

I looked at my options the next year and entered a Visual Arts Instructor Training course at my local community college. This introduced me to photography, and I ended up working at a camera store after graduation.

After years of selling film and taking in photofinishing, the boss moved me upstairs to assemble the store's newspaper ads.

Full circle. I now work for a newspaper, making ads.

I recently realized this theme runs through the novel I'm currently subbing. The main character has a serious crush on a boy, but in her efforts to get his attention she distances herself from her volatile home life. She then finds the courage to return home and becomes closer than ever to her mother.

The same thing can be said for the author. A new writer might set out to win the Booker Prize, but it may not be in the cards. Who knows, he or she might end up as a best selling mystery or romance writer, with sales quadrupling any literary author's.

Is your path straight, or did it take a few left turns? Are you happy where you ended up or will you peek around the next corner?

You can't always get what you want, but you might get what you need.

Comic Cons Aren't Just For Comics

2011-08-31T22:11:00.002-05:00

Last weekend I decided at the last moment to accompany my daughter, an avid animator and fan of everything pop culture, to Fan Expo in Toronto.

My intention was to connect with a couple of author pals and support their books. I expected an expanse of booths and hundreds of people milling around, but nothing prepared me for what I experienced.

We took the subway to Union Station and followed the signs that led to the Metro Toronto Convention Centre. Several Expo volunteers were already on hand to direct us to the area where we could buy tickets. I expected a lineup at a ticket window just outside the venue, but we were asked to proceed down Simcoe Street, along the side of the Centre, and into a parking garage.

As the crowd got thicker and the temperature rose, I couldn't help but feel were being herded onto some mysterious intergalactic vessel, never to be seen again.

We finally got inside, and boy oh boy... was it huge!

Exhibitors from Warner Brothers, Disney, TeleToons, Space Channel... I could go on but you get the picture... as well as dozens of comic book and collectible retailers took up the centre of the huge building. Along the edges I found Artists Ally, booths rented by local artists who specialized in comic books, fan art and Anime. I almost bought a Tardis air freshener, but it was ten bucks. I did, however, score a Montreal ComicCon poster from a Quebec comic book retailer who didn't intend to sell the posters.

I was pleased to see several independent/small presses represented, as well as Canadian divisions of big publishers like Penguin and Harper Collins, hawking books from the SFF and Paranormal genres. Champagne's new imprint, Burst, would feel right at home.

There, I met up with my friend Lesley Livingston and had my ARC of Once Every Never signed.

In the lobby and upstairs, I saw Ghost Busters, Steampunk Society aficionados, and Star Wars 501st Regiment Storm Troopers. I met up with Adrienne Kress at the Steampunk Society booth, where she displayed her bestselling children's books Alex and the Ironic Gentleman, and Timothy and the Dragon's Gate.

Later, I sat in on a panel about world building. A tall adolescent with fluffy hair obscured my view of the panel which included Lesley Livingston, Rob Weston, Ed Greenwood (my DnD son would have loved to meet him!) and Violette Malan, a fantasy author. They kicked ass and made us laugh while giving great advice on writing.

And lastly, I must comment on... THE COSTUMES! They were incredible. I couldn't stop staring at the amazing effort fans put into their favourite characters.

There was too much to take in during one day. I can see now why people buy passes for all four days. Maybe I'll go back next year and just walk around... in a COSTUME...? Maybe. We'll see.

The 501st, ready to fall out.

The Steampunk Society had lots of really swell gadgets.

These guys freeze framed for a while before starting to hand out posters.

I expected Yakko, Wacko and Dot to pop out of this thing.

Your Life in 150 Words

2011-08-20T20:20:00.001-05:00

Today, I saw a Reader's Digest contest that asks for your life story in 150 words or less. I jumped all over that, and quickly opened a word file before I lost my nerve.
When I copied my 149 words and went to the site, I was disappointed to learn the contest is only open to U.S. Citizens.

Oh, well.

Anyway, I decided to throw my entry up here.

At three years old, I caught fireflies in Trinidad. At four, I drew my first horse in Thunder Bay.

At seven, I watched whales frolic in Chaleur Bay from the top of a snow bank. When I was ten, Kenny and I protested the impending demise of a weeping willow in Pierrefonds by climbing into its branches and refusing to come down.

At sixteen, I spent a year at an international school in Mallorca and learned that I wasn’t so special, yet I was unique. At seventeen, I rode a Berber mare in Algeria. She took the bit and led me on a wild ride before depositing me on my feet with my arms still wrapped around her neck.

At twenty-four, I married the love of my life and had two talented children.

At forty-seven, I wrote my first novel. At fifty-two, I’m still painting, writing, learning... and married.

What's your life story in 150 words?

Perfect Moments

2011-07-27T21:36:00.000-05:00

Do you ever have those days when you want to freeze a moment and hold it forever? Maybe you’re having a bad day and everything seems to be going wrong. Maybe you’re tired of rejection and want to give up.

Rather than dwell on disappointment, why not reach into the back of your mind and pluck out one of those perfect moments when all seems right with the world.

Some of my perfect moments:

Sitting back with a cold drink after I’ve mowed the back lawn. As the rapidly melting ice chirps in my glass, I look at the evenly cut blades of grass, inviting a picnic on its temporarily pristine surface. I never get around to the picnic, but the prospect is pleasing.

Late afternoon light when the breeze carries those little fluffy seeds. They look like backlit faeries dancing just for my enjoyment. I don't think of the weedy aftermath.

The beach – laughing children and the keening of gulls mingled with the smell of sunscreen. My toes push under the hot sand, finding a cool spot beneath.

That feeling when a plane accelerates on the tarmac and my head pushes against the back of my seat. The turbine engines roar, then their pitch rises to a “wheeeee,” as they carry me away to some exciting destination.

The warmth of the sun on huge slab of granite at the edge of a clear lake. I gaze at multicoloured lichen radiating from the cracks, and pick blueberries while a loon calls in the distance.

The first gentle snowfall, hopefully before Christmas. Light sparkles on it, reminding me of my childhood for some reason.

Taking out my grandmother’s rosary and watching the light bounce off the facets of its beads.

There. I feel much better now.

The Fun Side of Research

2011-07-06T22:23:00.000-05:00

Remember a couple of years ago when I told you about a super opening for a polo mystery? Well, I'm about 10K words into my WIP. It's been a slow process, probably because my confidence in my writing has been sagging lately.

But I'm not here to whine. I wanted to share my experience while researching for the setting of my book. I'd been to several charity polo matches nearby (thanks to my employer), but nothing compared to the events of the past year.

You see, my girlfriend met a millionaire, and they soon started dating. He had taken up polo a few years ago and plays in Florida and here in Ontario. After meeting him, I was pulled into the world of the rich - massive estates, horses by the gross and handsome people. You'd think they'd be snobby like in the movies, but they aren't. They're all wonderful and warm.

I attended matches at the polo club, watched my girlfriend taking lessons and went to some really great parties. They weren't wild parties - it seems horse lovers are just like me - lovers of animals, good food, music and conversation.

Recently my girlfriend and the millionaire parted ways (amicably) and are still good friends. I ran into him at this year's charity event (he and my girlfriend both volunteered on the committee) and we exchanged warm greetings. I'll always admire his easygoing openness and generosity. Because of him, my novel has taken on a new level of authenticity.

Here are a few of the events that kept me from blogging (and sometimes writing) the past few months:

Nacho Figueras, six-goaler and Ralph Lauren model, tearing up the pitch at Pace Polo For Heart 2011. I didn't meet him, but he seemed nice.

Me on Maya, a gift to my girlfriend. A sweet pony - I hope I didn't confuse her too much.

Me with Princess Diya Kumari of Jaipur. Her husband was on the Royal Jaipur Polo Club team, invited to this year's Polo For Heart.

And finally, my own sister's brush with royalty on Monday. Cathy Elliott is musical director of The Talking Stick, the first all-Aboriginal original musical at this year's Charlottetown Festival. Her troupe performed for the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and got to meet the newlyweds. I'm so proud of my sis!

I hope to "get back on the writing horse" with more regularity this summer. I might no longer be in the inner circles of the rich, but I was sure to take notes!

A Mother's Love

2011-05-07T22:36:00.001-05:00

So many things have been said about mothers, and I'm not sure if I have anything new. Every mother is unique. Some are strict, others are 'best friends' and some are not meant to be mothers at all.

We are often told we'll grow up to be our mothers as if it's some sort of revenge for sins committed when we were wayward teens. We sometimes view this prospect with horror, and other times are thankful we treat our children like our mothers treated us. When my kids tell me I'm cool, I think it's because of my mom.

My mom was born during the waning years of the Great Depression, in a region rife with unemployment at the best of times. She did her best to help her mother with cleaning up after three brothers and a not so perfect father.

She also coped with moving a lot with three kids and a husband who spent a lot of time on business trips. We could have turned out to be real head cases, being teenagers in the Seventies, but I think we turned out pretty good.

Mom talked to us. She joked with us. She opened her door to our friends. We cared for her and she cared for us in return, which might seem like a back asswards situation, but it was.

Mom was excruciatingly shy. She didn't like to leave the house, and didn't want anyone to see her. But when we had visitors or when she was at the grocery store, she lit up the place. Her sense of humour put everyone at ease, and I think laughter helped us achieve success with our relationships and our children.

She sang oldies all the time. Sometimes, I find myself belting out Isn't It Romantic while doing the dishes, just like she did when I was a kid.

Mom is a thousand miles away, back in her home town of Saint John, New Brunswick. I miss her and I love her. I hope to see her soon.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. Of course, you and I know that Mother's Day is Every Day.

I Love That Little Bird

2011-03-16T07:00:00.004-05:00

No, not Angry Birds (hubby is obsessed with them). I love the Twitter Machine.

While on Staycation last week I came across a tweet from Wanda Bookalicious (not her real name), a book-loving blogger affiliated with the Yummy Mummy Club, a popular site here in the Toronto area. It was a contest to win a free ticket to Jodi Picoult's book event. I thought, what the heck, and participated.

Imagine my surprise when Wanda messaged me to say I'd won. Not only a seat at the reading, but a free copy of Jodi's latest book, Sing You Home.

I drove to Toronto on a rainy Thursday night and joined the throng of enthusiastic fans. A sweet little couple in front of me in line had driven 4 1/2 hours from Sudbury to be part of the event. They looked like sisters, with baseball caps and sneakers. One of them lamented missing the Leaf game, and the other thanked her for making such a big sacrifice. :)

I'm telling Jodi about my sister. That's my boob there on the right...

Jodi's reading had me hooked right away, but the thing that set this one apart was the music. Sing You Home comes with a CD with lyrics written by Ms. Picoult, and music by her long-time friend Ellen Wilber. Ellen performed three songs live, songs written to accompany specific chapters in the book.

After the performance, Jodi answered questions. Some were typical - who were your favourite characters and such, but one sweet girl stood out. She piped up in her childlike voice, "Hi, I'm thirteen and I really love you. All my friends at school talk about Justin Bieber, but I just talk about you."

As the book signing portion approached, I began to worry because I didn't know where I was going to get my free book. The organizer told me Wanda had the books, but we couldn't locate her. As my row of seats took their places in line, the representative tracked down a book for me from the green room. She didn't have to do that, and I'm forever grateful for her kindness.

I had the book signed while explaining to Jodi how her MC's story was so similar to my sister's.

As I was preparing to leave, Wanda finally spotted me and we embraced. I told her I received a copy, and she promptly gave me another one. I joined the line again, so now I have an extra!

I love meeting people in person after interacting on Twitter. This morning I finally met a local independent grocer who is like a rock star in these parts LOL.

And just to give you all a laugh, here's a picture of me and my girlfriends during our most recent Bitches Night Out:

Everyone Has Dreams

2011-02-16T23:47:00.000-05:00

I went to my brother's surprise 50th Birthday dinner at a nice, trendy restaurant in Toronto. Frankly, I thought my husband and I were going to be the only diners at the table for ten. A half hour later, one of my brother's old friends finally arrived, then another couple. Okay, this was going to be a party!

When my brother showed up, he was genuinely surprised. He reached across the table to embrace my husband, who promptly knocked over the drink I'd just received. Being a mom, I instinctively grabbed for it, but it shattered in my hand. Luckily, it didn't pierce the skin.

After we cleaned up and ordered dinner, I sat back to listen to my brother and his friends reminisce about the old music scene in Toronto. They talked about who had the best sound mixing boards, who was with what band these days, and the clubs they played in. That night, I found out my brother actually performed at El Mocambo, an iconic tavern on Spadina.

He worked as a janitor for the building. Once, late at night, he stood in the middle of the empty stage where the Rolling Stones and Elvis Costello performed, and he visualized himself playing guitar there. A few years later, he did.

At 50, he plays a mean guitar, keyboards, bass and mandolin with the best of them. He teaches music for a living, but I believe someday he'll realize his dream of making a living playing music.

I feel the same way about writing. With every rejection, with every turn of phrase, with every nice email from a happy reader, I know I'm going to make it. Well, most of the time. Well... sometimes.

I hope my children will realize their dreams at an earlier age, but if they don't, it's no big deal. Sometimes the journey is as exciting as the destination.

I can still dream, can't I?

Here's the gift I made for little Bro, suitable for a Toronto boy living in Buffalo

My Brain is so Frazzled I Can't Even Think of a Title

2011-01-16T12:01:00.000-05:00

I don't think I've experienced writer's block before, so I'm not sure I'd recognize it if I saw it. Is it that feeling everything you write is crap? Is it the brick wall you face when you're supposed to be writing a story? Is it opening your Twitter account instead of your WIP?

Or is it lack of confidence, second-guessing every word you type, backspacing and starting over about a hundred times? To me, it feels like neglecting a house until the paint peels and the windows are broken. The muse needs a coat of paint and a little TLC, but the job seems overwhelming.

The last several months have been... interesting. I had two WIPs on the go, and had to decide which to finish. One was literary women's fiction and the other was an up-market thriller with a premise that changed every time I looked at the world news.

After consulting my writerly pals, I decided to finish the women's fiction and started querying almost exactly a year ago. I had enough requests to keep me going. One agent requested revisions and I complied. It was close, but no cigar. I don't regret the exchange with the agent - she was so encouraging and made me feel like I was creating something worthwhile. In the end, she passed, but I have a cleaner, leaner and meaner book in hand.

Others offered similar feedback which compelled me to chop the manuscript in pieces and convert it into a YA novel. Now I'm starting a second round with the new title in hand, and there is still a lot of nibbling going on, but no real bites... yet.

All the while, I was asking myself, "Why am I doing this? Why don't I quit and do something else?" Everyone says an author should be working on the next book while querying.

After all, we don't wait until one kid is in college before having another one, do we?

It's like waiting to see if my first kid is going to be a ballet dancer or a rock star. After all, it's easier to hand down a set of drums than to buy a whole new set. I could continue with character-driven novels or switch gears and write a romantic suspense. I enjoy both, but I don't know if my future agent will.

While I'm mulling it over, I'll tell you about my first experience with a polo pony. How's that for switching gears?

My best friend had been taking polo lessons all summer and her boyfriend presented her with a polo pony. The pony's name is Maya and she's white with little brown freckles all over her. The first thing my friend did was commission me to paint a portrait of her, which I did. I'm posting a copy over there with my other paintings.

Maya was a rescue horse and hadn't been ridden for a while. She had become a bit "green" and needed to be brought up to speed with careful training. Much like my WIP *laughs*.

Earlier this winter, I had a chance to ride her.

Polo tack is a nightmare to put on a horse. There are so many straps and buckles, you need a diagram to remember it all. Maya stood patiently while I fiddled with her bridle and almost put the bit up her nostrils.

I hadn't ridden in five years, so when I got on her, I felt like I was going to slide off. I walked her around the arena while three youngsters zoomed circles around me in preparation for an upcoming indoor game. My friend, still a novice polo player, watched and laughed from the viewing room. I wasn't doing a very good job of warming up her horse.

Polo ponies are ridden in a different style from Western and English. There are two reins, and you hold them in your left hand only, even if you're right handed. The right hand is supposed to be for the mallet, but I wasn't holding one. The horse is trained to follow the ball, much like a cutting horse is trained to follow a dodging steer. Thus, steering isn't as much of an issue. Just stay on!

The stable owner's son, who was about ten years old, sidled up beside me on his bay mount. Our legs gently bumped together as he explained how to make the horse go faster. I guess he was tired of watching me playing it safe while he booted around at top speed.

He leaned forward and guided my rein hand up Maya's neck. "Its okay to canter, ya know. Just put your hand up here, behind her ears."

I laughed. "Trust me; you don't want to see me canter. I'm so out of shape my legs already feel like rubber. I'd fall off."

"Suit yourself," he responded with a shrug. He shouted, "Hyah!" and kicked his horse into a hard run while his mother shouted at him to slow down.

I nudged Maya to a trot, but when she speeded up I lost my nerve and slowed her down again. She must have thought I was some old fuddy-duddy.

I enjoyed my ride, but it was before Christmas and I haven't had a chance to visit again. I was given permission to ride Maya anytime, but I'd like my busy friend to be present to help saddle her because I still haven't figured out all those leather straps.

Thanks for listening to my rant. I promise to whip my flagging confidence in the butt and to get cracking with my writing again. I'd already started a polo mystery, but now I wonder if it should feature a teen protagonist. There I go... second-guessing again.

It's time to canter.

Bucket List

2010-10-11T20:50:00.001-05:00

Yesterday I saw something for the first time. I saw two deer in my brother's backyard, and actually got a picture of them.

Some people might think, "That's no big deal," but it was pretty important to me.

I haven't had a chance to really sit down and compose my own bucket list. Many things are probably unattainable, and my tendency to be practical prevents me from making such a list.

However, I think I've had a few experiences that were special to me. Some may seem trivial. Some might be on your bucket list.

I rode a Berber horse in North Africa.
I dove into the Mediterranean.
I rode in a limousine.
I watched a Toronto Maple Leaf hockey game from the Platinum seats.
I rode in a propeller plane with only 18 passengers.
I saw the Rocky Mountains.
I drank wine in the Napa Valley.
Unlike Bugs Bunny, I actually stood on Pismo Beach.
I saw a bullfight.
I held a wild bird in my hand. And it lived!
I rappelled down a 300 foot cliff.
Saw a comet.
Saw the Northern Lights.
I wrote a book. Or two.

What would I add to a bucket list? This isn't carved in stone, but some of the things I'd like:

To go to New York City.
Ride a hot air balloon.
Drive a Porsche.
Build a treehouse.
Take a picture of a really, really awesome sunset.
Sail a boat.
Attend the Oscars.
Have my very own writing room, decorated my way.
I want a pony.
... and yes, I would like an agent, please.

What's on your bucket list?

Paintings, Plotting and Pantsting

2010-09-01T21:15:00.000-05:00

While submitting my completed novel, I'm working sporadically on another. They're different in more ways than one.

The novel under submission is a carefully plotted, quiet and sweet women's fiction. It tugs at the heartstrings, dealing with issues some might not find comfortable. I had been working on this book for a few years, sharpening my writing skills before attempting to finish it.

My work in progress is a fast paced mystery with a diverse cast of characters. I have a vague idea where the plot is going, but I'm basically closing my eyes and seeing where it takes me. Some characters jump into the spotlight, screaming for attention and others wait behind the curtain, hesitant to be revealed. Who will be the bad guy? Who will save the day? I dunno...

Compare writing to painting. You have your living room that needs to be prepped before you paint. Carefully fill in and sand all the nail holes, prime the surface and then choose your colour. Test it in all lighting to make sure it's not going to look like puke in the morning light. Tape off the edges and paint the edges in a straight line before using the roller for the middle areas. Roll in a W shape to prevent thin spots.

Excruciating, huh? But the end result will keep you satisfied for years to come. With the right accessories and window treatments, you'll have a serene haven in which to sip your green tea and contemplate the finer aspects of life.

Then there's the other kind of painting. Fill your palette with colours and stand before a blank canvas. You see something in your mind's eye, and you let fly the paint. Use brushes, spatulas and sponges to mix texture and colour in a way that brings out an image that only a few can see.

You step back and study the painting. Yes, there's something there. But a few elements are missing. You can't put your finger on it, but you lovingly add a tweak and a dash here and there.

Eventually, you have a work of art that brings some to tears and others to question your sanity. But it's yours and you love it.

If you had to compare your novel to a painting, what would it be?

The Vault

2010-08-24T08:51:00.001-05:00

I've been spending a lot of time over at Twitterland, not only to goof around with author friends and spy on celebrities, but also to research agents while seeking representation for my latest novel.

I find that reading about their lives outside the office and interacting with them helps me to understand how they think. Yeah, I know... that sounds like I'm some kind of anthropologist doing a study, but it's a great way to discover whether our personalities mesh. And that's important, right?

Not surprisingly, many agents have become fast online friends. Not all of them represent the kind of books I write, but I still enjoy our online conversations about kids, shopping, the weather and such.

Some have requested my work through Twitter, which is an unexpected bonus. Some have passed on my work but we remain friendly online. We still have our share of cyber laughs over cyber pops.

This new author/agent dynamic can be thrilling. "Wow! Agent A likes me as a real person!" We feel like we've been given a free pass into another world.

But we can't let ourselves get carried away with the exhilaration of online friendship. It's too easy to let slip a tidbit or personal remark that was meant to be private. For us writers, making an agent uncomfortable or angry can feel like a shunning. Our new-found bond of trust can easily be broken and rarely repaired.

When participating in Twitter or Facebook conversations, or even commenting on a blog, I strongly suggest that we think twice before sharing our private correspondence with agents. Sometimes you have to lock your lips and throw away the key.

Sparklies

2010-07-23T21:57:00.001-05:00

I love reading books written by my writer friends, and recently picked up a copy of Stephen Parrish's The Tavernier Stones and I'm really enjoying it. Think of it as National Treasure except with an Amish Dude. Lots of intrigue and sparkly jewels and awesome maps and runes.

Anyhoo, Jason Evans over at Clarity of Night hosts some awesome short story contests. (He also writes like a symphony). I was close with his In Vino Veritas contest a while back, so I decided to jump in to win a signed copy of Stephen's book with Jason's newest contest, "Uncovered."

I managed to make it into The 40s Club with my entry Sparklies.

There are five days left to enter. I suggest you give it a try.

End of an Era

2010-06-28T21:38:00.000-05:00

Last week I dropped my daughter off on Main Street so she could do some shopping. I ducked into a parking lot and stared in shock at the scene across the street.

The Newmarket Community Centre arena, where my son enjoyed a brief Peewee hockey career, was gone. No, this wasn't the result of a tornado. This twisted pile of bricks, girders and aluminum siding was a victim of time.

I knew this day was coming, but not so soon. I've seen the demolition of many landmark buildings in this town over the last thirty-five years, but this one struck a chord. In my brief career as a hockey mom, I sat in those folding wooden seats, huddled with other parents under the only working heater while our kids slapped pucks against the boards with loud, echoing booms. Sometimes we stood at the standing area near centre ice so we could stamp our feet and hop about to keep warm. It was a great place to pan with our video cameras.

This was the place my son first strapped on skates and stumbled onto the ice. Smaller than his teammates, he fell at least twenty times until a boy took pity on him and kept pace, encouraging him with every stroke of the blade.

To get to the dressing rooms, one had to climb down a narrow set of stairs at the west end of the ice surface. We had a choice of three cramped rooms with scary looking shower stalls, scarred wooden benches and brass hooks to hang the kids' winter gear. Often, the parents crammed the steps in the tiny hallway while waiting for Coach to give the kids a pep talk after a particularly stressful game. Then we were invited inside, where we made arrangements for a post-game breakfast and the kids chatted about who made the best pass or almost got a goal.

Constructed before some building codes were in effect, this arena's parking lot straddled a tributary of the Holland River. One could see the babbling brook emerging from the east side. It ran right underneath the grocery store just south of the Community Centre.

This was the place where my son scored his first and last goal in the final minute of the Championship Game. An empty netter, and the place went wild. He still has the puck. Shortly afterward, Andrew hung up his skates, satisfied with his one-goal career.

We now have the Ray Twinney Centre, where the the Leafs' old farm team (Newmarket Saints) played, but it's not he same. It's a slick, shiny place and has no personality. We also have the spanking brand new Magna Centre but I haven't seen the inside yet except for a recent trade show.

There's nothing like the old, battle-scarred, barn-like rinks of the Twentieth Century.

Nothing.

Here is a history of the rink, (as well as the top picture) from the Town of Newmarket website:

• Originally named The Newmarket Memorial Arena in memory of those who lost their life in WW1,
the arena officially opened in December 1922.

• Built for a mere $40,000 and financed by Andrew Davis – the primary shareholder – the Town of
Newmarket purchased the arena for $33,000 in February 1945.

• In 1949, artificial ice was installed to prolong the skating season, and an extension was added
along the west end of the arena to accommodate ice-making equipment, dressing rooms,
washrooms, a lobby, a meeting room and additional seating.

• In 1970, the arena underwent major modifications, which included an exterior facelift and
enlargement of the ice surface to regulation size.

• The adjacent Community Centre was built in 1974 to address Newmarket’s increasing need to
provide space for community activities other than hockey.

• In 2002, the Community Arena underwent reinforcement renovations to the roof to extend the
life of the arena until the new Magna Centre was built.

• In 2007, the Magna Centre opened and the Community Arena was decommissioned.

• For years, the Community Arena was the event venue for Newmarket and it once hosted a variety
of special events including the Newmarket Home Show, Oktoberfest, and Newmarket’s
Bicentennial Celebration in 1980.

• A staple in Newmarket’s recreation history, the Community Arena was once home to the
Newmarket Redmen Hockey Team (winners of the 1933 Memorial Cup), and the Newmarket
Flyers Junior A Hockey Team.

• The Newmarket Minor Hockey Association House League Championships and the Newmarket
Minor Hockey League’s House League Tournament also called the Community Arena home.

My Comedy Fix

2010-05-24T10:07:00.002-05:00

Last weekend I took my grown kids to see Conan O'Brien's "The Legally Prohibited from Being Funny on Television Tour" at Massey Hall in Toronto. I had a blast, although most of the time I could only see Conan's arm due to the massive support pole that obscured centre stage.

Thankfully, a giant screen showed me the parts I couldn't see for real. I leaned in front of my son (annoying him immensely bwahaha) and managed to get some decent pictures of La Bamba and Andy Richter. However, every time I tried to photograph Conan, all I got was a tall, spindly white ghost. You'll have to take my word for it. He was there, really.

Massey Hall is a beautiful venue. I walked past its red doors countless times when I worked in Toronto but have never been inside. If I ever see another performance there, I'll take Ticketmaster's "obscured vision seating" warning at face value and pay extra for a better seat.

The show opened with a half-hour performance from Reggie Watts, a guy who reminded me of my brother in law Pete. He used an electronic sampler to create vocal percussion and background music while singing about how polite Canadians are. He bounced around in baggy jeans, his huge shaggy Afro tossing around his head like wings.

The band was awesome. I wish Max Weinberg was on the drums, but the guy they had was terrific. La Bamba, a cute soft guy in a Panama hat, led the band with his trombone and a surprisingly strong voice. I'd never heard him sing before. Usually, he just sits there while Conan makes digs at him.

Andy Richter was funny as hell and his off-the-cuff comments were well timed.

Most of the material was outdated by the time CoCo reached Toronto, but it was nice seeing him resurrect some of his 'bits' from his now defunct television show. He had to change the names due to restrictions from NBC, but the spirit of his old show was there. We even saw a video presentation of Triumph the Insult Comic Dog, with amusing spliced-in references to Toronto.

One of the highlights of the show was a prop that had nothing to do with Team CoCo. They had apparently purchased the giant inflatable bat from Meatloaf's Bat Out of Hell Tour, and it rose from behind the band in all its glory at least twice. It was the only thing I could get a clear picture of!

There were no surprise guests. No Jim Carrey, no Kiefer Sutherland, no random stars who happened to be shooting a movie in the area. Instead, we were treated to a sentimental rendition of "The Weight" originally performed by The Band.

During the encore, Conan left the stage with his guitar and gave everyone high fives and hugs. He appeared on our balcony level, then disappeared. Everyone glanced around and I looked behind me and saw the boom mike guy running along the aisle against the back wall. I knew Conan was right behind him and stretched out my hand while he loped past like a ghostly giraffe. My kids insist I was trying to grab him but I just wanted a High Five.

I'm starting to like this 'paying an arm and a leg to watch someone being funny.' I think I need a second income to feed this habit.

I'm No Longer a Virgin

2010-05-08T08:34:00.001-05:00

You see, I went to this writer's conference. It was my first time, and it didn't hurt a bit.

Last weekend, I made the hour's drive to Ajax, Ontario for the Ontario Writers Association Conference, a one-day extravaganza of workshops, panels, food and friendship.

I hesitated to part with my New York City savings to attend this conference, but Kevin, a fellow Absolute Write member and one of the organizers of the conference, convinced me to attend. I signed up for three workshops and had a 'blue pencil' session with an established author.

The workshops taught me things like how to wring a plot out of random ideas, and how to develop a character. I learned that popular fiction is nothing to turn your nose up at, and that memoirs can be freakin' hilarious.

Along with Kevin, I met two more AW members, and made a few new friends. While in line for dinner, I chatted with a dynamic looking woman about Buffalo. She said, "My first book is about Buffalo."

I discovered later she was the author of Too Close To The Falls, a humorous memoir about growing up in the 50's in Lewiston, NY. She spoke at dinner, cracking us up with tales about her precocious childhood with a non-domestic mother and a pharmacist father. Her delivery reminded me of Jean Shepard's dry wit. I bought her book and while she autographed it, we talked about childhood memories and how time can mold them into something different from facts.

My Blue Pencil Session was with Martin Avery, a multi-published author and writing teacher. He seemed positive about the opening pages of my manuscript, so I think I'm on the right track.

After dinner, there was a publishing panel, taking questions. We had a lively discussion with best selling authors, an agent and editor, covering everything from submissions to poetry to Book Espresso machines.

Later, several authors gave readings, and one gentleman mesmerized us with his rhythmic poetry. I met a hockey writer who asked me to send her a copy of Bad Ice.

I had a great time, came away with some nice books and a cool pen. I had a pleasant drive home and was only slightly tired from a sixteen-hour day. I highly recommend this conference, and I have a feeling it will grow in the years to come.

Pictured above: Caroline Wissing, Me, Kevin Craig and Danielle Gaudet Boldt. Photo courtesy of Kevin Craig.

The Sounds of Summer

2010-04-14T22:06:00.000-05:00

I always hear that phrase in musical form. Our local AM radio station needed a new call sign back in the dark ages. When I was eighteen, the owner offered me twenty bucks to record the snippet along with some dude I don't remember.

The studio was in the basement of The Arts Music Store in a local strip mall. I got to sit in a glassed-in booth and sing into a microphone bigger than my face. We did the same piece over and over again, and harmonized with the playback until we sounded like a choir. Then I got to sing, "The sounds of summer," all by myself.

They never aired it and I didn't get my twenty dollars, but the experience was fun.

Now that those lazy hazy days are around the corner, real summer sounds are imminent. Here are some of my favourites:

The crack of a wooden bat against a baseball
The call of a redwing blackbird
The zzzzzzzoip of a tent flap
The high pitched hum of a mosquito
The rumble of distant thunder
Waves lapping and hissing on sand
The dip of a canoe paddle in a lake
The call of a loon (My favourite sound of all!)
Lawnmowers in chorus across the neighbourhood
Steak sizzling on the barbecue
The tinkling music of an ice cream truck
The snick of a cap off a beer bottle

... and the aaaahhhhh as you settle back in a lawn chair.

What are your summer sounds?

Thursday Thirteen: A Timeline In Tweets

2010-03-25T18:01:00.000-05:00

Twitter is fun. I know, that's an understatement. Sometimes it's so hard to come up with something to talk about (especially when nobody listens), but brief 140 character tweets seem to be right up my alley. They are spontaneous, they're fresh and have a sense of immediacy.

Here are a few things I tweeted on the fly (so to speak). Some you might "get", and others are just funny to me, I guess:

1. I stare upward through bare branches at the blue moon and snowflakes fall slowly on my face. Happy New Year. 12:09 AM Jan 1st

2. I just realized my dog breathes like Darth Vader. 2:38 AM Jan 2nd

3. I kinda feel sorry for the cat when he has to open the back door with his face. Who opens things with their face? 8:42 PM Jan 9th

4. A quote from my dream last night: "What's with all the smoke? Is this freakin' Mordor?" 4:26 PM Jan 14th

5. Overheard by daughter: "What are you listening to? Sounds like opera." "Bohemian Rhapsody." "That doesn't sound like rap." 12:23 AM Jan 24th

6. That dog must think he's a rock star and I'm his b**ch if I'm gonna put him out to pee at one in the morning. 1:21 AM Jan 30th

7. Working on my synopsis & yet I have this compulsion to do recycling, laundry & poke my eye with a stick. 1:13 PM Feb 8th

8. Ridley the cat has 4 gears: Sleeping, eating, pooping and being an A-hole. 7:37 PM Feb 15th

9. Niedermeyer redeems himself & scores. TV guy: "At 36, he's not old." Husband: "I wish I was 36." Me: "I wish you were, too." 9:31 PM Feb 23rd

10. I know I'm in a bad way when I run from the kitchen to see what all the fuss is about in a curling match. 2:46 PM Feb 25th

11. My cousin is getting up & walking just a few days after his double lung transplant. Go Brian! 8:17 AM Mar 2nd

12. A man stood outside the liquor store holding a sign, "Having a bad day? Tell me off." I gave him points for imagination... & a dollar. 5:39 PM Mar 5th

13. The snow is receding like a glacier, leaving behind a moraine made of dog poo. 5:50 PM Mar 8th

The Other Side of the Canoe

2010-03-17T22:43:00.001-05:00

Today, the river that runs a few hundred feet past my house was in the news.

I've known this river since I was twelve years old. I sat on its banks to read my paperbacks on spring days when the grass was just dry enough to sit on without soaking my butt. The first warm rays of the late afternoon sun were so welcome after a dismal, cold and dark winter. Sometimes a groundhog poked its head out of a nearby hole and regarded me with suspicion before slipping back into its lair.

In winter, I once watched otters slither down a homemade snow slide into the frigid water. I saw footprints on the river. Ducks, mice, gulls, crows, and muskrats scampered across the frozen surface. Sometimes I saw slushy human footprints too, and marveled at the stupidity of the human race. Moving water doesn't freeze well.

When I was a teen, my friends and I traversed the banks of the river from Aurora to the border of East Gwillimbury. I fished off the old abandoned dam at the end of our street and caught a 'sucker fish', our name for carp. They weren't good eating, but I heard you could fertilize a garden with it.

Before they installed a proper bridge across the dam, we crossed via a narrow beam, but I often looked down at the churning waters and shuddered with trepidation.

My boyfriend had this brilliant idea. "Let's canoe from Cook Bay to your house!"

Being the love-struck teen that I was, I instantly agreed. We set the canoe in the water on a cloudy day and paddled upstream with the puppy he had given me. Quasi was so well behaved and she peeked over the gunnels, never attempting to jump out.

When it started raining we took shelter under the bridge at Green Lane. (I thought he was going to kiss me, but it turned out I had crud on my cheek. I thought that crap only happened in the movies). We then continued south. At times the water was so shallow we had to get out and carry the canoe, sloshing over smooth pebbles in our sneakers while Quasi stuck her tongue at us with glee because she was getting a free ride.

All in all, it was a pretty crappy trip and I chalked it up to my boyfriend's impulsive nature. (By the way, we didn't stay together. I married a very non-impulsive guy except for the time we drove to Niagara Falls on a whim.)

Today, I discovered why the helicopters hovered over my street and why the ambulance screamed across Davis Drive followed by a police car. A man had paddled his canoe southward on the Holland River and got caught in the intake valve of the dam at the end of my street. He must have struck his head and was swept over the falls along with his canoe. His body was recovered after some difficulty due to the violent undertow at the lower side of the dam. This is our local news report.

His name was Peter Stanton. He ran a school of dance here in town, and I remember watching him float across the dance floor with a fellow teacher during a night out with my girlfriends. He will be missed.

Howzit Goin', Eh?

2010-02-17T22:05:00.000-05:00

I hope everyone is enjoying the Olympics over on our left coast. I spent a brief few hours in Vancouver while on the way to the Okanagan Valley a few years ago and I think British Colombia has everything a person could possibly want. Mountains, valleys, rivers and the ocean. Mmmmm.

Anyway, while meandering through blogland and Twitter, I picked up a few tidbits under discussion:

During a chat on Twitter, authors and agents discussed cross-genre. What does this mean? A YA book written for adults? A book with two story lines like mine, one in adult and the other with a YA voice? Or is it mixing genres completely, like paranormal romance, urban fantasy, thriller/suspense/mystery etc. Is an author at a disadvantage when they haven't found their specialty or their focus, or is being versatile a good thing?

Yes, La Nora has managed to do it, but I'm talking about writers near the beginning of their careers.

Janet Reid brought up an interesting point, discussing the merits of being approachable. Years ago, a fan couldn't directly contact a favourite author except through the publisher. There are still many recluses who protect their privacy, but a record number are right out there on Facebook, Twitter, Myspace, Goodreads etc. Up-and-coming and bestselling authors share cyberspace, allowing readers to sneak a peek into their lives.

This accessibility can prompt avid readers to cling to an author as if he or she is a lifeline. That can be a really big responsibility. To help alleviate the pressure, an author can provide valuable links on their blog or website related to their writing subject. If an author becomes so well-known that he or she is inundated with questions, my guess is that it would be great to compile all the questions and make an FAQ page.

Having some kind of contact information will also help an aspiring author, especially if an agent wants to make contact. Providing a valid email address on your blog is a good start. It doesn't have to be a traceable address if you are concerned about privacy.

Speaking of privacy, many authors have concerns about stalkers. What if you get so popular and well known that you draw all the crazies out of the woodwork? I can't imagine that in my case, but I'm sure many memoir writers who handled sensitive subjects might encounter the occasional nut bar.

With the onset of the internet, what special precautions should we implement in order to keep our private lives private? Is a gmail account enough? Unfortunately, hacking is becoming more prevalent. I'm lucky my son is now studying Computer Security, so I can count on him to help keep my public private.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch... my search for agents is much easier than just two years ago when I was seeking representation. New faces, and some familiar ones I totally forgot about! It's like a sinkful of spoons. As I feel around in the soapy water, I always seem to find one more.

I'm not sending my queries all at once. After I send out a couple, I tweak the query a bit and then send another. When I update my query and send it out, sometimes I feel like I'm going to get an A from the teacher.

And on a final note, I'm thinking and praying for my dear cousin Brian, who has been placed on a waiting list for a double lung transplant. Also, my friend and fellow Champagne books author Mike Davis is battling cancer. Sign those donor cards, people!

It's Not All About Me

2010-01-25T11:47:00.000-05:00

Sorry I haven't been here in a while. The Christmas holidays were packed with cooking, family and good times. My college-age kids were home for three weeks and they kept me entertained.

I sang to Beatles Rock Band and scored 100%, thank you very much!

My novel THE YEARBOOK is complete and I am now dipping my toes in agent waters. I hope I don't sink. Still struggling with the synopsis, so agents who require it can relax for now.

Another reason I've been AWOL is due to the seductive allure of Twitter. It's like floating around in a big party, joining conversations without receiving haughty looks, and nibbling from a vast smorgasbord of Very Useful Information.

For instance, SherryGrammarian teaches us how to Speak Canadian, just in time for the Vancouver Olympics. Visiting Americans will find this guide very handy.

Jane Friedman over at Writer Unboxed offers her take on The Wall Street Journal's recent article Death of the Slush Pile. She also gives us other ways to attract positive attention using Internet networking.

Not to mention a few agents who allow us to peek into their lives, share some laughs and get great publication tips (waves to @Janet_Reid, @RachelleGardner, @DeirdreKnight, @BookEndsJessica & @LoriPerkinsRR).

Speaking of agents, a self-professed writer has been trolling around the Interwebs taking pot shots at top agents and editors, teaching us how to attract negative attention. I won't link to him. He knows who he is. I must admit I jumped in to help defend people who didn't deserve his vitriol, but since have taken my friends' advice and meet his words with resounding silence.

Good stuff:

Stuart Neville, a dear online friend, recently announced a film deal for his book The Ghosts of Belfast. Huzzah for Conduit!

Many of my wonderful writer friends had an excellent 2009 and are starting off 2010 with new releases, great reviews, representation and shiny new manuscripts.

GO GET 'EM!

Making New Memories

2009-12-24T07:00:00.002-05:00

Remember the Christmas when Grandma had a little too much to drink? Big brother Mike's surprise visit from overseas? The time everyone was stuck in a blizzard?

As we grow older, we mark the passing years with events rather than numbers. Christmas makes a convenient bookmark and helps us break the merging years into compartments. Happy ones, sad ones, lonely ones and often hilarious ones.

My French Canadian family always got together for Christmas Eve. This usually involved an overnight trip to Hamilton, where one of my dad's many siblings hosted the event.

I remember the year my sister invited her boyfriend and his best friend to accompany us to the extended family Christmas in Hamilton. Ken wasn't there five minutes when he knocked a display of knick knacks off the wall and shouted, "It wasn't me!" before the crash on the floor.

Once, my parents hosted in the house I now own. The tree was in the family room, and Dad had a swivel rocker beside the tree. My aunt leaned back a little too far and flipped backwards into the tree, her legs in the air.

There was the year I writhed in pain with a bad bout of the flu. I lay in my cousin's bed, wracked with pain while my dad sat on the edge of the bed stroking my forehead and murmuring, "I hate to see you like this."

There was the year my great uncle Edgar told a story in his heavy French accent about sneaking his buddies from The Legion into the apartment for a party while his wife was away. They burned a hole in the carpet and he tried to cover it up with fibre shavings and glue. When she 'got out the Hoover' and vacuumed up the patch, she was convinced the carpet was defective and had it torn out and returned to the store.

I remember my cousins and I playing ping pong in Uncle Eric's basement (which was perpetually decorated for Christmas - even in July). We talked about our crushes while our parents shouted "Yatzee!" in the dining room upstairs until the wee hours of Christmas morning.

After the cousins grew and nurtured their own families, we still got together a couple of weeks before Christmas. All the aunts and uncles and many cousins smoked like chimneys in Uncle Tony's farmhouse basement while little ones ran around, jumping on the furniture.

In recent years, Christmas has been celebrated in turn at my siblings' and inlaws' homes. We've had our own 'comedies of errors' like the time my brother in law overcooked the Christmas goose while waiting for my husband to arrive with his mother - many hours late. We ate the burned goose and invited Victor from next door to play his accordion. My sister and I ran outside to watch dancing shadows spill from the dining room window, across the sparkling snow.

Today I'll be vacuuming up dog hairs and peeling vegetables in preparation for my siblings to visit this house, the one we grew up in. I hope we create many memories here for ourselves, our grown children and their future families.

We'll be missing some key members of the family - my parents are on either end of the country, celebrating with their friends and loved ones but we'll be in their hearts and they'll be in ours. My husband's family is no longer with us, but we'll remember the great meals Nana made and the silly songs Grandpa sang.

My sister in law's family will be in Cuba, likely starting a tradition of their own.

Happy Holidays to all of you, and may 2010 be a stellar year or everyone.

...And the Bronze medal goes to:

2009-12-09T23:42:00.003-05:00

Yours truly! Today we had our Second Annual Ugly Sweater Day, and the competition was stiff. You may remember last year's entry.

Miranda used a huge felt stocking and cut out the bottom, decorating it with accouterments from the dollar store. The candy canes pinned to her back almost lost the title for her as they caused her to complain of back pain throughout the day.

Suzanne sported a lovely Frosty The Snowman outfit complete with holly-trimmed tophat and a snowman balaclava that could scare the piss out of any child.

Jean-Claude wore your standard black and white psychedelic sweater and he thought a Santa Hat would put him in the running. No dice, JC. You didn't cut the mustard.

Russ thought it would be funny to wear a Toronto Maple Leafs sweater since he considers that to be the ugliest sweater of all. I'll forgive him since he's a Habs fan.

I strutted around with my second-hand store treasure, purchased at Value Village, a second hand store which benefits needy families. I posed like a runway model to pimp more loose change, shaking my jar with the 'Sandy Claus' label.

Our goal was to entice our work colleagues to donate money toward the ugliest sweater, with all proceeds going to our Santa Fund which benefits local needy families. Through Ugly Sweater Day, our department raised $105 for an elderly lady to enjoy her Christmas. It's enough for a warm coat. We also chipped in with our own money to get additional gifts for her and her cat.

I hope everyone will think of individuals and families who have few resources to celebrate this Holiday Season and that you'll be generous when you see a local charity asking for donations.

During our turkey dinner lunch, I let slip that next year we should try a Christmas Carol Karaoke contest to raise funds. Eep, the publisher was right beside me. I'll bet we'll be doing that next year.

And I'll win, bitches!!!!

A Nice Review for Bad Ice

2009-12-07T09:19:00.003-05:00

I awoke this morning to a nice surprise. On the first day with snow that stuck, I received a lovely little review for Bad Ice from Bernita Harris. Bernita had won a copy of my book last year in a contest.

What sets Bernita's review apart from the others is her emphasis on the personality of the psychotic ex-girlfriend, Sheila rather than the romance between Jason and Christina.

Bernita specializes in suspense and paranormal writing. She has been away from us for a while, but she's back and better than ever!

Thank you, Bernita, for a lovely review!

My Dream Home

2009-12-03T22:06:00.004-05:00

Jason Evan's post about a recurring dream reminds me of a house I've visited dozens of times, yet I've never been there.

His place is eerie, but mine is awesome.

It sits at the end of a long dirt driveway, facing south. It's a "post and beam" home with an open concept. Windows line the sides and front, but the back has a solid wall, at least on the ground floor. It has warm barnboard walls and ceilings crisscrossed by thick wooden beams. Further back are guest rooms and a lot of bathrooms. I probably dream up all those bathrooms because I have to pee in the middle of the night. :)

A wooden staircase is in the middle of the house, open on all sides. It climbs three or four stories in a zig zag pattern. Along the way are random doors, some leading to more rooms and one a secret passageway with a shortcut to the basement. I remember a room at the very top, like a copula with windows all around, showing a fantastic view. It has a daybed with plenty of colourful cushions and a thick quilt. I imagine reading or writing up there, with the sunset streaming in.

The basement is a single space, like the ground floor of a barn. Lots of garden tools line the walls. It's dark because the windows are small, but light spills in when I open the large swinging doors that lead to the back. I'm guessing it's an underground garage slash workshop.

On the main floor, the kitchen is on the other side of the staircase. It is open to the living/dining area, like one big Great Room. The kitchen has cupboards with glass windows. I open the cupboard doors to see delicate looking plates on vertical racks. The next cupboard has elegant glassware and some vases or pitchers. All the cupboards have interior lighting, like little halogen pot lights, making the glassware sparkle.

The sink is one of those deep square copper lined deals, but it's full of dirty dishes! My dream house is a slob.

Antiques and collectibles fill every corner of the house, especially the second floor. Some are stored in trunks that serve as tables. From a window on the second floor I can see down the length of the driveway while sitting in a wooden rocking chair. I can see cars approach in plenty of time to head for the front door to greet visitors.

Behind the house, a path leads north through gently rolling terrain to open water. I think it's a large lake rather than the sea. It is often grey - I don't see the sun shining often in this place. Smooth rocks form an inlet, like a sheltered beach. The water here is shallow and clear. I imagine we have bonfires here.

I don't know why I dream about this house. I don't think it exists. But wouldn't it be cool if it did? In the meantime, I think I'll use this house in a future book.

A Holiday to Treasure (or Forget)

2009-11-26T00:42:00.006-05:00

I have experienced (but have not necessarily hosted) Thanksgiving dinners that have ranged from a Martha Stewart affair to something out of The Beverly Hillbillies. Thanksgiving doesn't seem to carry the same weight here in Canada as it does in the States - it’s pretty safe to say that we tend to reserve our real disasters for Christmas. Yup, we've had some doozies.

I like to divide Thanksgiving into two columns:

Turkey or microwave lasagna
Simmered cranberries in orange sauce or that squishy red log that comes out of a can with a thwup sound
Warm, steamy pumpkin muffins made from scratch or that frozen pie you slide into the oven and ends up charred on the edges
Green bean casserole or… er, sorry, I don't have a B column for that one. As a Canadian, I don't understand bean casserole. I think it belongs in both columns.
A time to embrace your family or a time to watch them while they have a full blown smack down fight about past wrongs
Whipped cream or edible oil product
Checking out the corn maze or trying to find a parking spot at the mall on Black Friday
Ralph Lauren or ugly Christmas sweaters
Macy's Parade or traffic jams getting to Mom's house
Cabernet or Bud Light
The sweet scent of good cooking or Uncle Edgar's post-meal farts

Which is your Thanksgiving? I sincerely hope that even with all its disasters, my American friends have a happy, healthy and stress-free weekend.

The Royal Treatment

2009-11-16T19:53:00.008-05:00

This past weekend my daughter and I drove to the city's edge and hit the subway to attend the annual Royal Winter Fair in Toronto. We hadn't been to this event since she was a wee girl, back when she really, really wanted to meet Ian Millar's valiant steed Big Ben, a prolific Grand Prix jumper.

We rode the subway downtown and caught the 509 Streetcar from Union Station. I didn't realize my daughter had never been on a streetcar. We rattled along Queen's Quay, passing Harbourfront and almost got off a stop too early. A couple with a toddler did get off too early and I guess they had to walk the rest of the way. Good thing they had a stroller.

The venue was huge. Retail booths filled the main concourse and I checked out a pair of leather riding boots. Seven hundred bucks!

We followed our noses to the food section and joined an infinite lineup for ten dollar chicken fingers. After ten minutes we lost patience and wandered about until we found a place that sold Chinese food. Eight bucks for a scoop of white rice and one spring roll and a few broccoli florets, but it gave us enough energy to carry on.

We found the cow exhibits and I waited while Beth sketched a few of them. I still can't get over how funny looking cows are. It's a miracle they can walk with those Dolly Parton udders between their legs. Hip bones and shoulder blades stuck out everywhere as they lounged in thick beds of straw. If aliens ever landed on Earth and saw a cow, they'd probably laugh their gills off.

The sheep were cuter. We saw sheep with coats, sheep with smiles and sheep with dreadlocks. One unfortunate Suffolk was in the middle of a panic attack, climbing the rails and blaring like an ambulance. Several keepers descended on the fellow to settle him down.

I picked a chunk of sheared wool off the floor and stuck it in my bag, but Beth made me throw it away. Humpf.

We climbed a steep wooden ramp to the upper levels of the Horse Palace and watched Arabians trot around a ring and looked at Percheron asses sticking out of standing stalls.

I watched chickens lay eggs and sampled jams, jellies and incredibly hot mustards.

Just before leaving, a voice over the PA system said, "Will the owner of a brown and white beagle puppy please report to the Lost Children Booth."

You gotta love agricultural fairs, even in the city.

She's Back!

2009-11-13T18:23:00.002-05:00

I just wanted to pop in to say that our dear Bernita is back. We all missed her terribly and her return is like a fresh breeze. Welcome back, Bernita!

How I'm Spending My Fall Staycation

2009-10-29T10:41:00.003-05:00

I scheduled a week's holiday but in spite of my shiny new passport, I have nowhere to go. I'm itching to go to NYC (as is my daughter) but I'll have to wait for a great excuse (an agent, perhaps?) and the means (lottery, anyone?).

Whaddaya know, the kids have their Reading Week break on the same week. Oh, well... not much writing time but we're having fun anyway!

We rented Beatles Rock Band and my arms are sore from being Ringo. My son forgot the microphone at college so I can't sing. Darn.

I installed a security strap on our green recycling bin. So far, it's working. The critters haven't managed to open it and spread coffee grounds and eggshells all over the driveway. Suck it, raccoons!

Tuesday night we had the opportunity to attend Standup For Kids at Winter Garden Theatre in Toronto. It featured a great lineup of comics - some you know and some were new to me: Mike Wilmot, Lewis Black, Seth Meyers, Irwin Barker, Kate Davis, Nikki Payne & Rob Pue.

I was pissing-my-pants laughing throughout the whole thing. They ran the gamut of motherhood to geriatric sex. Definitely for adult ears, but I sure got a great sense of what is funny these days.

I think Lewis Black is currently the Sage of stand-up comedy. He's developed a professional routine that presses every button. Out of the lineup, I enjoyed Irwin Barker's diffident delivery that reminded me of Bob Newhart.

Seth seemed to have a sore throat, but he was a trooper. My kids knew his whole routine by heart, bless them.

The Wintergarden Theatre was beautiful. It's on the upper level, above the Elgin. Seating is intimate with a capacity of around 1000 and the ceiling is covered with golden grape leaves and little lights. There isn't a bad seat in the house except perhaps for the one behind the tree trunk.

Yesterday we went to the mall so I can spend no money. Okay, I bought Halloween candy and the kids have already reduced it by one-third. We'll pick up a couple of pumpkins so my artist daughter can do her handiwork. I don't expect anyone will actually see them, since last year we had a total of zero-point-zero-zero trick or treaters. Thus, we can eat the other two-thirds of the candy.

I plan to convince my hubby to fire up the reciprocating saw he bought last week. No, not to film our own Halloween horror but to tear out and replace the horrible faucet in the basement powder room. If he gets carried away and takes out the whole bathroom, I won't mind in the least.

Last but far from least, I reached THE END on my WIP of The Yearbook. Now all I have to do is dive back in and add some spit & polish.

And The Winners Are...

2009-10-22T16:22:00.004-05:00

First of all I want to thank the participants for their lovely stories about friendship and generosity. It's amazing how much we would do for our friends.

A few hightlights:

Liane said, "We are programmed to be gentle, understanding and supportive of our friends no matter what, but sometimes the unvarnished truth is what they need to hear." This is so true. Although we want to make things easier for our friends, sometimes the tough approach will help set them on a better path.

Pat said, "I would wait for her till my last day then I would wait at the gates for her to arrive when ever that would be." True devotion through a lifetime, and beyond.

McKoala said, "And whether it's the right decision or the wrong decision, if it's what she wants, I help her to stand by it." Sometimes our friends just need us to be there for them, even if they make mistakes.

Dondi said, "It is a bond to be unbroken and words that never have to be spoken." Funny how our friends sometimes know when something's wrong, even if we don't call out for help.

Donna said, "I would do all that I could if I could." Sometimes simplicity is best. Just be there for your best friend.

Dhympna said, "I would do just about anything...even clean up puke and be puked upon." Yup, aside from puking toddlers, I've had to hold a friend's hair back more than once. That reminds me, my daughter puked rainbows once. She'd had a bowl of Froot Loops.

And finally, my mom Frances said, "She spent her last days at home, many nights I would listen just to her breathing for hours. Sometimes she would say 'Frannie,are you still there?'

I would say, 'I'm still here.'"

My mother's friendship with Nolie was extra special. Back in her healthy days, Nolie would talk for hours without taking a breath. My mom could make a cup of tea and start supper, then go back to the phone. Nolie didn't know the difference, happily prattling on.

Okay, I entered seven names in the draw, folded them up really tight and drew in the order of 3rd to 1st Prize.

3rd Place goes to... McKoala! Koala Bear, please email me your address and I'll put your copy of The Toast Bitches on the next boat to Down Under Land. Let me know how you'd like me to personalize your copy.

2nd Place is Dhympna! Please let me know where to send your copies of The Toast Bitches and Bad Ice, and how you'd like them inscribed.

And 1st Prize goes to Donna! I already know your address, so look for a package in the mail soon. Shoot me a Facebook message if you want me to write something special in your copy of The Toast Bitches (or you can just let me surprise you). Congratulations, and remember to share the wine when you take it to a party in its cozy blanket.

I hope all of you enjoy the books, and thank you so much for participating. You are all great friends.

What Would You Do for your Best Friend?

2009-10-17T14:31:00.008-05:00

Sometimes a writer works through adversity and crafts the best novel they can in spite of the odds. When I wrote The Toast Bitches a year ago, I drew upon the lifelong loyalty and friendship that can get a girl through her darkest days. Although The Toast Bitches is purely fiction, I borrowed from the personalities (with their permission) of three wonderful women I've known for over twenty years.

I strove to show how best friends can support each other through bad boyfriends, bad hair days and bad sex. Even when people lack judgement, their BFFs guide them out of the jungle of big mistakes.

I'd like to celebrate the trade paperback release of The Toast Bitches by having a giveaway contest!

Just tell me (in the comment section) what you would do for your Best Friend Forever in a given situation. Use your imagination. This will also work for Wing Men (guys, you could learn a thing or two from this book) and Sisters, too.

The Toast Bitches is on the super spicy side when it comes to sex, so be warned. Also, in spite of the explicit content of this novel, please keep your comments on the tame side. After all, this is a PG (Pretty Good) blog. But try to amuse the other posters, too! Oh, what a delicate balance between naughty and nice.

I'll randomly draw for three prizes:

First Prize: An autographed copy of The Toast Bitches plus a beautiful "Wine Cozy" (hand-knitted to replicate the famous Hudson's Bay blankets) created by my good friend Debbie Hannigan. Perfect to keep your bottle warm or cold when going for a BNO (Bitches Night Out).

Second Prize: One autographed copy each of The Toast Bitches and Bad Ice. If you already own Bad Ice, you can give it as a gift - just let me know the name of the recipient so I can personalize it accordingly.

Third Prize: One autographed copy of The Toast Bitches.

The contest is open now, and will close at midnight, Wednesday October 21, Eastern Whatever Time. I'll announce the winner Thursday evening.

A quick recap of The Toast Bitches, as written by the lovely Fern at LASR:

"You have the youthful Hana, a woman that’s got a yen for the gorgeous but elusive Adam who isn’t what he seems. The saucy Pepper, a woman that has left behind domestic bliss for her unrealized version of happiness. The soft spoken Corinne, whose overly possessive husband is having an affair that ends their marriage. And the nurturer Paige, whose portrayed happy marriage isn’t as blissful at it seems...

...Each Toast Bitch represents an issue women face at some point in their lives–blind attraction, a bad marriage, a skeleton in the closet, the need to branch out even when what you want is directly in front of you–providing something everyone can relate to."

Twits, please re-Tweet. Facebookies, please re-Face. I'll deliver the packages anywhere, just expect a slow boat if it's going to Australia.

Edited to Add: Anonymous participants, You don't have to sign into Blogger to comment, but please provide some kind of a name at the end of your post so I can identify you for the draw.

Let the BFF Marathon begin!

So Bitter Yet Still Sweet

2009-10-12T16:26:00.004-05:00

I'm in a reflective mood today.

Sitcoms and movies generally depict the Thanksgiving Holiday as a time when emotions rise to the top. Sometimes the characters air old grievances, only to discover the true meaning of family arising from the ashes of a burnt meal.

Sometimes family secrets slip out by accident, sparking loud debates. Sometimes the rigid patriarch fails to keep traditions intact, and slouches off to pout in a corner. The movie or show always seems to end with a group hug no matter how disfunctional the family.

In the past, our own Thanksgiving holidays have been, well, thankfully uneventful. We had small gatherings, saving the real party for Christmas. Our Thanksgiving is much earlier than the American holiday, so it sits apart from the Christmas launch.

As most of you remember, last Thanksgiving was the beginning of a month-long nightmare. A dear family member had a fight with his parents and ran away in a fit of temper. He didn't know that was his last day on Earth, and we didn't know for weeks afterward.

I wrote about the funeral while it was fresh in my mind, but didn't release the words to the public. I felt almost guilty for still having my children when my sister and brother in law lost one of theirs. I hope they don't mind if I tell you now.

The visitation on Thursday started an hour early for us, before the public. We arrived at the funeral home, running the gauntlet of a few photographers and news cameras.

When we joined the family in the reception room, they started a Power Point video with music, using photographs of Brandon from his birth to his teen years. We had contributed some of them, from countless birthday parties and family outings. When the music started (John Lennon's Beautiful Boy) and the pictures flashed on the screen, my breath caught in my throat. His smile was brilliant in each photo and his spirit shone out at us. Everyone was sobbing. I'm glad we were able to see the whole presentation in its glory before anyone else got to see it.

Later, we sat and watched hundreds file past us to offer their condolences to Brandon's family. Some offered us their hands and hearts as they passed us. An hour passed and the people kept coming.

Eventually, we felt it was time to go since it was going to be a very long day for the family. We joined the line to say our goodbyes, and my niece handed us Sharpie markers and invited us to inscribe a message to Brandon on the casket.

I wrote, "Binky (that was his nickname), keep your stick on the ice. Love, Aunty Sandy."

We left through the lobby and saw the line of well-wishers stretch through the room, continuing out the front door.

Thursday night I had a fitful sleep, my dreams scattered. Whenever I woke up, one of the songs from the memorial video played in my mind. The last dream was disturbing – a mudslide in which people attempted to avoid being swept away by jumping into caskets. Weird.

We got up early Friday morning and arrived on time at the Crisp home. Already the kitchen was full to the gills. Gordon, a family friend, was scheduled to read letters from the family to Brandon. He was apparently nervous, drinking Stella Artois for breakfast.

We sorted ourselves out and piled into three limos for the procession to the funeral home. The limo driver was nice. When every light turned green, I asked him if the limo was programmed to do that or was it just a coincidence. He laughed and said he had a magic button.

We arrived at the funeral home and gathered again. We met Sgt. Dave Goodbrand, the detective in charge of the search for Brandon. The pain was clear in his eyes, and he looked exhausted. He'd been under some scrutiny in the media and I really felt sorry for him. We each shook his hand and thanked him for all his help.

After about a half hour, the Director gave instructions to the pallbearers (my husband included) and we got back into the cars to go to the church. That was a difficult part. Everyone else was already inside waiting, and the press was assembled right beside the entrance. We waited for the casket and proceeded through yet another gauntlet.

It felt strange, having fifty-odd cameras trained at my face. I didn't look at the cameras, just kept my gaze trained at the doors.

We were right behind the family, and Brandon's twin sister finally unleashed her grief, sobbing uncontrollably as we walked into the church. My own kids clung to my arms as if they would never let go.

We waited in the alcove before proceeding into the main part of the church. Brandon's grandmother was right in front of me and I could see her head shaking as if she had an immense chill. I wrapped one arm around her. My other sister in law almost collapsed behind us. A family friend said, "A little help here?" and a church official quickly brought a chair.

Since we had joined the line right behind the Crisps, we were instructed to sit in the front row. During the service, Gordon read letters from the family to Brandon. The first was from his twin. She talked about his sense of humour and that she lost her other half. His older sister (my son's age), said that when they got into fights, they wouldn't last long because he always made her laugh in the end. She said he was guaranteed a space in the VIP section in Heaven.

His mom said there was a hole in everyone's hearts now that he was gone, and his dad thanked him for everything – being a kid, being funny, being loved, and for being a beautiful boy.

Father Frank's homily was emotional and comforting. He talked about the importance of community, and how these events could only bring families closer together. His voice broke a few times. It must be so hard for clergy to deliver such heartbreaking sermons.

One of the things he said stuck in my mind. "Be cautious around those who tell you they know why Brandon died. Seek out those who tell you why Brandon lived."

After Communion, we left with the lovely choir singing above us. Again, a gauntlet of photographers. When the limos filed out of the driveway, we noticed a lone policeman in the shade of a pine tree, saluting. His search dog sat beside him.

Along the way, police cars blocked off intersections to allow the procession through. Each officer stood beside his or her car, saluting us. Construction workers stood in a parking lot, their bright yellow hardhats held against their vests. A woman stood at a corner with her dog, and made the sign of the cross as we passed her.

The interment was equally emotional. Many mourners followed us to the cemetery and gathered around a canopy under which my husband and his fellow bearers put Brandon. We also added an urn containing the ashes of Brandon's grandfather, who had given him the nickname "Schmidt" because he was a strong little toddler.

After the interment, the limos dropped us off at an eatery close to the family's home. The owners laid out a great spread, and the place was stuffed with friends and family. We stayed for an hour or so, then figured it was a good time to go. It was really busy and we were soooo emotionally drained.

A year later, dear Binky is always in our hearts and dreams. He was and is a Beautiful Boy.

When I think of my family, my kids, my husband, I am truly thankful that we live and laugh together. I'm thankful that my kids talk out their grievances and hug them out afterward.

I'm truly thankful that we have such a beautiful planet, and each day on it is a joy for me. Fuzzy kittens, flowers and all that stuff.

Cheers.

Busy September in Chumplet Land

2009-10-02T21:06:00.004-05:00

Let's see... We filled a dumpster with useless junk so the Danger Room isn't so dangerous any more.

We packed up our kids and shipped them off to college. They actually stayed put for two weeks at a stretch, so Chumpletland is quiet and reasonably tidy. They're here now because... well, because.

We had the eavestroughs and gutters replaced, with two extra downspouts at the front of the house. When the rain rain rain comes down down down, it no longer pours from the fireplace and it doesn't crawl across the basement floor. I no longer dread downpours. Let it rain, baby!

Three days ago, the furnace quit. I huddled in my bed with three layers of fuzzies and a magic bag warmed in the microwave. It almost lasted through the night. Almost. My little nose got cold. Hubby scheduled the furnace guy to visit the next day so I quickly swept up the furnace-slash-laundry-slash-ugly room so the repairman wouldn't be too grossed out.

I also gathered up the newspapers from the floor of the downstairs bathroom, just in case. Would a repair guy ask to use the bathroom? Nah, he wouldn't -- that would be inappropriate, right? Still, the downstairs bathroom is a bit of a shithole. Excuse me, I mean an ugly room lined with that paneling you see in construction site office trailers.

We've known the furnace guy for a while. He replaced our old oil furnace with a gas unit fifteen years ago and returned for a few inspections along the way. He moves a little slower these days, and I empathized as he plodded down the stairs and groaned while he crouched to look into the furnace's guts. He poked and prodded the innards of the furnace, then concluded that it had been shooting out almost twice the gas required to do the job. This caused the furnace to overheat and shut down in self-defense.

I was wondering why the gas bills had been slowly rising the last couple of years. I thought it was the rising price of natural gas.

Furnace guy headed out the front door to get a replacement part, but promptly returned asking if he could... OMG... use the bathroom. He looked a little anxious, so I instinctively said, "Okay." I mean, what heartless person could possibly say no?

My mind's eye flashed, seeing the crappy basement bathroom and the slightly less crappy main floor bathroom. I pointed him to the main floor loo and he thankfully retreated, tugging at his stained coveralls.

He was in there for what seemed like forever, but it was only about five minutes. Obviously the guy was suffering from some kind of gastric distress. I tried to ignore the sounds coming from the bathroom but living in a bungalow, you can't get far away from ANY sounds.

After profuse thanks, he went to get the part and returned with a couple of extra filters. $378 dollars later, I waved him out the front door. I ventured into the bathroom to give it a quick squirt of Airwick, and noticed the dust bunnies, toothpaste encrusted sink and the pile of towels on the floor. Boy, he must think we're total slobs. Oh, I forgot... we are.

I don't know who was more embarrassed, him or me. To lessen my pain, the least he could have done was throw in the $5 filters. I don't know what I could have done to lessen his pain.

The next day, my coveted box of books arrived: twenty shiny copies of The Toast Bitches. Hmm... maybe I should give one away? How about a contest?

The Toast Bitches Released in Paperback!

2009-09-15T21:41:00.003-05:00

I dawdled over to Amazon to check whether my sexy chick lit The Toast Bitches was in print yet, and whoopee! There it was! I don't know how long it was available in print (it says September 11) but it showed up in the search tonight.

I hope my friends will order a copy - reviews are on the sidebar. Be warned: it has adult content, so it's a little spicier than Bad Ice, and a LOT spicier than The Space Between. Still, it isn't quite as hawt as some of the other Ravenous Romance fare.

The ensemble cast features Hana, Paige, Connie and Pepper as they form a lasting bond at Dempster Media, gathering in the break room for tea and toast. When Pepper leaves the company, the girls add a new venue – Paige's cottage in the woods – where, over cocktails and gossip, the four friends trade secrets and sex tips.

Pepper abandons her domestic life, restlessly flitting from man to man looking for the perfect balance of sex and compatibility. Will she find it, or was it always right in front of her?

Sweet, sexy Connie's infinite patience can't save her when her jealous husband leaves her for another woman. Now single, she attempts to relocate her sensuality with a hunky handyman.

Paige is the earth mother, sprinkling snippets of advice like herbs on a salad. Married to her high school sweetheart, she seems to have the perfect life. But she carries her own secrets…

Small-town Hana tests her sexual boundaries with hot editor Adam, but she gets more than she bargained for. When he asks her to experiment with BDSM, she panics and calls off the relationship, setting off a chain of catastrophic events that brings the four women closer than ever.

The Toast Bitches juggle families, boyfriends, ex-husbands, bosses and each other in a hilarious and sexy roller coaster ride.

Who's a Bad Ass?

2009-09-12T13:46:00.007-05:00

Eric Stone's post on badasses immediately made me think of my dad. At first glance, Dad doesn't look like tough guy, but as a child I always saw him as some mysterious entity hiding much more than the naked eye could see. His posture, his raised eyebrow and his dry comments told a deeper story than the accountant personae he revealed. Often, he struck fear in our misbehaving hearts with just one intense glare.

He once told me a story about being in a bar fight. He was minding his own business, having a beer when a fight broke out. Someone tossed a guy across his table just after he picked up his beer. He didn't spill a drop. When the table was swept clean of said guy, he put his beer back on the table. At least, that's how I remember the story.

He grew up in Minto, a mining town in northern New Brunswick. He has lots of tough guy stories, some true, and some probably not so much. He had many jobs: fim reel delivery guy for a major movie distributor, coal miner, tobacco picker. He used his razor sharp mathmatical brain to work his way to a white collar position at a national construction company, then was wooed by an international construction company to help out with a financial mess in Algeria. He still cruises around the world, having worked in places like Mexico, El Salvador, Saudi Arabia, Nigeria and soon, Siberia.

In his travels, he made many friends. Some were high profile leaders of the equality movement who died for their beliefs, and some were associated (by family) with enemies of Democracy. He always seemed to leave a project just before a coup, an earthquake or a major government shakeup. I often joke that he's really a spy.

Gee, Dad, I hope I didn't blow your cover.

Happy 73rd Birthday to my favourite Bad Ass.

Where Pixies Abound

2009-09-01T18:09:00.003-05:00

I'm a guest blogger over at Rachael de Vienne's blog Sha'el Princess of Pixies. I met Rachael in her pixie personae while visiting blogs like Miss Snark and Evil Editor. Her enchanting book, Pixie Warrior, is published by Drollerie Press.

Isn't that the sweetest cover?

Another Starry Night

2009-08-27T18:58:00.007-05:00

The views from our hotel

For our anniversary, we went to one of those places that folds the bathroom tissue into a point in the public washrooms. We arrived according to my on-line receipt, but the lady behind the counter said we were a day early. Good thing I’d printed out the receipt – I showed it to her and she corrected the info on the computer. We were given a room, stat. I’m glad to say it still had a balcony facing the waters of the Trent-Severn waterway. It was also pretty fancy.

We had a few hours before meeting my friend Val and her husband Ted for dinner, so we took a walk into beautiful downtown Port Severn. It has forty marinas, ten residences, two hotels, an ice cream place and one general store. Bonus item: one liquor store. It’s also the kind of place where everyone says hello, even the kid riding by on his bike.

The Severn Bridge is a combination of a swing bridge (to let big boats through) and a lock for the smaller vessels. The bridge was closed to automobile traffic due to construction, so we had to walk across the locks to get to the bustling downtown area.

Closing the lower gates

Waiting for the water to rise

Two large wooden gates hold the water at bay, and the operators turn big cranks to open and close the gates. As one gate opens, the water rises in the lock, and boats rise with them. Then they close the gate and open the other one. It’s kinda like an escalator for boats so they can get past the falls. (John Elder Robison would love this stuff. He's totally into large turning cog things made of iron.)

Cogs 'n stuff

We explored the lower portion of the falls where the water churned violently from the dam opening, wearing the Shield rocks smooth. After exploring the rocks, we climbed up the stairs and squeezed past the mechanisms on the gates to reach the other side.

Lower portion of Severn River

We fought pedestrian traffic (one kid on a bike and a family of four) and picked up a bottle of wine to take back to our room in case Val and Ted decided to accompany us for a nightcap. They had promised a moonlight boat ride through the waterways after dinner.

We met them at the other hotel dining room and had a lot of laughs. Ted charmed Natasha the bartender into creating some pretty wild fruity-tinis for him, and we enjoyed the outrageously expensive meal.

After paying our half of the bill ($100 yikes!) we followed Val and Ted across the lawn to the darkened boat slips. I expected them to have a little 12-foot runabout with an outboard motor, but he stopped at a large pontoon ‘party boat’. I thought he was just joshing us until he turned on the motor. Woo Hoo!

Val had beers and coolers and a couple of blankets ready for us, and we pushed off into the waterway. We had a delightful leisurely cruise through misty waters and under a fantastic explosion of stars. The chill in the air collided with the soupy water and created swirls of mist on the surface. I stood at the front of the boat and felt as if we were floating on clouds.

Captain Ted on the SS Rodd

Ted knows these waters like the back of his hand - he spent every summer of his childhood around the bays and inlets. He pointed out sprawling cottages owned by CEOs and sports heroes. At one point, he cut the motor and we sat on the cushioned benches in the middle of Gloucester Pool, a wide area of the Trent waterway. We sat silently in the darkness, listening to loons. Someone at a cottage beyond the trees set off fireworks and I felt like they were doing it just for us.

I lay on my stomach on the deck and reached through the gate, dipping my fingers in the warm water, disturbing the start that studded the black surface.

On the way back to the Inn we made a quick pit stop at their house for a potty break. We collected their Labrador retriever Trooper so the old girl could have a little ride with us. She’s 13 going on 50 - just like my Chester - and she leaned against my leg to keep her balance whenever the boat wobbled over gentle swells.

Val and Ted slid the pontoon boat into one of the slips at our Inn and delivered us safely to our doorstep. What a magical evening!

Still Crazy After All These Years

2009-08-25T07:00:00.000-05:00

The first time I saw him, I had just completed a 1.5 hour bus and subway ride from Newmarket to my first day on the job as a camera salesperson in a retail shop in northern Toronto. I was 20 minutes early and sat in the quiet mall, reading my book. A young man arrived to unlock the sliding partition and disappeared behind the counter.

I got up and and peered through the slats of the partition until he re-emerged from the small rear office. "Excuse me, I'm starting here today," I announced.

He peered at me through his oversized glasses and I noticed his big-ass brown eyes. "Finally! They decided to hire somebody!" He let me in and showed me around. I knew my way around a camera store since I'd worked for the same company at another location. This was just a temporary assignment until my local store had an opening.

He was the assistant manager, and I quickly made friends with him and my other fellow workers. Within a couple of months, we were a tight group and a crack team in the store.

He had a girlfriend, but the relationship seemed a little rocky. Just before Christmas I was sorting lens filters in a drawer and casually asked one of the girls, "So... is he going to the company Christmas party with her?"

She said, "Oh, didn't you know? They broke up last week."

I grinned at the filters. "Oh... that's too bad."

During the company shindig, we started to talk about horses. I mentioned I liked to ride, and he said, "We should go trail riding sometime."

He mentioned a stable to the east of the city. We made arrangements to meet up at the bus stop (he didn't have a car) and went riding on a cold, clear day. It wasn't a date, just a couple of friends enjoying a winter activity.

It wasn't long before a blizzard moved in, and the guide led us back to the barn, slipping and sliding on ice patches covered with powdered snow. We went back to the bus stop and the wind and snow battered us. The stop lacked a shelter, so we stood withour backs to the wind and huddled for warmth until an old model car with pom-poms all around the windows rolled to a stop beside us. The kind man gave us a ride to the closest stop with a glass bus shelter.

Our second non-date was closing time on New Years Eve. I was scheduled to catch an overnight train to Cochrane, a town in northern Ontario to visit my sister and her husband. There was enough time to catch a bite before boarding the subway to Union Station, so we decided to grab some dinner before he went home to his parents' house.

Several restaurants in the area were already booked, but we found a table at a little pub on Yonge Street. We both noticed we mixed our peas with our potatoes and laughed. The waiter gave us free champagne and we toasted the arrival of 1982.

I paid for my portion and accepted a little peck on the cheek, then boarded the Yonge subway south while he hopped on the Bloor Street West train. Again, it wasn't a date.

We went out as a group with our co-workers to movies and dinners for the next few months. As springtime thawed the ice on the sidewalks, we gathered at a little restaurant with a second floor lined with bookshelves.

When the other couple left to visit the facilities, he leaned toward me and said, "This has been a long time coming," and he kissed me.

When he visited me in Newmarket, he had to take a city bus, then the subway and then a regional bus, then walk up my street. I often waited at the top of the hill and my heart gave a little jump when I saw his familiar silhouette.

We married in 1984. Our wedding was modest -- Dad provided the catering and I made my own multi-tiered banana wedding cake. It was ugly as Hell but delicious. We danced to Blue Danube and then enjoyed all the 80s dance tunes.

Along with the arrival of two children and lots of tears and laughter, we skidded through the years.

Today is our 25th Anniversary. As long as the laughter outnumbers the tears, we'll cruise together far into the future.

(I'd show you a picture but I can't find the damn photo album!)

From Star Fall to Tree Fall

2009-08-21T20:51:00.003-05:00

My friends to the south have the sense to take proper precautions when active weather approaches. However, being a wide-eyed innocent when it comes to disasters, I react in a different manner.

When I arrived home from work yesterday afternoon I heard an ominous rumble to the west. Yup, another storm a'comin'.

We have several estimates out to have our eavestroughs replaced but in the meantime we have to batten down the hatches every time a thunderstorm approaches. My husband and I placed a sheet of plastic across the front of the house and made sure the fireplace was equipped with buckets. Since our Shop Vac is on the fritz, I didn't want to deal with a wet floor and wringing out towels and Sham Wows.

Sure, it burns calories but who needs that kind of exercise?

I parked myself near the living window to watch the rain and wind lashing the trees. I didn't have a good view of the sky (too many trees) but every flash and boom made me go, "Ohhh.. that was a good one!"

I had no idea things were serious until the Weather Channel started talking tornadoes. They're rare around these parts - maybe ten F2s per year, but yesterday there were about five funnel clouds or suspected tornadoes in one afternoon.

The first was northwest of here, in Durham. Several people were injured at a day camp, and one 11 year old boy was killed by flying debris.

A large cell went through Vaughan, southwest of my location. 600 homes were damaged, with about 60 deemed unsaveable. Minor injuries, but no deaths reported.

The same cell traveled east and curled north, just missing the centre of my town. A tornado touched down at a local riding academy east of here, where a show was in progress. Witnesses say trailers were overturned and a pony was lifted with all four feet off the ground. A young rider gripped her horse's lead while a section of arena roof tore away above their heads. Nobody was hurt at that location.

I love storms. The power of weather is awesome to me, and the photographer and writer in me wants to absorb every moment. In another life I would have been a storm chaser. I had to resist the urge to run outside to take pictures. If we were forced to hide in the basement, I had my little mini lappy all ready to record my moment-to-moment experience.

Once when we were kids, my sister stood in front of our picture window and shouted, "I LOVE the lightning!" and a bolt struck the house across the street with a giant fireball. The lights went out, everyone screamed, the dog ran under the couch and my grandmother missed the bathroom by about two feet and ended up in the hall closet.

When I was a teen, the trees in front of our house were small so we could see across the street. A lightning strike caused a phenomenon called "St. Elmo's Fire" - a ball of fire rolling across the ground.

Later, when my daughter was a baby, we were driving in the countryside when a massive cold front rolled in and caught us unprepared. We parked the car as close to a ditch as we could and hunkered down. Before the storm hit my husband and I brought out our cameras and captured images of a solid wall of blackness careening across the sky. This was before the digital era so all I have are some slides and negatives somewhere.

My daughter sat in her car seat in the shaking vehicle, her brown eyes wide. She was only a little nervous, probably because her mommy and daddy were so calm. I guess our fear of mortality hadn't set in yet. Even today she sits in her room during storms, ignoring the call to round up the cat and dog and hit the basement.

I saw a funnel cloud try to form while we watched from the observation deck of the CN Tower in Toronto. I've never really seen a tornado with my own eyes, but I dream about them all the time. I wonder what that means?

The house (and the fireplace and the basement) survived yesterday's onslaught. I had visions of our office being carried away overnight, but alas I had to report to work this morning. Sigh. We have one tree split in half by a wind shear last week, but it's safely tucked into the crook of another tree. We'll call the tree guy after the eavestroughs are done.

Our problems are miniscule compared to the many families in Vaughan and those who lost a little boy in Durham. My prayers go out to them.

When all is said and done, I'm rather thankful we live in a section of town where nothing ever happens - except, of course, for the elephants.

In the meantime we plan to take advantage of a rare weekend of sun and hit the beach. Unless, of course, there's a storm.

Star Fall

2009-08-12T19:16:00.008-05:00

Last night I wrapped a blanket around me (to keep the mosquitos at bay) and ventured out to my backyard to watch the Perseid Meteor Shower. Trees surround my yard so I had to position my patio chair in the middle to get the most coverage. By the time I was settled, my quilt was dripping wet from the dewy grass.

I didn't realize how quiet a town can be at midnight. We're a sizable community, but all I heard was the distant hum of traffic from the 404. A single cricket chirped off and on. I thought there would be more crickets in August but it's been damp and cool most of the summer. I also heard the sleepy peep of a bird in the next yard.

Although the sky was clear, dew fell, each drop hitting the leaves of the trumpet vines on the back of the house like soft, intermittent rain. I guess I'm not as deaf as I thought I was. It's odd to be surrounded by a kind of silence you can actually hear.

I tucked my head into the quilt and felt the cool night air on my nose. I stared at the sky and could swear it was visibly rotating. You know how you stare at something long enough, it seems like it's moving?

A few things did move. A satellite drifted past, like a star that had broken away from the pack to seek its own fortune.

After a half hour of patience, I was rewarded by one meteor that passed over the house in a long streak. No multicoloured tail like the websites promised, but it was enough to make a wish.

Then the mosquitos located me and I retreated into the house.

Maybe tonight I'll try to add to my wish collection.

Chester

2009-08-03T11:55:00.008-05:00

Thirteen years ago his mom, a Siberian husky, backed up to a snowbank to accommodate his dad, a Shetland sheepdog.

That's what the owner told us when we went to Mount Albert to pick out a puppy.

Seven of them romped around in an enclosed dog run. Some resembled mini-collies, and others looked like grey-furred huskys with blue eyes. We'd Googled "How to pick the perfect puppy" and tried all the tricks:

1) Call the pup. If it comes to you and follows you, it gets points.
2) Pick up the pup and turn it on its back. If it struggles briefly, then settles, it gets points. If it freaks out, no dice.
3) Stroke the pup from nose to tail. If it tries to reach back and bite you, it loses points.

There were more, but I can't remember. Two pups were in the lead. They looked the same - sable tri-colour markings - except the female had a broad strip down her nose and one blue eye. She lost the contest because she was a little nippy (bitchy). We chose the male.

During the drive home, the kids listened while Mark and I discussed names. We went through a list of my former pets - Sabado (Saturday in Spanish) Quasanche (Little Girl in Ojibway) Gidgimidge (Asshole in Mik'Maq), Tippy (well, you know, tippy). Can you tell I'm into languages?

My husband's past name choices were simpler: Morris the cat, Chloe the sausage dog, Chester the other cat, Chester the cockatiel, and Simon and Garfunkle the budgies. And he's the one with English as a second language. Go figure.

While cuddling the puppy in the back seat, my four year old son picked up on the name Chester and declared that should be the puppy's name. And so it was.

Chester passed more tests - housetraining, sit, stay, speak etc. There was one bad habit we couldn't break. He was an excellent escape artist, and when he got loose he ran. He ran and ran. It must have been the sled dog in him because we couldn't get him to stop. Several times, neighbours called to tell us our dog was in their backyard playing with their kids.

During one chase I drove around the neighbourhood in the dark and caught the white tip of his tail waving in my headlights. By that time he was exhausted and glad to get a free ride home. Another time my son (by then about ten years old) chased him for blocks and lost a shoe in the snow. He didn't take time to stop and kept running through the slush until he caught up with the little bugger. We never recovered the shoe.

I posted a while back about Chester's aversion to loud noises. Lately, it seems his hearing is suffering. When a storm brews, the cat hides behind the furnace but Chester keeps snoozing. This was a welcome relief during the last fireworks display at the end of the street. At least my rugs are now safe from panic pee.

I ask him if he wants to go out, but doesn't respond until I point at the back door. Hand signals I'd taught him years ago are now alternative forms of communication.

He gets up slower and walks bowlegged. I taped squares of carpeting to the hardwood stairs so he could make it to the main floor of our raised bungalow without stumbling. His butt is disappearing. If he was human, he'd look like one of those guys who yells at kids to get off his lawn. He sleeps most of the day and paces around like a Nervous Nelly most of the evening. He's starting to smell like an old couch.

I know he's getting older, and the inevitable scenario approaches, but like Scarlett O'Hara I don't want to think about that right now. His vet says he's healthy considering his age. My daughter, however, worries about every wart and lump and nosebleed.

I always took the logical approach when dealing with pet loss, offering condolences when needed and looking back with affection at the lives of various beloved companions. I took my neigbour's dog for her final journey to the vet when he couldn't. It was a sad event, stroking Gypsy's ears when the life left her eyes, but I didn't cry. She was no longer suffering. She was going to a better place.

When a co-worker recently chose to euthanize her dog due to age and disease, I gave her a hug and wondered why they'd taken so long to make their decision. The dog had seizures, couldn't stand on her own, didn't eat, etc. They had made repeated visits to the vet with no diagnosis for her various symptoms that had taken away her quality of life.

A couple of weeks ago, I watched Marley and Me against my own advice. I teared up more at Jennifer Aniston's post-natal depression than Marley's decline. I wondered if something was wrong with me. Am I some kind of emotionless bitch?

Yesterday I looked at Chester and called him over to me. He stiffly sauntered close and I stroked his smooth forehead like I always do. The fur on his forehead is so soft unlike the mass of unruly fur that only leaves his body to infest every corner of the house. He closed his eyes and sighed with apparent contentment.

I started to cry.

Pictures: My daughter took these while Chester slept through a yard sale.

The Real Canadian Stupid Store

2009-07-23T14:12:00.007-05:00

We're more than halfway through our brief, shining Canadian Summer and I haven't broken a sweat. At least, not a real sweat (hot flashes don't count). We've barely crept above room temperature and almost every day has been blessed (I use that term loosely) with rain.

The air is thick with humidity and everything is sticky, from doorknobs to the hardwood floors. The front door won't open unless I put a shoulder to it. This morning during a downpour I mopped up another mess in the basement and changed the water bucket in the fireplace. We have to get the eavestroughs and downspouts replaced, but Handsome But Not Handy Husband hasn't started calling around for estimates yet. I silently scream at every raindrop.

Later, the skies cleared long enough for a quick foray to the local super grocery store for emergency supplies: toilet paper, bread, Aleve, wine and Twizzlers. My daughter and I threw on our jackets (yes, it's that warm) and hopped into the car.

In the bread aisle, a lady inspected the Wonder Bread Plus Whole Wheat. I didn't want to get my shopping cart in her way, so I waited patiently. Instead of grabbing a loaf and moving along, she checked each expiry tab, throwing loaves back in disgust. She took one, moved as if she was about to leave, then backed up and started the process all over again with the white bread.

We decided to call her Angry Bread Lady. She stopped every time I wanted to stop, reading labels and throwing items into her cart, glaring at each item as if daring them to escape.

In the freezer aisle, another woman held an impossibly tiny infant in the crook of one arm while sorting through frozen waffles. The baby fretted while the woman shifted it awkwardly. If she'd forgotten her stroller, why didn't she use one of those handy carts with a bucket baby seat? The image of a baby hitting the hard floor flashed before my eyes, and I winced.

Of course we bought more than necessary. That's what happens when you cart along a kid who had skipped lunch. Yeah, she's twenty, but she's still my kid. She gasped in wonder at every ice cream carton and raspberry tart like a puppy distracted by a squirrel. I powered through, only allowing a chocolate bar and a bottle of Orange Crush. After all, it was my money, right?

The young lad at the checkout reminded me of the Target Lady on Saturday Night Live. He and a co-worker launched into a lively discussion about the merits of Taco Bites, and he inspected my DVD of Love Actually as if he'd never seen it before. I fully expected him to drop everything and dash to the Electronics department for a copy of his own.

I'm home now, waiting for my daughter to wander off to her room so I can watch Love Actually and eat a Twizzler or ten.

Video Killed The Radio Star

2009-07-15T18:34:00.004-05:00

Everything is getting smaller except my waistline.

Hi-Fi sets became transistor radios, then Walkmen, and finally MP3 players no bigger than your thumb. Computers once took up an entire floor, and now you can check your email and work on your manuscript on a teensy weensie laptop.

Big, clunky mobile phones became sleek cell phones. A guy even wrote a novel on a cell phone!

Heck, our laundry detergent is getting smaller! 65 loads per ounce!

It didn't take long for networking to follow suit. First, we passed out newsletters at meetings and left them in foyers. We attended meetings in person, and talked to our friends on the phone. Now we combine several internet social networks in order to get our messages out.

When I started writing, I joined Blogger and got a shiny little website. Later, I joined several Yahoo groups to pimp my books. Facebook soon followed and I reconnected with old family members and school chums. Then all those book reader sites cropped up and I dutifully posted book covers and attempted to keep up with ravenous readers everywhere.

When Twitter came along, I rolled my eyes.

"I don't need another beak to feed."

"Only 140 characters to get your thoughts across? Pffff! What's up with that?"

"I'm wasting enough writing time already."

One Saturday night during a weak moment (and after a vat of wine), I gave in. I became a Twit.

Every half hour, I check to see what the latest hot celebrity is having for a snack. My faltering ego crawls up a notch when a bestselling author or a dream agent decides to follow me. Oh, the pressure!

Which brings me to the title of my post. Is Twitter killing blogs? I'd noticed a drop in visits here and wonder if it's just a summer lull. Or are buddies reading tweets instead?

I have to admit it's fun, but I gotta rope myself in. I need to finish one of my two works in progress. I struggle getting past 40K in a novel, but tweets seem to curtail the real messages. Does a 140 character statement really bring across a message? Along with the fun of spying on movie stars and Martha Stewart, I suppose I could use Twitter to post links to this blog (whenever I get around to an update).

'Scuse me while I Tweet this Post. Gah.

Red, White (and Blue) Skies

2009-07-04T21:46:00.006-05:00

Happy 4th, my American friends! They're still setting off firecrackers outside, probably to make up for the rain we suffered here on Canada Day evening.

The beginning of July usually triggers all summer activities -- picnics, barbecues, swimming and the smell of fresh-cut grass. This year, that doesn't seem to be the case, at least in this area. We're still wearing sweatshirts and dodging downpours. A wild beast ate our propane barbecue valve hose, so we haven't done any outdoor grilling yet. The cooler weather didn't stop the hummingbird-sized mosquitoes from attacking between the car and the front door.

Some gave up on the idea of cutting the grass. Literally.

This is my neighbour's yard. It looks like the job was abandoned mid-mow.
I wonder who's been shirking their duties for the last three weeks.

My daughter and I took advantage of a break in the weather to check out The Canada Day festivities on Main Street.

We saw a little red...

A little white...

And my daughter had a little of the blues.
She apparently didn't approve of all those cut-off blue jeans...

The line for the beer garden was astronomically long, but the line for the food was mercifully short. We grabbed a couple of charred burgs and walked past the beer garden, where a local band played 70s rock with more enthusiasm than skill. Two bare chested guys danced with abandon in front of the stage, somehow managing to balance their beers. I wanted to take a picture, but Beth wouldn't let me.

Happy rest of the weekend, folks! I hope you get to do summery things.

They're just lyin' around...

2009-06-26T21:46:00.004-05:00

My daughter and I went to the Metro Toronto Zoo on Monday because she wanted to photograph the animals. She needed images for her animation research.

It was hot. Oh, God it was sooo hot. We strolled leisurely along concrete paths emblazoned with multicoloured footprints, reading signs that led us to Eurasia, Africa and The Americas. The pavilions were hotter than outdoors, even if they protected us from the blazing sun. I welcomed the breeze kicked up by passing exotic birds and butterflies. I blinked stinging sweat from my eyes in order to focus on the wildlife. I felt a layer of grease on my face, convinced that the other patrons noticed. I asked a lady how she could look so cool, and she assured me she was melting, too.

Outdoors, we stuck to the shade and sipped from our water bottles which were becoming warmer by the minute. I mentally tracked several beads of sweat rolling between my shoulder blades and past my waistband. I know, I know... too much information.

In the African Savannah, I noticed my personal mecca, a group of umbrellas emblazoned with Molson Canadian logos. Beer! Cold, frosty, bubbly beer! We trudged up the hill and ordered two fries, and I secured a table for us under a canopy. I approached the lad mopping the bar and asked where the beer was, peering hopefully at the frosted glass on the tall refrigerator.

He said, "Sorry, no beer. They're not serving today." He gestured helpfully at the canteen where we had obtained the six dollar French fries. "They have Sprite and such there."

Really. Really? Seriously? The first day of summer and it's a hundred and twenty degrees in the shade, and they don't have freakin' beer?

Sigh. We sat and gobbled our fries, and powered through to the end.

Most of the animals were asleep in the shade. The only active ones seemed to be the fish. I petted a snake and watched a giraffe use his tongue like a snake to grab a banana from a keeper.

If anything, I walked off the fries.

Mallet

2009-06-21T18:15:00.014-05:00

I've been meaning to write a novel based on the beautiful sport of polo. Last week, as I was tootling along Leslie Road, I noticed a broken cedar rail along the roadside. My imagination took hold, wondering what I would do if a horse got loose, wandering along the country roadside. Would I stop and capture it? What would I use as a lead? My belt? Would the horse shy, nervous because of the passing cars along this country road?

I think I found the opening to my next novel. Of course, this will be after I finish the two languishing on my hard drive at the moment.

Today my daughter and I attended the 30th Annual Polo For Heart tournament in nearby Gormley. The Sifton family owns the farm and club, along with a local airport. Since I started at the newspaper, I've attended every competition that wasn't rained out, either as a corporate guest or as one of the hundreds of General Admission picnickers on the north side of the pitch.

This time we went corporate and dressed accordingly. The secret is to wear a wide brim hat and sunglasses in order to look mysterious, a cotton dress cool enough so you don't sweat, and heels wide enough not to sink into the soft turf.

There was no competition today due to the heavy rains yesterday, but we enjoyed demonstrations, good food and bright sunshine. For some reason the volunteer staff kept replacing my empty wine glass with a full one, much to the chagrin of my teetotalling daughter.

The food was to die for. They kept the dishes warm by perching searing cast iron frying pans on hot bricks -- chicken, steak, seafood, and also had a variety of salads. I'm proud to say I consumed my daily minimum of fruits and vegetables (fermented grapes included).

The Silent Auction featured many items beyond my reach, including a trip to the Antarctic and several NHL signed sweaters and pictures. Beth loved the dragon cane with hidden sword, and I liked the replica Spartan spear and shield a la 300. The Mick Jagger guitar wasn't half bad, either.

A lady approached me to bring my attention to a prominent former editor sitting at the next table, suggesting I should confront him regarding his publication of a book 'outing' a former Prime Minister. I responded that although I worked for the newspaper, I wasn't a journalist. I eyed the gentleman in question, wondering what he had done that was so wrong. I have his autobiography somewhere in the house... I guess I should read it.

Tomorrow I have the day off. Off to the Zoo!

Catching Up

2009-06-13T17:58:00.004-05:00

Hi, Gang...

First of all, thanks for the many birthday greetings and good wishes. I know a few of you have passed the half century mark in the last couple of years and I don't know if you all experienced the same lack of impact. We approach these milestones with apprehension and anticipation, and it passes just like another day. We feel and look the same, except for that tiny part of ourselves that says, "Hey, you're fifty." I guess that's a good thing, right?

There was no big party (except for some kick-ass flamingos) but a bunch of us at work are turning 50 this year so we plan to go out for a super lunch or dinner just for fun. My dear husband hit his milestone in March, and he will go with his buddies for a little male bonding camp-out in August, so he's covered.

I went shopping with my birthday booty. My prize is a super cute little netbook from HP. It weighs only 2 pounds and I can surf, check email, write and read e-books on it. It fits in my little canvas purse and I still have room for my compact, lipstick and wallet.

I've been looking at e-readers, but I think this is a great alternative. It's more versatile, I can print from it and it has wireless internet. I can take notes and work on my manuscripts (note to self: work on your manuscripts).

My schedule changed at the newspaper and I now work some evenings. I've also been occupied with a major clean up and purge in our little bungalow. I'm happy to report that we now hear a distinct echo when we walk through some rooms. The lack of clutter is soooo refreshing. I highly recommend the hiring of a Dumpster.

All this recent activity impacted my blogging and cyber-visiting time, so don't feel neglected if I haven't dropped in for a while. I'm sure things will settle down soon and I'll get back into a new routine. I should also get back to writing. Those two half-finished MS's won't finish themselves!

Happy Conan Day! Also, Happy Birthday Mom...

2009-06-01T23:09:00.005-05:00

That's what it says on my cake. My kids were more excited about Conan O'Brien's debut on The Tonight Show than their mother's Half Century, so I let my daughter decorate the cake for his Big Day. If you look carefully, you can see a little scrap of parchment in the lower left corner with the words (Happy B-Day, Mom).

I had a good day. I caught a glimpse of colour through the living room curtains while preparing to drive my son to school. It was a flock of fifty pink flamingos, courtesy of my neighbour and BFF Carol. She phone later and played the innocent, but I knew it was her.

Throughout the morning, emails and Facebook messages started slowly, growing from a drip to a steady trickle. Thank you all for your cheerful messages. When I got to work at 2pm, my desk was decorated by the Classified Department with lots of glittery 50's. My Production co-workers nearly gave me a heart attack at around 4pm. A dozen strong, they sneaked up behind me, shouting Happy Birthday. Graham approached brandishing a fire extinguisher for the (not fifty) candles.

I worked until ten, and arrived home in time to wolf down two slices of cold pizza and take a call from my brother-in-law, then blow out the candles.

We stayed up long enough to watch Conan's debut, and now I'm finally winding down. Thanks everyone for the great emails, Facebook messages and blog shout-outs. Aerin, I wasn't able to comment on your blog - sometimes Blogger hates me, but thanks for mentioning me!

And now, for a shameless plea to help me win an e-reader! Champagne Books, my publisher for Bad Ice, is conducting a contest for their authors. The author who sells the most copies of their titles (today through August 31) wins an EBookwise E-Reader. I've never owned an e-reader and I think it would be keen to have one. Tell two friends, and they'll tell two friends, and so on, and so on....

Chumplet out.

The Camp

2009-05-30T12:44:00.010-05:00

Saul's tear-stained face turned insolently toward his older sister. "I'm not going, and that's that!" he screamed. "I wanna stay right here with Ponta an' nobody's gonna make me go anywhere!" He hugged the squirming puppy possessively.

Melina gave an exasperated gasp and turned away. Slamming the boy's bedroom door, she stamped heavily down the spiral staircase, frowning angrily. "I can't talk him into anything! He refuses to listen!" She plopped down on the kitchen stool in front of her oatmeal. She absently dug a hole into the middle of the steaming mound of cereal and poured milk into it.

Her mother stopped loading the utensil-cleaning unit and gave Melina a tired look. "Refusing won't do him any good. He's going to that camp. I'm just too ill these days to have that tiresome boy constantly trying my patience." She glanced at the computerized wall clock and gasped, "It's ten hours already! The bus goes by in an hour. Have you got his bag packed yet?"

Melina shrugged. "It's packed, but how are we going to get him on the bus?"

A hum was heard above. "Your father is home," was all mother said.

Dad barely managed to deposit a kicking and screaming son on the waiting hoverbus that was to transport he and his young companions to camp. The children's Summer Camp was a new one, situated in Geneva. The efficient robots which ran the institution insured good organization and even tempers. Many parents who had little time to control their troublesome charges seized the opportunity to relieve themselves of unwanted responsibilities. This was the first busload.

Saul sat sideways in his seat, hugging his knees and staring out of the window. The hoverbus stilled its hum and floated gently onto the landing circle. The other children chatted in anticipation and fumbled about gathering their belongings. Saul, alone, remained silent.

His manner was unusually calm for that of an eight-year-old. He was the last to leave the hoverbus, shrinking from the extended synthetic hand of the plastic camp counsellor as it attempted a greeting.

Saul furtively glanced about him. The fountain at the mouth of the river spurted a 120 metre stream of water into the air. Mountains loomed darkly around the lake.

The children boarded an old-fashioned tour boat that was to take them to the campsite. The children thought it to be a novelty to surge on the waves instead of skimming metres over the water. The engines throbbed noisily and the young children were fascinated by the surge and swell of the waves.

The disembarkation was swift and efficient. The robots quickly herded the children toward their respective cabins, giving them the hour for the evening meal.

Saul was hungry. Due to his frustration and anger during the day, he had refused to eat. After dumping his belongings on his narrow bed, he wandered toward the kitchen in order to inhale the supper scents.

Curiosity overcame the boy as he spotted two of the robots conversing near the dining hall. He edged within hearing distance, hidden behind the protective bulk of the hoverbus.

The animated faces were turned toward each other, feigning human conversation. "The subjects will be boarded before their alleged evening meal to be taken to Xonyn Ship. They will then be transported to Cantab in the Wen Star planet belt. They will be sufficiently prepared, enroute, for the pysiology dissections in the Cantab laboratories. The camp staff will take its leave at the same time so as to avoid procecution."

Saul was not too young to understand the exchange. His eyes widened in disbelief. Then came a deep, crushing fear. To run back to the cabin in order to warn the others would only mean death. Time was too short. His own need for survival prevented from crying out and running back.

All he wanted to do was hide. The chatter and laughter of the children became louder as they were led to the dining area and the hoverbus.

Saul backed away from the bus. The riverbank was close, so he crawled behind some bushes. He almost slid on the muddy slope ito the rushing waters, but he snatched at a stubby branch.

The tinny voices were still heard. "Children, we have a surprise for you," the counsellor cheerfully announced. "We are going for a ride and we'll have our meal on the real inter-cosmic ship!"

The boys and girls squealed with delight.

"If you will board the bus, we'll be on our way." The ecstatic children tripped onto the waiting bus, laughing and talking.

Saul felt a very unchildlike desolation as the bus began to hum. He felt terribly disappointed in everything, everyone. Most of the parents would probably never miss their troublesome charges, assuming that the children were taking up permanent residence at that convenient camp.

Saul didn't realize the cause of his feeling of total loss. He merely crouched behind the foliage, sobbing in desperation as the hoverbus rose into the air and skimmed over the grass toward the mountains.

On board, the children sang.

While enjoying Dumptser Madness today, I came across a Ziploc bag in the farthest (furthest?) corner beneath the bar. Inside, I found Cassandra, a magazine published by my classmates at Huron Heights Secondary School the year after I completed Grade 13. Yes, folks, we had Grade 13 back then, a college prep grade.

I had totally forgotten about this little zine. It was supposed to be speculative, with stories depicting the future - the year 2000. It also contains comics. We wrote the stories in 1978. A student supplied pen and ink illustrations and the Practice Office typed it up for us.

I'm pretty sure The Camp was my first attempt at serious writing. It's riddled with passive sentences and stiff prose, but I think the story had something. I had fun reading it.

Now I'm gonna Google the other authors to see if they're still writing.

(Sorry about the font colours. Blogger won't let me make them white for easier reading.)

One person's trash is... well, another person's trash.

2009-05-25T22:14:00.005-05:00

We come from two long lines of pack rats. Add that to the fact that we can't say no when someone offers us anything for free, and we have a house filled to the rafters with junk.

Don't get me wrong, I like our house. The decor is, shall we say, eclectic. Mismatched hand-me-down furniture and Ikea wall units sit beside antiques and African wall sculptures. We just can't use the whole place because we have too much stuff.

Guest room? Fuggetaboudit. It's filled with furniture and toys we haven't got rid of. My husband's den walls are lined with computer parts and manuals from operating systems that haven't existed for twenty years. The area behind the bar is jammed with boxes of the kids' old drawings and my grade school homework.

The dining room hutch is stuffed with pink china, crystal and silver that no one seems to want. Believe me, I tried to sell it. Not even a nibble.

My husband's dad sold the cottage, then downsized a few years before he passed away. We were commissioned to clean out the condo and cottage and to take anything that wouldn't fit in his newer, smaller residence. Both residences were jammed with amazing artifacts connected to his handyman/stonemason days - tools, nails, glue, picture frame parts, a homemade table saw... baking supplies, kitchen gadgets,

He also had a collection of stuff he bought from Reader's Digest mail order and infomercials. We actually own a Veg-O-Matic. I still use it. Really. It works. Makes great fries.

We had also purchased my parents' house, along with the interesting articles that hadn't been hauled away. Somewhere under the stairs sits a stereo console my dad made in his ambitious carpenter days. I'd love to put it back in the dining room to use as a sideboard, but there isn't room. If I can possibly reach it, perhaps some other family will give it a home.

I think there's a floor model television under there, too, from the seventies. I wonder what I can get for it on EBay?

The only way we can get to the interesting stuff is to throw out all the useless stuff that accumulated over the past 25-35 years since the Cormier family first occupied the Bayview Estate. And the only way to get the crap out of the house is to hire a Dumpster.

It's coming on Wednesday. The whole family is so excited, it seems like Christmas. My son graciously volunteered to don a Haz Mat suit, work gloves and goggles to wade through the Danger Room. Everyone has a Danger Room. It's the gigantor version of the Junk Drawer. Who knows what treasures we'll find in there, once we get past the old mattresses and bags of donated clothing?

We plan to divide the booty in the same manner as those reality shows. We'll have the Keep pile, the Sell pile and the Icky pile. The Icky pile will go into the Dumpster and we'll have a yard sale with the Sell pile.

After The Purge, we'll finally be able to invite people over without closing off the crowded, cluttered rooms! I'll have a back yard again! The shed won't be a haven for squirrels and chipmunks! I can sit on my porch without tripping over old Easter baskets! The broken rubble that once resembled a picnic table will be swept away so I can have a patio again!

Maybe I'll even find that long-lost Maurice "Rocket" Richard autograph I heard about.

Two more sleeps. Count 'em.

Picture: It's not really in my house - that's the Chandelier Pile in the basement of a local Antique Mall.

Confessions of a Not So Shopaholic

2009-05-17T09:11:00.008-05:00

I met and married my husband in T.O. during the eighties. It was a fun time -- Toronto was full of music, bright colours, big hair and innocence. We took long walks along Harbourfront, rode the streetcar to the Fox Theatre at The Beaches to watch vintage cinema, and listened to great Jazz in the Soho district on Queen St. West.

After a few years we grew weary of increasing noise, pollution and violence. Grafitti slashed across brick walls, people started avoiding eye contact. Faces on buses and streetcars reflected our mood - weary and disappointed. The edges of our vision of Toronto took on a tattered, stained look. When we blew our noses at the end of the day and black stuff came out, we figured it was time to migrate north.

We moved to Newmarket, the town in which I had spent my teen years. We had kids, I took a job at the local paper, and everything's fine. People still nod and say good morning to each other here. I still see old classmates. We have a great mall, a super hospital and a Home Depot. Who could ask for more?

My daughter and I headed to Toronto yesterday for a bit of girl time and shopping in honour of her twentieth birthday (next week) and my (gulp) fiftieth (next next week). After all, it's still a nice place to visit. Toronto still holds a bit of Oz-like magic for my daughter.

She especially likes the gigorzmic Indigo Bookstore at the Eaton Centre. I found a copy of Whiskey Sour by J.A. Konrath. He's a Facebook buddy -- yanno, a friend of a friend of a friend -- and I was curious about his Jack Daniels series. I couldn't find the book in Newmarket so it was a nice surprise. I also spent way too much on a funky file holder.

We slipped into Williams-Sonoma to check out the spices. Men in trendy glasses and headsets flitted about the place, straightening rows of saucepans. I admired a red butter crock, the perfect size for keeping a quarter pound of butter on the kitchen counter, but balked when I saw the price - $45. No thanks.

At The Pottery Barn, more men in trendy glasses and headsets folded towels.

As we walked past a camera shop, a patron accidentally knocked over a picture frame, sending it crashing face down on the floor. An employee looked at the mess, knelt on one knee and spread his arms out, wailing, "Why? Why?" I figured he was really an actor and the camera store was just his day gig.

Newmarket doesn't have a Disney Store and Beth really, really wanted a stuffed Bolt. Because of her Animation aspirations, she loves to browse the store but I find it a little surreal, like Wal-Mart at Christmastime, or the underground society in A Boy and His Dog.

We had lunch at Mr. Greenjeans and the waiter seated us in a little alcove with a bistro table and two stuffed leather chairs. When we sank into the chairs, the table was up to our chins. We managed to eat anyway.

Two girls occupied the table opposite, and one of them described in her best skater girl accent, "You know, that iPod thingy has this little ruler in it with a bubble, you know? Like, it helps to see if your shelf is level, you know? I want one of those."

Somehow I doubt she'd need that application.

We stepped outside between downpours to get some air, and I noticed how much Dundas and Yonge had changed. Flashing Jumbotron screens and neon lights were everywhere, much like the pictures I'd seen of Times Square. If I stayed too long, I'd surely suffer from sensory overload.

An older man sat on the sidewalk, playing an Erhu - a Chinese violin with two strings. The plaintive sounds of the instrument wove its way thinly around sirens, bleeping crosswalk signals and roaring motorcycles.

We crossed the intersection diagonally, a first for me. I was amazed the pedestrians didn't tangle up and fall down in a mess when the human streams met at the middle, but we managed to get to the other side. We entered a newer building and Beth found a little shop that held her favourite Nintendo toys.

Back at the Eaton Centre, we encountered a man we'd seen on previous visits. We speculated about his occupation. He wore the same pale yellow suit and little straw fedora. He held a bejeweled cane in his hands. I snuck a shot of him from behind a display.

I tried on a few shirts, but the results depressed me. It seemed all the clothes were made for skinny women with miniscule boobies positioned near their chins. After two sweaty sessions in tiny cubicles, I gave up trying to find something that fit me.

In the end, I came home with two sore feet, a file folder, a book, a $10 necklace, and a DVD of Snatch.

Not bad, huh?

Picture 1: A shot I took on Queen St. East in the Eighties
Picture 2: Eaton Centre
Picture 3: Trinity Square
Picture 4: Disney Store
Picture 5: The Man in Yellow

In Search of Giants

2009-05-07T13:50:00.002-05:00

I don't consider myself a giant by any means (ignore my midriff) but Aerin Bender-Stone interviewed me on her literary blog. Here's the link. I love her blog banner!

Ketchup is a food group, right?

2009-05-06T19:03:00.002-05:00

My son is currently participating in the 30 Hour Famine through his school. The money raised will go toward the victims of the recent earthquake in Italy. His participation will count toward his Community Service hours, a requirement so he can graduate high school.

To make his sacrifice easier to swallow (heh), we decided to have fish & chips for dinner tonight, something he absolutely abhors. I guess I'm doing my part in some twisted way.

I wonder how many teens use this time to reflect on their diet and how much junk they put into their bodies? He's not allowed his favourite diet soda, which experts claim depletes calcium in growing bones. He had tried regular juice and pop, but balked at the sugar content. What is a bored teenager to do? Water? Yuck.

He lives on Pizza Pops and toaster waffles, then grudgingly eats whatever healthy dinner I try to prepare. I think there are tomatoes in Pizza Pops, and I at least supply whole wheat waffles.

I don't give him a hard time. He walks a fair distance from school, and after a pudgy tweenhood, he has turned into a slim, tallish, good looking fella. All this in spite of his sedentary lifestyle in front of video games and umpteen viewings of 30 Rock and SNL.

As I tucked into my oven-baked, battered fish filets and fries, I noticed (belatedly) that I hadn't cooked any veggies with our meal. Maybe I should have opted for salmon, slivered red peppers and brown rice instead. My son hates that stuff.

I could promise that next time I'll provide healthier choices for my family, but that may not be the option in the near future. Next week, my hours at work will change. I'll be starting later, and coming home waaaaayyy after dinner hour. My family will adapt or perish.

I am also volunteering for a four day work week to help our newspaper cut costs. It's supposed to be in effect through 2009, and I can opt out if things get financially dicey. I hope to use this time to (a) write more and finish the Damn Yearbook, and (b) walk to work at least twice a week.

In other news, I am thrilled that my dear blogging friend Cindy Pon is receiving favourable reviews for The Silver Phoenix. I've been shamelessly trying to win her book, but if I fail I can get my hubby to buy it for my birthday.

Also, Stephen Parrish got himself a book deal. Midnight Ink accepted his novel, Adamant Stone. I'm so happy for him, and glad he'll blog again as a result!

Soft Pink and Baby Blue

2009-04-27T21:36:00.004-05:00

I like those colours. Maybe not in my house, but I don't scream and run away when I see them. From what I heard lately in the publishing world, book covers in pink and baby blue had lost their lustre.

After Bridget Jones and The Devil Wears Prada, the explosion of Chick Lit produced a plethora of pink dresses, stiletto pumps and shopping bags. Hollywood and television followed suit with shows and movies about 'women in the big city'.

Eventually publishers started to cringe at the term. Agents began to discourage submissions of chick lit novels.

Has the genre run its course in New York? Maybe. But hang on. Evidence suggests it's still strong elsewhere. Kristin Nelson's blog touched on the continuing popularity of humorous contemporary women's fiction in the UK. Perhaps NY will take a second look if they see something fresh.

Yesterday, I walked around my local Chapters bookstore (while constantly checking to see if Bad Ice was nice and comfy on its shelf), and noticed there were still a healthy number of books with funky lettering and pastel covers. I've read a few - Marian Keyes for example, and was delighted at the depth of the stories. I still re-read Bridget Jones on occasion.

Chick Lit isn't all selfish urban twenty-somethings running around wreaking havoc in the big city. There are lots of intelligent, character-driven stories out there -- tender, sexy and full of laughs. I would hate for Chick Lit to die just because of a few spoiled brats. Perhaps it just needs a different name.

Image: I borrowed this from The Gardeners Glove. What pretty artwork from C. Dianne Lieber.

I'm Allowed to be a Couch Potato

2009-04-21T19:24:00.005-05:00

As some of you know, I only recently began the journey to publication. Like a lot of authors, I slaved away at a full time job and raised a couple of kids (and a husband) for twenty or so years before deciding to put my fingers to keyboard. As a result, my 'butt in chair' path converged with my 'middle age' path.

In my younger years I was fairly active, running after toddlers or running after sales reps. I crawled under desks to help hook up printers, I walked my kindergarteners to school because we had no bus service. I hacked away at weeds and mowed the lawn. I even hand-sawed a fallen tree because I was deathly afraid of chain saws.

I camped, I canoed, I biked and I hiked. I took horseback riding lessons. I wandered the streets, taking photographs of anything that took my fancy.

And then something happened. Was it the technological age? Was it the fact that my kids were growing into video game-playing homebodies? Was it a feeling of defeat, knowing that the mess would always pile up behind me, the weeds would keep growing, the wood would keep rotting?

I stopped. Stopped walking, riding, schlepping. I spent my free time networking, typing, plotting. At the same time, the dreaded Menopause (I like to call it Mentalpause) reared its head and declared an end to anything resembling metabolism.

Suddenly, I had a gut. Where the Hell did that come from? I didn't eat fried pork chops as a midnight snack. I passed up the drippy, sugary butter tarts my co-worker brought to the office. My family consumed a gallon of ice cream before I even noticed it in the freezer. What was happening?

I decided something had to be done. So last week I joined my fellow Production ladies at the newspaper and suited up for a Lunch Time Power Walk. I thought my leather loafers would be sufficient for the job, but I was mistaken.

We set off to walk around a small lake at a local park. Suzanne set a blazing pace from the start. She's older than me, but she's very fit. She's been hitting the gym for the last year or so. She led the pack, her legs pumping efficiently. Mariella and Rebecca kept up easily. Mariella's been visiting the gym too, and Rebecca is still at that fortunate child-chasing age.

I tried to keep up, really I did. My feeble excuse is my short legs. With each stride they took, I had to take a stride and a half. They had six cylinders and I only had four. Therefore I had to work harder. Old ladies were passing me.

By the time we returned to the office, I had two blisters and a cherry-red face. When I stopped walking, my legs felt six inches shorter.

I was a little sore the next day, but the experience encouraged me to try again today. This time I wore proper footwear. We made good time but I wasn't much faster. Suzanne graciously slowed her pace so I wouldn't have to keep running to catch up. I ate a Lean Cuisine microwave meal afterward, and I'm convinced I burned more calories than I consumed.

So, I'm putting my feet up tonight without a speck of guilt. So there.

Anatomy of a Book Signing

2009-04-12T13:04:00.010-05:00

Well, I did it.

9:00 a.m. Took a shower and tried to force my hair into some kind of order. Gave up and let it air dry.

11:00 a.m. Thought about eating but had no desire whatsoever.

12:00 p.m. Changed outfits four times. I decided to wear a sexy pair of stilleto half-boots to make myself taller (I'm 5'2").

12:45 p.m. Dropped the kids off at the mall and frantically searched through Zellers for last minute mints or Easter treats to give out. The package of chocolate eggs was ten bucks! In lieu of mints, I bought gum in case my mouth started to feel like a sewer.

1:30 p.m. Zipped over to Chapters and carried everything in one trip: Two shopping bags, purse, laptop, and box containing books, maple cookies, business cards, flyers, framed book cover, stuffed blue and white dog. It was heavy. I almost lost my grip and the blast of wind in the parking lot ruined any semblance of hair organization.

1:45 p.m. Sweating buckets from the trip across the parking lot, I unpacked everything and chatted with the manager. Signed my consignment agreement (45% goes to the bookstore!) for 16 books because my additional shipment of ten copies never arrived.

2:00 p.m. I hear a voice behind me, and it's my sister Cathy! She hangs out and chats up the customers with me. I heart my sister.

2:15 p.m. My first customer! A white-haired gentleman approached and said, "I'm here for your book."

I didn't even have to chat him up! I was so excited I handed him a book and said, "Thanks!"

He looked at me and said, "Aren't you going to sign it?"

Oops. I signed it for his daughter, and my sister took our picture.

Immediately afterward, Dawn Brown arrived. She's a member of my writers group (Romance Writers Unlimited) and she's published with my first publisher, The Wild Rose Press. It felt great hugging an online friend for real, not just with a little Smiley.

Jim, the manager, had advised me to stand in front of the table and connect with as many people as possible. I got lots of nods and smiles, and a few stopped to look over the back cover of Bad Ice. Some took flyers containing an overview and reviews, some took cards. Some asked me where the Children's Section was, or where they could find little Easter Egg cups. I happily complied.

3:00 p.m. My feet started to hurt.

3:15 p.m. A boy approached shyly and asked me the price of a book about the Montreal Canadiens. I checked the inside of the jacket and told him. Glancing up, I made eye contact with his mother and she smiled back.

Later, the boy and his mother were browsing a table behind me. I noticed the boy still had the Canadiens book in his hand, so I went up to them and told them my dad helped renovate the Montreal Forum when I was a kid.

The boy was impressed. We talked more about hockey, and I told them about the time my mom lost the autograph Maurice "Rocket" Richard gave her when I was born. I mentioned the premise of Bad Ice. The mom took the bait. She asked if it was for adults and I told her yes. She said she'd buy a book.

While I was signing it, the boy said, "Mom, don't lose that book."

I asked, "Why, because I'll be famous some day?"

He responded, "No, because when I get older, I want to read it."

3:30 p.m. My friend Trish came with her two daughters. She bought a book and insisted on a unique caption with my signature. I almost wrote something TMI regarding her recent surgery. Instead, I wrote, "Keep your stick on the ice."

Later, an elderly fellow asked if he could have one of my cookies. I told him yes, and he took three. Then he took a handful of chocolates and started eating. As milk chocolate collected around his lips, he cheerfully told me about the unmarked police car at the rear of the bookstore, stopping motorists by hiding behind a dumpster.

He didn't buy a book.

3:45 p.m. My kids walked over from the mall, laden with Easter treats they bought themselves because I had neither the time nor the inclination. I suppose I have to reimburse them.

4:00 p.m. I reluctantly started to pack up in spite of the bookstore's willingness to let me stay longer. Since it was a day sandwiched between two holidays, I had to decline since I still had errands to run before the stores closed. The time passed so quickly!

Olga, the events manager, took six books for the shelves and promised to put Signed By Author stickers on them. I thanked her for the experience and left a basket of cookies for the cashiers.

Note to self: Do NOT wear three inch heels to a book signing. I could barely walk from the car to the house.

7:00 p.m. Ordered Chinese Food and watched the last Toronto Maple Leaf game of the season. They won.

My Fifteen Minutes of Fame

2009-04-08T20:25:00.003-05:00

My local paper finally did a story on me. Just in time, too!

One Week To Go

2009-04-04T23:45:00.005-05:00

Yes, folks! My first book signing!

If anyone is in the Southern Ontario vicinity, please join me at Chapters bookstore at 17440 Yonge Street, Newmarket on Saturday, April 11th from 2 to 4 p.m.

I'll be signing a limited number of copies of my hockey themed romantic suspense, Bad Ice. It is during the Easter Weekend. Hopefully, people will be suffering from Good Friday shopper's withdrawal and will pack the store.

There will be cookies.

Ode To An Escort Wagon

2009-03-28T13:59:00.004-05:00

O car of green from ninety-six
We bought you in good faith
It wasn't long before we knew
We'd made a big mistake.
At first you cruised with love and flair,
Zipped through streets with vigour
But soon we thought you must be haunted
Or at least filled up with liquor.

When your heater we turned on,
The ceiling lights would flicker
And when your hatch defroster lit,
Your engine would start to bicker.
Music blared from speakers rear,
But from the front did not,
If we cared to hear it thus,
It gurgled as if shot.

Soon your engine took a fit
And revved without a cue
Mechanics scratched their heads with frowns,
They didn't have a clue.
Finally the quiz was solved
And you almost purred like a kitten,
Then Christmas Eve you threw a belt
And we all felt much like shittin'.

Later on your tires went bald,
You jerked and slipped, you did
Just five minutes in the snow
Struck fear in us when you slid.
We bought new tires and thus survived
A winter full of flakes
When Spring sprang forth with all its warmth
Alas, we needed brakes.

We took a look at all our books
And fiddled with finances,
To throw good money after bad
Would lessen all our chances
For health and safety on the road,
We had to make a decision -
So off to Toyota's store we went
On a spanking new car mission.

We found a lovely vehicle
With shiny glass and steel
For the first time in all our years
We have two cars we feel
Are happy, healthy, humming cars
With CD players in both,
No old cassette tape misery
Or sluggish, rusty sloth.

No gaffers tape, no filthy oil,
No wires holding up the bottom,
No scratchy music from the back
The new cars they don't got 'em.
No rust, no scratches, no bare spots,
No peeling from the sides,
Our two new cars will fill our days
With hundreds of great rides.

So Many Children

2009-03-21T09:57:00.004-05:00

I don't know how it happened. They snuck up on me and multiplied behind my back. First it was a new email account, then a blog. I joined two lovely forums and bonded with fellow writers. We laughed and cried together, supporting each other in our endeavour to get published.

Along with my first book came a website. I joined another blog, then another. I thought I could handle it.

Then came the Yahoo! groups. I hopped on the self-promo bandwagon and joined one or two, then three or four. With the urging of other writers, I opened a Facebook account. I had fun reconnecting with other authors and old school chums.

Soon, reader forums followed. - Chapters Community, Shelfari, GoodReads... I have to fill out my author profiles and add books to my 'shelves' in hope that someone will snatch my books and put them on their shelves, and so on.

My inbox fills with updates and comments from various sources. I joyfully jump in with comments and kudos. Emails come faster and faster, shouting, "Feed me!"

People call it a time suck, but it has its merits. Small press authors have to reach out on their own to connect with readers, or nobody will ever know about their books.

However, I have to find a balance between writing, networking and cruising around Web World, looking for validation. I gotta go write some more so I can feed all these hungry little children.

If I join Twitter, just shoot me.

Soothes The Soul

2009-03-11T10:46:00.005-05:00

A few months ago, I saw a Canadian television commercial for a Lexus. Normally I don't pay much attention to vehicle ads, but the piece of piano music moved me. It was familiar, yet elusive.

I wondered if it was Gershwin or perhaps an older composition. I tried Googling, but all the forums said it was a piece commissioned by Lexus. I didn't believe it. The music seemed too... timeless for a car commercial.

When I watched Twilight (yes, I actually watched it) the music showed up again. So I did a little more digging. It is called Claire de Lune, composed by Claude DeBussy. Here it is on YouTube, courtesy of Enigma. Enjoy.

The Barbie Barometer

2009-03-08T10:04:00.007-05:00

It's Barbie's 50th Birthday today. I feel a connection with the diminutive fashion model, not because I have a 21 inch waist (I don't), but because I'll be reaching that milestone later this year.

Over a billion Barbies have been sold since her birth in 1959, and economists estimate that a Barbie doll is sold every three seconds. Over the last half century her clothing, hairstyles and careers have changed to reflect current North American society. She traveled beyond our borders, taking in all cultures.

Her life reads like an epic Romance novel, with challenges, goals, love, marriage and tragedy. Barbie and Ken broke up in 2004, only to be reunited later.

I had one or two Barbies as a girl, but not enough to satisfy me. To feed my habit, I joined forces with my cousin Kim and together we sat at the bottom step of her back door and concocted complicated plots and adventures for our hapless heroines.

Our girls got into many scrapes a la Avengers -- they lived through danger and intrigue. To protect the guilty, I'm not permitted to reveal the details of such plots. Let's just say our heroines were ultimately rescued by Ken.

I guess those early performances planted in my brain, only to spring forth as romantic suspense plots for my novels.

Here are fifty facts about Barbie's journey, borrowed from JSOnline:

1 She was born Barbara Millicent Roberts.

2 Barbie is 11½ inches tall.

3 If Barbie were 5 feet, 6 inches tall, she would have a 39-inch bust, a 21-inch waist and 33-inch hips.

4 Barbie is the brainchild of Ruth Handler, one of the founders of Mattel.

5 Handler was inspired by a European doll called Bild-Lilli, a doll for adults that Handler said she saw in Vienna or Lucerne.

6 Handler named the Americanized doll after her daughter, Barbara.

7 In a series of novels published by Random House in the 1960s, Barbie's parents were George and Margaret Roberts who lived in the fictional town of Willows, Wis.

8 Barbie attended Willows High School but graduated from Manhattan International High School.

9 Barbie's boyfriend is Ken. He's named after Handler's real-life son, who, incidentally, hated the comparisons.

10 Barbie and Ken split up in 2004. They reunited in 2006.

11 Barbie has had more than 40 pets in her lifetime, including a panda, a lion cub and a zebra.

12 Barbie, who started her professional life as a teenage model, has had several careers.

13 Barbie has a pilot's license and can operate a commercial airliner. She has also been a flight attendant.

14 Barbie found a best friend in Midge, who was part of the Barbie lineup from 1963 to 1966.

15 Doctor Barbie debuted in 1988.

16 NASCAR Barbie came out in 1998.

17 There are more than 500 groups related to Barbie on Facebook, including one called Tequila Barbie.

18 Another group is called Divorce Barbie. "Divorce Barbie comes with Ken's boat; Ken's house; Ken's car; Ken's money;" and, well, you get the idea. Last time we checked, there were eight members.

19 In homage to Sarah Palin, there are two different Facebook groups called Caribou Barbie.

20 The first Barbie cost $3.

21 Barbie Collector Doll Pink Label 50th Anniversary Barbie Doll costs $49.99; the most expensive Barbie sold on eBay to date fetched $7,999.99.

22 Barbie had her own show with clothing from 50 fashion designers at Fashion Week last month.

23 Mattel estimates that three Barbies are sold every second.

24 Barbie has had more than 1 billion pairs of shoes.

25 Barbie is on Twitter (although inconsistently) @BarbieStyle.

26 The year Barbie was born is the same year that Xerox debuted a commercial copier.

27 Barbie dolls were sealed in a time capsule in 1976 as part of the Bicentennial celebration to be opened in 2076.

28 Malibu Barbie was introduced in the 1970s. "The Simpsons" parodies Barbie by having Lisa own a Malibu Stacy.

29 The first annual Barbie convention was held in 1980.

30 The first commercials for Barbie ran on "The Mickey Mouse Club."

31 The first Barbie doll dress designed by Bob Mackie was called "Gold."

32 Totally Hair Barbie is the best-selling Barbie of all time.

33 In 1965, the only club for children whose membership exceeded Mattel's was the Girl Scouts of America.

34 In 1967, Mattel offered a Twist 'n Turn Barbie to girls who turned in their Ponytail Barbie dolls.

35 Sidepart American Girl Barbie is considered the rarest of the tan-tone vinyl bendable leg Barbie dolls.

36 Twiggy, the model, was Barbie's first celebrity friend.

37 Early market research suggested Barbie would never sell because she had breasts; little girls wouldn't like her and parents wouldn't buy her.

38 Barbie met Ken in 1961.

39 Barbie has five baby sisters. The first, Skipper, debuted in 1964.

40 A 1959 Barbie in mint condition is estimated to bring $27,450.

41 The first Barbies had white irises. The eye color was changed to blue in 1960.

42 The 1988 Happy Holidays Barbie is considered the first non-porcelain "collectible Barbie." When the 1988 Happy Holidays Barbie flew off the shelves and began commanding high values on the secondary market, Mattel realized there was a huge market for adult collectors.

43 In 1986, Andy Warhol was commissioned to paint a portrait of Barbie.

44 The 1999 "Generation Girl" series was considered controversial because one doll had a nose ring and another had an ankle tattoo.

45 Teacher Barbie was recalled in 1995 because she wasn't wearing panties.

46 The first black and Hispanic Barbies were introduced in 1980. (Barbie's African-American friend, Christie, had been introduced in 1968.)

47 There was a Miss Astronaut Barbie in 1965.

48 Barbie made a brief appearance in the movie "Toy Story 2."

49 Sales of Barbie were outlawed in Saudi Arabia in 2003.

50 In 1997, Barbie was redesigned and given a bigger waist.

I found this amusing version of Barbie at 50. I like to think I don't look like that. I have no bags under my eyes, nor those little lines above my lips. I do have grey hair but I have the sense to hide it under vast quantities of L'Oréal Excellence Cream, Medium Brown.

I would, however, kill for that swan-like neck.

The Fifth Estate

2009-03-04T18:50:00.003-05:00

For those in Canada or with access to the CBC network, The Fifth Estate will be airing a segment about my nephew Brandon Crisp on Friday, March 6th at 9:00 p.m.

As much as it hurts, I feel I must watch it. :(

Love and hugs to Samantha, Natasha, Angelika and Steve.

A Tribute to a Young Woman

2009-02-28T20:03:00.005-05:00

One of my readers, Michelle, has asked me to tell you about a memorial service for a young woman from my town who was murdered a year ago. If you live in the area north of Toronto, please offer your support.

Here's what she said to me:

"Since you work at the Economist you must be aware of the beautiful young lady that was murdered in York Region last year - Brenda Healey... They posted a memorial for her in the paper for March 8th which is also International Women's Day. Just wondered if you could post or mention it on your blog for all those who are able to come and support this family. You and yours suffered such a great loss last year and I am sure you can understand why the more people that show the more support the family will feel."

Here is a link to the local news story with the details about the service.
Here is a more recent article from the newspaper I work for.

Make Him Stop Stopping

2009-02-23T13:12:00.005-05:00

For everyone who knows Stephen Parrish, get thee over to his blog and give him a smack upside the head. He thinks he's gonna stop blogging? Hah!

Although he is unpublished at the moment, he is a brilliant writer and has often inspired me to improve my craft. I'll never be as talented, and I think it sucks that he's so frustrated he wants to give up blogging in order to concentrate on writing.

In this day and age, blogging and writing go hand in hand. It's like cutting off your hand!

ETA: I guess he needs to do what he needs to do. It's selfish of me to try to change his mind. Sometimes blogging can seem like more of a chore than writing.

The Bitches Are Unleashed

2009-02-22T08:43:00.006-05:00

The Toast Bitches

Released Sunday, February 22, 2009 from Ravenous Romance in e-book format

Synopsis

Hana, Paige, Connie and Pepper form a lasting bond at Dempster Media, gathering in the break room for tea and toast. When Pepper leaves the company, the girls add a new venue - Paige's cottage in the woods - where, over cocktails and gossip, the four friends trade secrets and sex tips.

Pepper abandons her domestic life, restlessly flitting from man to man looking for the perfect balance of sex and compatibility. Will she find it, or was it always right in front of her?

Sweet, sexy Connie's infinite patience can't save her when her jealous husband leaves her for another woman. Now single, she attempts to relocate her sensuality with a hunky handyman.

Paige is the earth mother, sprinkling snippets of advice like herbs on a salad. Married to her high school sweetheart, she seems to have the perfect life. But she carries her own secrets...

Small-town Hana tests her sexual boundaries with hot editor Adam, but she gets more than she bargained for. When he asks her to experiment with BDSM, she panics and calls off the relationship, setting off a chain of catastrophic events that brings the four women closer than ever.

Sexy, hilarious, and wise, The Toast Bitches is erotic chick lit at its finest!

Excerpt

Before she could move, he turned to face her, toweling his hands. "Ah, you're here. Glad you made it on time. Sorry about the mess. We had a little shindig last night and I still had some cleaning up."

"Uh…" She pulled an envelope from her bag. "Here's my resume. Don't you think your office would have been a better meeting place?"

"No, this is fine."

"But this is for the ad coordinator job, right?" She looked for a computer but only glimpsed a closed laptop on the kitchen table.

He didn't seem to be listening. He left the kitchen, beckoning her to follow. She walked behind him with a sense of trepidation.

In the washed-out brightness of the living room, he crossed his arms and looked her up and down as if he was taking her measurements. He frowned and shook his head. "Can you please take off your coat?"

She didn't like the appraising look in his eyes. "I think I'll leave it on, thank you."

Was he into drugs? Was he using his newspaper ads to troll for women? Should she quietly reach into her purse and hold down a button on her cell phone to call 911?

"Suit yourself. You look about the right size, anyway." He drew a large white cardboard box from under the oak coffee table and opened it. Inside nestled a blazing red silk nightie, trimmed in black lace.

Hana stared at the garment. What the hell kind of staff was this guy looking for? She wasn't even hired yet and he was already well on the road to a sexual harassment suit. "I don't think this was part of the deal."

"Deal? You said on the phone you were okay with it."

"Listen, I'll help put together your newspaper, but I'm not wearing that! Are you crazy?"

He straightened and regarded her with a quizzical expression. "You're the model for our piece on Valentine’s Day, aren't you?"

"No!" She instinctively gathered her wool coat close around her neck.

"You're not Shannon Fields?"

"No, I'm Hana Shields. I applied for the ad coordinator job."

His puzzled expression slowly morphed into a slow smile. He flopped onto the leather sofa and held his hand over his eyes, shaking with laughter.

At the same time, the rising tension in Hana's neck suddenly melted. It was a mistake. Just a mistake. His laugh sounded nice, like the sun that warmed the Oriental rug.

Mr. Preston finally wiped his eyes and sat up. "Well, then I guess this is definitely not part of the deal." He leaned forward and closed the cardboard lid, hiding the scarlet silk from view.

I LIKE it!

2009-02-20T07:00:00.000-05:00

So... waddaya think?

I'll post a proper link on Sunday when The Toast Bitches are released, but I couldn't wait to show everyone the cover.

Thursday Thirteen: The Downside of Staycation

2009-02-19T07:00:00.000-05:00

(Cross posted on The Writer's Vineyard)

I'm home from work this week because I forgot to book vacation time through 2008, and I have to use it up by the end of March. So here I sit 'cause I have nowhere to go. The rest of the family is busy with work and school. The cat and dog carry on as usual, napping the day away.

People say, "Great! You can get some rest, or you can do some writing, or catch up on those pesky tasks that have been ignored, etc."

As if.

Here are my reasons Staycation doesn't work for me:

1. Television Sucks in the Daytime. I have a gazillion digital channels plus HD. Do you think I can find a single television program I'd be interested in? I flip channels like a sniper and am inundated with reality shows, inane talk shows and courtroom dramas.

2. Too Many DVDs. The vast array of movies makes my brain turn to mush. I can't decide on one. I pluck a title from the rack, hit Play and five minutes later I'm bored so I yank it out and try another one.

3. The Internet. I surf endlessly and end up going full circle. How much useless information can I possibly absorb in one day - er, one week?

4. I Should Be Writing. But I'm not. My best writing time is after everyone has gone to bed. During the day, time slips by and suddenly it's time to pick up the boy from school. I have zero self-motivation.

5. Crappy Weather. I know I'm Canadian and a hockey fan and all that, but I am the first to admit that I really hate winter. If I was in California or Florida or Phoenix or Mexico, I'd at least get outside for sunshine and fresh air, but it's too damn cold, wet and slimy.

6. Guilt. I should be taking the dog for daily walks since I now have the time. See above for Crappy Weather.

7. Housework? I'm on Vacation! Who wants to catch up on six months of housework and laundry, or rearrange furniture when she is supposed to be having a fabulous vacation? I throw a couple of loads in the washer just to stave off the guilt.

8. Spending Time With Friends. What friends? They're all at work.

9. Home Improvement Shows remind me what a crap-hole my house really is.

10. Co-Workers. I try to hide, but they know where to find me.

11. Food. It's right there within arm's reach, taunting me. Calling to me. Screaming at me. 'Nuf said.

12. Drink. It's right there... well, you get the picture.

13. Time. It's all over too soon. Thank goodness my next staycation is in two more weeks!

Image: Brent Butt on Staycation courtesy of Corner Gas

Am I back?

2009-02-14T10:51:00.001-05:00

For some reason all my posts disappeared and I freaked out.