The Hellcat Chronicles

In my defence...

2010-05-30T20:50:00.000-04:00

I didn't consciously set out to snarf down seven Pirate cookies in the space of thirty-five minutes. I only meant to eat one or two, three at the most, with my morning tea. But because I was stressed to the hilt and freakishly busy, I mindlessly reached for the bag every time some arsehole infuriated me, and before I knew it, the row had vanished. (Sidebar - seven arseholes infuriated me in the space of thirty-five minutes! Isn't that the real problem here?)

In my shame and embarrassment I decided I couldn't let my coworkers know that I ate seven cookies at a sitting (although if the size of my can is any indication they might already have an inkling) so I quickly figured out a way to save face and I did it. I am not proud. And while my binge won't hurt anyone else, I can't help but visualize myself standing in front of a room full of fellow tubbies at some 12-step meeting saying "Hello, my name is Helen and I'm a binger" and the rest of them chiming in "Hi, Helen" as they surreptitiously lick their lips to remove any traces of the glazed doughnut and mochaccino they stuffed down on the way in.

Although I'm probably overreacting. We all stuff ourselves with shit that we shouldn't from time to time, don't we?

Quick Question...

2010-05-27T18:12:00.002-04:00

This is just between you and me so you can tell the truth. Have you ever eaten an entire row of Christie Pirate cookies (arguably the best cookie on the planet) in one sitting then, as you wiped the crumbs from your chin, removed the plastic tray from the bag, turned it 180 degrees, slid it back into the bag, and eaten just one more cookie so that the next person to open the bag thinks that you only ate one? (And if so, is this reasonable grounds for your friends and family to stage an intervention?)

Nope?

Me neither.

Feeling hot, hot, hot

2008-06-10T22:51:00.005-04:00

I hate summer. Heat and humidity make me feel pukey, grumpy and tired. It's June and already we are in the middle of a heat wave. The other day the humidex reading was forty-one degrees. Usually we don't get heat waves until July when we've had several weeks of warm to help us prepare for it, but this heat wave came out of nowhere, like that police officer who gave me a ticket for failing to come to a complete stop in the middle of buttfuck nowhere with absolutely nobody in a five mile radius, (except for the officer obviously. Bastard. That, friends, is a story for another day). Last week, I still had the duvet on my bed and sleeping was quite comfortable. This week the only thing on the bed is me in my granny knickers, not a pretty picture, let me assure you. I've spent the past three nights sprawled on top of the bed with the fan blowing on high, trying to get a decent night's rest, but it's hard to settle in for a night of blissful slumber with rivulets of sweat trickling down your cracks and crevices. Again, I have procrastinated and I am paying the price. I have a perfectly good air-conditioner sitting in the closet waiting to be installed, but I thought I had at least a few more weeks to do it. And now, it's too bloody hot to do it. Rumour has it that the humidity is going to break for the weekend so guess what I'm doing. I'm sure there will be funny little stories to tell about that. I am useless with tools and the air conditioner is heavy, large and awkward. Should be interesting. Wish me luck.

Really must revise the mail filing system...

2008-05-11T00:33:00.001-04:00

About eight weeks ago I received a little pile of mail. I don't actually remember it, but if my usual routine is any indication, I stepped inside my apartment, dropped the mail, my bag, my keys, a carton of milk and quite probably a small selection of other odds and ends on the dresser in the hallway (and by hallway I mean tiny, tiled area barely big enough for me, never mind a dresser) just inside my door. I kicked off my shoes, sprinted into the bog for a pee. I came out, probably made myself a drink, popped something frozen into the nuker and sat down to watch Will and Grace, now on every day at five-thirty, which makes me very happy indeed. I likely ate my dinner (and by dinner I mean scarcely edible pasta with fatty, white goo, one chewy white chunk and a very light sprinkling of nameless green - marketed, incidentally, as Grilled Chicken Parmesan Penne with Broccoli Florets. Is a speck the same as a floret? I think probably not, but I digress.) After dinner, there's a pretty good chance I poured another bev, stuffed in a Mars bar and changed the channel. I might have done a load of laundry. Maybe I checked my phone messages. I certainly didn't call anyone back since I am notoriously bad for returning calls. It's not that I don't want to talk to anyone. I just have bugger-all to say and small talk makes me itchy. In my defense, my outgoing message says, 'I can't take your call right now. If you'd like to leave me a message, please do so after the tone.' It doesn't even hint that I will call back. I probably took a shower at some point to save time in the morning, maybe made tea, popped in a movie and puttered until the news finished at midnight at which point I brushed my teeth, got into bed, read fifteen or twenty pages of whatever was on the nightstand at the time and fell asleep.

Fast forward eight weeks.

Last night, I received a little pile of mail. I stepped inside my apartment, dropped the mail, my keys, my bag, a carton of milk and a small selection of other odds and ends on the dresser in my hallway. I kicked off my shoes, sprinted into the bog for a pee. (The variety in my life is staggering, yes?) When I came out of the bog I reached for the mail but it was gone. I looked on the floor, the kitchen counter, the vanity in the bog. Nothing. Then I pulled the dresser away from the wall a few inches, and behind it was my little pile of mail. Sitting atop another very dusty little pile of mail. Now normally this wouldn't be of any concern to me whatsoever. The bills come in, I pay them - I don't necessarily open them - I just pay them because they don't change much. I'm not sure exactly why, but this time I opened all of it, and was not remotely surprised to find out that it was largely the same old shit. Phone bill - paid already. Visa bill - paid already ( and by 'paid' I mean, paid enough to keep them off my back for yet another month but nowhere near paid off. Life is debt. I've made my peace with that). Mastercard - paid already (Ditto). Cable/ internet bill - you get the drift. The last piece I opened threw me for a bit of a loop. It was a lateslip from the library telling me that I had two overdue books which I should return and pay the fines immediately. I had absolutely no recollection of any overdue books. That's when I looked at the titles of the books and the name on the letter and was mortified to discover that it was not me! The letter was addressed to my neighbour, who I have never seen. I didn't even know someone lived there.

So here's the moral dilemma I faced. The admirable course of action would have been to seal the letter, knock on the neighbour's door, explain what happened, apologise profusely, insist that I never completely read the letter or the titles of the books ( since they were books about a medical condition with a bit of a stigma - nothing dangerous or contagious, just horribly embarrassing), offer to return the books for her and pay any additional fines incurred since the day I received the letter. That is what social responsibility and common decency told me to do.

What I wound up doing, and I'm not at all proud of this, was popping the letter into a larger envelope with an anonymous note saying "I got your mail by mistake. Sorry for the inconvenience.", shoving it under her door and bolting from the scene before she had time to lift her arse off the couch.

Shredding the damned thing and playing dumb crossed my mind but that, I am reasonably certain, is punishable by jail time, so I nixed the idea. I also considered going to the library and quietly paying the fine, but with my luck I would have got a scathing lecture from the dour librarian with absolutely no sense of ha-ha, just like I did that one time I opened my M and Ms packet too loudly and interrupted the other patrons. Again, not an option. This is all probably irrelevant since the library folks ring you and leave an automated message about ten days after they send you a notice, so my neighbour likely returned the books, paid the fine and got on with her life a good six weeks ago. I really must get over the guilt. Am I overthinking this?

They put fitting rooms in shops for a very good reason...

2008-03-17T23:54:00.005-04:00

This is how the exchange probably should have occurred:

Me: Hi there, I'd like to return these pants, please.

Twelve year old assistant manager, hereafter referred to as Assman12: Certainly, may I have your receipt, please?

Me: Of course."

(Assman12 pushes a few buttons on the cash register, makes some small talk about the weather and the new spring line, gives me a new receipt.)

Assman12: Here you are, madam. I'm sorry they weren't suitable, but please come and see us again. Thank you."

Me: No, thank you. (Exit shop).

Here's how the exchange actually occurred:

(I walk into the shop, a bustling little hive of industry, and see Assman 12 behind the counter folding merchandise, another sales assistant ringing up a sale and two others discussing the mammoth snowfall of the night before with each other and a few browsing customers. I take a look through the rack of pants closest to the door then approach the counter.)

Me: Hello, I'd like to return these jeans, please. I have a receipt and I just bought them last week.

Assman12: Certainly, madam. What seems to be the problem?

Me: They don't fit properly.

Assman12: Did you not try them on in the store?

Me: No, they are the same style and size as the ones I have on but they are a mile big. (Refreshing change, incidentally, as things are usually a mile small for me.) I'd like them in a size smaller.

Assman12: Do we have any more in stock? (I assume she is asking the other staff members or just thinking out loud, but I answer anyway.)

Me: I looked but you don't seem to have any in the smaller size.

Assman12: Really?

(Assman12 steps out from behind the counter, walks past me to the rack that I have just checked, in full view of her, and riffles through them one by one.)

Assman12: Hmmm, we don't have a size smaller.

(Assman12 returns to the counter, takes a blue tape measure from around her neck and measures the pants.)

Assman12: The label says they're a size 8 but they seem to be more like a 10. (Keep in mind that this is one of those fashionable big girl shops, so with the 8/10 thing I'm taking huge liberties, but there's no bloody way in hell I'm telling you my real size. Let's just call it fiction and move on, shall we?)

(Assman12 steps back over to the rack, pulls another size 8 and measures them.

Assman12: Here, try these on. Sometimes they get labelled wrong.

(I humour her and try them on, even though I am about to be late for the evening's festivities - stuffing my trap with leftover shepherd's pie and watching The Biggest Loser. I step into the dressing room, take off my boots breaking a lace in the process, take off the old jeans, put on the new jeans which happen to be miles too big as well. I am now slightly encouraged that my arse is not quite as big as I had thought, since surely two pairs of pants can't be wrong, and pissed off at having broken the lace for nothing. And I understand that it would have eventually broken anyway, but this is not the best time. It's difficult to authoritatively demand customer satisfaction when you're dragging your foot behind you like Quasimodo, trying to keep your shoe from falling off. I fold the pants and take them to the counter where Assman12 is engrossed in a conversation about adjustable bra strap extensions with a buxom older woman whose hooters hang so low that mere adjustable bra strap extensions would almost certainly not solve the problem. But it's none of my business. I scan the shop for another sales assistant but they have all disappeared, like triple fudge brownies at a Weight Watchers meeting. I spin the earring rack and have a look while Assman12 measures the missus for a bra.)

Assman12: Did you know that seventy percent of women wear the wrong size bra?

Me: Did you know that one hundred percent of me is wearing the wrong size pants? Can I have your attention again, please? (Okay, I didn't say it, but I wanted to, and could you really blame me if I had? The second the missus steps into the fitting room I'm all over Assman12 like stink on shit before someone else gets to her. She takes my receipt, punches numbers into the cash register and hands me a new receipt.)

Me: Don't you need my credit card?

Assman12: Not for an exchange.

Me: I'm sorry. I think you misunderstood. I'd like my credit card to be reimbursed. The other jeans are too big too.

Assman12: Really? They're big too? (Again, she takes out the tape measure.) Well, these ones are two inches smaller in the waist than the other ones.

Me: I'm sure they are but they still don't fit. Can I just have my money back, please? Time is a bit of an issue unfortunately.

(Assman12 forces a smile, picks up my receipt and furiously assaults the keys on the cash register. When she finishes, she hands me another receipt.)

Assman12: Thank you. You have a great night. (It is quite clear that she doesn't mean it.)

(I leave the shop happy that I have succeeded in getting my money back and determined never to shop there again, although when your can is the size of a chevy there are few other options.)

Tonight, we hunker!

2008-03-07T22:57:00.003-05:00

It is effing snowing again! Okay, I know that back in December I talked about how lovely the falling snow was and how festive and Christmassy I was feeling and how the weather outside was frightful but the fire was so delightful, but I am, emphatically, over it. I still love a good snowstorm but this is getting ridiculous. The weatherman said that this will be the worst storm of the season. They're predicting up to fifty centimetres of snow which is hard to imagine if you don't get much snow, but 50 cms is a buttload of snow, especially when you consider that the city has yet to move the 27 cms we got on Wednesday and the who knows how much we got last Saturday. At the end of the lot where I park my car there is a townhouse with the kitchen window looking out on to the street. The little woman who lives there with her teenagers can often be seen sitting and sipping her morning coffee and watching the world go by. Little snippets of other people's lives, even people we never speak to and don't really know, can become part of our routine. They can comfort us when our own lives occasionally spin out of control. I have not seen this woman since the end of December because the snow is piled up five feet above her window! She could be trapped under something heavy for all I know. I have to admit, it's somewhat unsettling, although curiously, not quite unsettling enough for me to walk the twenty extra steps, knock on her door and say "Hi, I'm Helen. Just popping round to make sure you're alright and not pinned under your fridge." I tell myself that the teenagers would have called 911 by now if something were amiss, and if I'm wrong and she is trapped under her fridge, there's a pretty good chance she won't answer the door when I knock.

I'm ready for the birds to return, the sunshine, the stench of dead earthworms after the rain, the eighty-three cents in loose change I will find in the street after the snow melts. I'm ready for Easter eggs and tulips and a clean car and sandals and a pedicure and pink polish on my toes. But it is quite clear that none of that will be happening any time soon. So I suppose I should just stay in my jams, make more tea, hunker down and enjoy sitting in my favourite chair, reading, while fifty centimetres of shit, crap and corruption furiously batters my living room window.

Behind This Door Lies Untold Horrors

2008-02-27T22:34:00.008-05:00

I have made an accidental scientific discovery, on the same scale as Dr. Whatsisname and the penicillin growing, unencumbered, on the back of a copper penny. Or not. Here it is: The molecules in tonic water are so powerful that they can penetrate the walls of an aluminium can with enough force to produce a full-scale geyser effect. This is all speculation of course, since I didn't actually observe it, but doesn't every scientific discovery begin as speculation? After careful examination of the evidence I arrived at this conclusion.

Last night, in a rare moment of industry, I decided it was time to rid my apartment of the many weeks' worth of putrefying filth I had allowed to accumulate since the purchase of the coma-inducing couch. I began with the fridge. Not too bad actually - some questionable leftovers, half a bottle of recently-expired Newman's Own, three liquefied Brussels sprouts (I think) and enough onion skins to stuff a queen size mattress, but miraculously, no stink. (Note to self: The reason you don't have a boyfriend might have something to do with the reek of your breath resulting from eating all those onions. I'm just saying.) I moved on to the bathroom - soap scum, lime, rust, a plug of hair in the shower drain - the usual suspects. Vile, to be sure, but understandable. Then, when I probably should have packed it in, put on my jams and curled up on the White Wondercouch to gorge myself on snack foods and watch The Biggest Loser (yes, I see the hypocrisy, no, I don't care), I decided, in a blinding flash of inspiration, insanity or both, to mop and polish the kitchen floor. I opened the pantry/ utility cupboard door and the broom fell, obediently, into my hands. As I swept, I was appalled, but hardly surprised, by the festering heap of dust and grit that had lain scattered all over the tile floor which connects the bathroom, hall and kitchen. The breeze created when I closed the bathroom door blew it across the expanse of tile so that it rolled like a tumbleweed in a John Wayne film. I brushed it into the dustpan, emptied it into a bag and tied it securely so none of it could escape. It was when I opened the pantry again to get out the bucket and Vileda Twist Mop (the best mop ever - you can machine wash the mop head, not that I ever have) that I noticed, when I bent over to retrieve the bucket from behind a sack of potatoes and a beer case, that the box of corn flakes on the bottom shelf was covered in thick, viscous, transparent goo. What the f*ck, I wondered. A quick think and I was sure that I hadn't dropped anything sticky. I thought about tasting it, but I remembered chemistry class 1985, when the delicious Mr. Capeling emphasized that some of the deadliest toxins known to man are clear, colourless and tasteless. Although I was reasonably certain that there were no such poisons in my pantry, I wasn't taking any chances. Until five minutes before I hadn't thought there were any mysterious sticky messes in my pantry either. I pitched the corn flakes, took a quick look around, chalked it up to a spilled diet 7 UP and reached for the bucket. You can imagine my horror when I found the bucket stuck to the floor. I was beginning to worry. How is it possible to have a mess of this magnitude in one's flat and have absolutely no recollection of it whatsoever?

I took everything from the floor out of the pantry so that I could better assess the situation. There was a large petrified puddle of liquid sticky on the floor next to where the bucket had been and hundreds of droplets surrounding it. Something, I thought, isn't right. Whatever they sweeten diet 7 UP with isn't this sticky. I decided that the entire pantry would have to be purged, scrubbed and, quite possibly, fumigated before I settled for the night. Virtually everything on the bottom shelf had sticky splatters. I took all of it out and piled it on the countertop. The middle and top shelves weren't quite as bad - only a few cans, some bags of pasta and a sack of basmati rice were affected. I took everything out, piece by piece, and became more and more perplexed with each item. The gooey drips I spotted all down the wall were quite distressing. Then I cleared away a few packets of instant gravy mix (bought before I figured out that single people can simply pop into the colonel's and order a small gravy to go with their mashed potatoes), a box of macaroni and cheese (a staple of the single person's diet), two cans of Chunky Steak and Potato (the soup that eats like a meal), a jar of Madras simmering sauce (which I haven't tried yet but I'm sure is delicious) and a box of Multi Grain Cheerios (the best cereal ever). Behind all of that I found a forgotten clutch of five cans of tonic water, which led me to realize (a) I must clean out my pantry more often and (b) I must increase my gin consumption if perfectly good tonic water is being abandoned and forgotten. I took all of it out and when I picked up the last can of tonic I was stunned to discover that it was empty. Not slightly depleted. Not half full. Empty. Not enough moisture to fuel a decent kiss. Here's the kicker though : the tin was perfectly sealed. I examined it thoroughly for dents, cracks and puncture marks. Nothing. The ring top was still firmly in place. The seal was definitely intact. I suppose there exists the slightest possibility that it went into the pantry empty in the first place, but I'm certain I would have noticed when I took it out of the case. It must be the culprit, I decided. There was, of course, still the question of the sticky . Tonic water couldn't possibly be sticky, could it? It's water after all. I read the label, and again I was stunned to discover that one shitty little tin of tonic water has thirty four grams of sugar. Thirty. Four. Grams! How does something with thirty four grams of sugar not taste sweet? For years now I've been sucking back G & Ts like water at dinner parties, weddings and social events and wondering why my thighs rub together when all along I've been bathing my fat cells in concentrated sugar, completely oblivious. Needless to mention, I'll be drinking my gin with soda from now on.

The only conclusion I could draw from the whole fiasco was that the molecules in tonic water are so powerful that they can penetrate the walls of an aluminium can with enough force to produce a full scale geyser effect. If anyone reading this or the good people at Schweppes can offer another explanation, I'm all ears.

There is a silver lining to this story : Now that I have purged, scrubbed and sanitized my pantry I don't have to do it next month as part of my spring cleaning routine, freeing up much more time for slouching on the White Wondercouch, listening to the chirping of the birds and sipping gin and sodas.

New Couch : The Death of Motivation

2008-02-17T08:32:00.006-05:00

I'm not sure exactly why but I haven't been motivated to write since before Christmas. I suppose it might have something to do with the lovely new couch I bought and have not wanted to lift my backside off of since the day it was delivered. After years of slouching on the ages-old green monster until there was an arse-shaped dent the diameter and depth of a meteor crater, I decided that, money permitting or not, it was time to look for something half comfortable. I quickly found a beautiful, reasonably priced, cream-coloured (one of the perks of not having children is that it allows you the luxury of having cream-coloured things) three-seat sofa which I snapped up immediately. I arranged to have it delivered but, in my drunken excitement, I failed to make arrangements to have the green monster removed. The upshot is that for two long weeks I lived with both of them crammed into a living room the size of an egg carton until finally, after calling every charity in the known universe, none of which were remotely interested in an ages-old green couch with a sizeable dent and a large wadge of carpentry glue melded into the upholstery, I wrestled the sucker into the elevator and down four floors to the parking lot. I was sure that someone would be able to use it, after all, the pullout mattress still had plenty of wear left in it, but the lady at the Sally Ann assured me that they don't accept even the most pristine sofa beds due to health codes. You could never be sure what went on in sofa beds, she said. I assured her that none of that had gone on in it, or anywhere else in my apartment for quite some time, to which she replied "I hear ya, sister", chuckled and hung up. I rang the people at city hall and informed them that there would be a large item for pick up on garbage day and the lovely woman who answered the phone seemed quite impressed that I had taken the initiative and warned them. Sadly, she apparently did not relay the message to the bin men as it sat there gathering snow and who knows what else for nine days, a grim reminder of my years of discomfort. I can only assume that the bin men eventually grew tired of looking at it too and finally removed it.

Anyway, my point is that I have hardly written lately. I've scribbled down bits and pieces here and there but my usual drive to get 1000 words a day, even 1000 words of drivel, left me. I told myself that everyone takes some down time after the holidays. It's the de rigeur January slump. But it's now well into February and, if I'm being completely honest, I have just become lazy. I have never had an eight week dry spell. If I don't write for two days I begin to worry that I have dried up and have absolutely nothing to offer the literary fraternity and my time might be better spent writing warning labels on cigarette packets or assembly instructions for cheap bookcases at Ikea. Those of you who have read bits of the Effing Novel From Hell might agree. But the laziness must stop.

I am a firm believer that inspiration is not something that strikes like some divine bolt from the blue. Rather, it comes from hours, often days, of slogging through umpteen pages of shit until one little nugget of truth starts a chain reaction and you're off. No more sitting on my can, watching reruns and stuffing myself with things that are bad for me and lamenting about my utter lack of talent. Time to extract the digit, get out a pen and turn off the television. I have umpteen pages of shit to write.

Let It Snow

2007-12-08T13:05:00.000-05:00

Thanks to the unnatural amount of fluffy white we've had over the past week, this festive season is shaping up to be a refreshing change from those in recent memory. The abundance of snow, although doubtlessly wreaking havoc on the underside of my car, has got me in the mood like no amount of intensive marketing could. I feel like the good will and cheer might explode right out of the top of my head if I'm not careful.

I am, most definitely, a Christmas person. I love everything about it: the twinkly lights, the sparkly ornaments, the confections, Bing and Bowie's Drummer Boy, all of it. I have enough ornaments for two trees, a red tartan duvet cover, wreaths of every possible sort, red and green dish towels. It's a disease. I should probably seek treatment. I watch The Santa Clause, Home Alone and Love, Actually year round. I chose the apartment I live in, not because it was reasonably priced and in a fabulous neighbourhood, but because the odd-shaped living room has a four by five foot niche with an electrical outlet beside the window that is the perfect place for putting a tree. And the floor tiles, as old and hideous as they are, are green, and in my opinion anything looks better green.

For the past few years though, I have been frustratingly single and the festive season has lost a little of its glitz. I have come to think of the kissletoe as a weed, slightly more annoying than a garden full of crab grass. Couple that, excuse me, add to that the fact that the past few Decembers have passed with hardly enough snow to roll into a ball and you'll understand why recent Christmasses past have been little more than a day off. For ho-ho people in colder climates, a snowless Christmas is pointless. Who wants to curl up by the fire (not that I have a fireplace, but in my world candlelight counts as a fire) in your jams, drinking hot chocolate, watching cheesy holiday favourites when it still looks like Hallowe'en outside? Festive means snow. No sane person dreams of a green Christmas. In the meadow, we don't build a rain man. And I don't remember ever dashing through the grass.

This year I began my shopping, the only part of the season I could really live without, in November. Although every year my intentions are admirable, I usually wind up running around frantically at the last minute to scoop up whatever is left over after Those Creepy Organised People have picked it over. One dear friend boasted in September that she only had a few things to pick up and some wrapping to do. She had her aunt and her in-laws 'done' on Boxing Day of last year, which, although impressive, annoys the living hell out of people like me for so many reasons, not the least of which is that, historically, we haven't had a penny left over after the mad Christmas rush to attend the Boxing Day sales. It takes me until well into July to pay off December. And it's not like I go mad on spending. I make budgets and, with few exceptions, stick to them. I just don't have enough to put aside for the sales. My family, God love them, have recently started giving gift certificates for Christmas. I'm not entirely sure if they do it out of complete and utter disenchantment with the blatant commercialisation of the birth of Jesus or if they are just acutely aware of my heartfelt appreciation of the free shopping exerience. Thanks to their boundless generosity, I have managed to scoop up some gorgeous holiday baubles for myself half price the day after the big event, which explains why I have enough ornaments to deck my halls and two trees, should I ever be able to afford a place with two niches. In my current cash-strapped non-profit job, I have to say, it doesn't look good.

However, nothing, not poverty, not loneliness, not the blatant commercialisation of the birth of Jesus, can dampen my spirits this December because there's a great honking load of snow outside my front window. This year I am motivated to decorate. The red, tartan duvet has been on the bed for a fortnight. The tree, a small one but a tree nevertheless, is up and adorned. Bowls of extra ornaments are piled all over the house. The shopping is well underway. I have found lovely things for Perfect Niece and her darling little cousin, Lala, whose first birthday is Christmas Day. Perfect Nephy Poo is proving to be a bit of a problem. I can't buy him pink things or frilly things or sparkly things. In my experience, boys are absolute hell to shop for because virtually everything they want has the capacity to maim, mess or make noise. In years past, when I've asked what he would like, I have been told that anything with wheels will make him happy, and although I am so sick of getting him trucks, tractors and motorbikes, what the hell else do you buy for a boy? Teenage Mutant Micro Turbo Transformer Robots or some such nonsense no doubt, but don't they all have wheels? I'm lost, but I have a plan. When I see him next I will casually plant a toy catalogue in front of him. The first thing that makes him go "Phwoar!" is the thing he's getting, wheels or not.

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas

2007-11-21T23:13:00.001-05:00

I have been a very bad blogger of late. When I started this blog I intended to post at least every second day. But life just seems to get in the way, and although that's hardly a good enough excuse, it's the only one I can come up with. In the absence of anything mind-numbing or Earth-shattering, or let's be honest, remotely interesting to say, I have decided to simply change the colours to something more seasonal until inspiration strikes.

When I went to bed last night, it was cold, windy and barren outside, and Christmas was the last thing on my mind. I woke up this morning to several centimetres of heavy, sticky, crunchy, lovely, snowman-making, snowball-throwing, baby-it's-cold-outside snow. I suddenly have the urge to go out to the shops and spend money I don't have on lovely things for friends and family, then come home, make hot cocoa, pop White Christmas or Holiday Inn into the DVD and wrap things. The best part? The weatherman is calling for upwards of twenty-five more centimetres by this time tomorrow! It really is the most wonderful time of the year.

Today is the First Day of the Rest of My Life

2007-11-05T12:11:00.000-05:00

So today at work Stacy, the font of all wisdom, said something so profound that it made me stand back and take stock of my life. She said - and this is so stark that it just might shock you - that every woman deserves to get what she wants. Smacked in the gob I was, when the weight of that statement hit me. I have fallen into the trap that so many of us fall into.

When I was a girl I dreamt of what my life would be like, and the picture in my mind was markedly different from what has actually come to pass. I don't recall fantasizing about renting a tiny, overpriced flat because buying one is out of the question, or having debt equivalent to my annual income, or having an arse the size of a small country. I don't recall promising that I'd do anything, ANYTHING, if I could just be childless and alone at the age of forty. And I'm pretty damned certain that I didn't go to university to find a job that, although I'm grateful to have it, hardly nourishes my soul and pays just enough that I need a second one. I envisioned my life entirely differently. I wanted the witty, handsome husband, the children (although after living in a fairly quiet, reasonably clean and completely bogey-free environment for years now, I am quite willing to let that one go), the mortgage on the cute little house, the job, writing from the warm, well-appointed den of the aforementioned cute little house. I wanted to have enough money to have friends over for dinners and go out once a week. I wanted to have a savings account with actual savings in it. I wanted to spend every day celebrating my contentment.

Now, I know that I have many things to be grateful for. People often say that we should be grateful for what we have, and I get that. I understand that if you have a roof over your head and your health that you have a whole lot more than many people have. Relative to people in war-torn countries, or people living in cardboard boxes or mud huts, or people trying to get through just one more day of chemotherapy, I have it easy. And I genuinely try not to take those things for granted. But just because I am better off than some people doesn't mean that I have to stagnate. Just because I am better off than some other people doesn't mean that I can't have everything I want for my life, does it?

I want to make a living as a writer. I want to have a little place to call my own. I want to be debt-free with enough money in the bank that I don't go into gastric distress every time a bill comes through the mail slot. And today, thanks to Stacy's words of wisdom, I realised that, with planning, diligence and courage, I can have the things I want. The fact that those words of wisdom, I found out later, came not from Stacy, but from a program she saw on the telly last week is utterly beside the point.

Happy Spook Night!

2007-10-30T23:35:00.000-04:00

One more sleep until Hallowe'en, that night when the darling little goblins don their ill-fitting, cheaply-made costumes and descend on us in droves, begging for food. It's the night that still-bald, six-toothed toddlers dressed in furry pyjamas with ears, their little button noses dabbed with black grease paint, the apples of their cheeks rubbed with mummy's red lipstick, get carried from door to door because they are too pooped to walk. They don't care about tricks or treats, but mummy and daddy saw the costume and decided that Hallowe'en would be the perfect excuse to dress their little pumpkin up cute and parade him, shamelessly, before the neighbours. It's the night that windows get egged. Not all of them, of course. Just the darkened windows of the curmudgeons who either pretend to be out so they don't have to participate or give out the crap candy. Old Bag Brown's windows got egged every year when I was a kid, although not by me, of course. Never egged a window in my life. Incidentally, Old Bag Brown was probably younger then than I am now, but she seemed ancient at the time.

Then there was Pam's mum, who spent the week leading up to the big event making pan after pan of chocolate fudge, cutting it into perfect squares, wrapping it in parchment and plastic wrap and tying it up in orange grosgrain ribbon. We used to go to her house twice. It was bloody great fudge! It was the only homemade treat we were allowed to eat because everyone knew Pam's mum, although come to think, none of us knew her name. She was just Pam's mum or the fudge lady.

I remember getting home, exhausted from hitting every house in a ten mile radius, dumping my pillow case and separating it into piles. Chips, chocolate bars, Tootsie Rolls, Rockets and Pam's mother's fudge were the cream of the crop. Then there was gum and other chewy things - jellies, BB Bats, MoJos. Finally there was the shit that got thrown away due to safety concerns or inedibility - apples, peanuts, other people's mother's fudge, unwrapped things, gooey things and those vile candy kisses.

By my estimate, and I think you'll agree I'm being conservative, each year candy companies produce roughly five billion metric tonnes of molasses-flavoured candy kisses and ship them all over Canada and the US, if not the world. Of those five billion tonnes, roughly three and a half pounds are actually consumed by freakish weirdos who, for whatever twisted reason, like the taste of them. That means that, annually, slightly less than five billion metric tonnes of the putrid confections go directly to landfills. I wonder if Al Gore knows about this. Then again, given the recent allegations that his home's energy consumption is thirty times the national average, I wouldn't be at all surprised if he gives them out. Perhaps he should start giving out chips, chocolate bars, Tootsie rolls and Rockets. Those are the things kids actually eat. Or better yet, maybe he and the missus should get into the kitchen, make fudge, wrap it in parchment and tie it with pretty, orange grosgrain ribbon. The amount of rejected candy going to landfills would be significantly reduced. The grosgrain ribbon can be reused. The paper can be recycled and everyone's happy. Not to mention the water and detergent usage to scrub the diamond-hard egg residue from the windows will be avoided altogether.

Tomorrow evening, lovely sister-in-law will answer the door to the goblins while brother and I follow Perfect Niece and Perfect Nephy-Poo around the neighbourhood while they, looking ever-so-cute in their outfits, ask the neighbours for goodies. And we will see the babies dressed as honeybees and bunny rabbits, sleeping on their father's shoulders, their pudgy little hands still clutching the handles of their orange plastic pumpkins. And when we've said hello to everyone on the street and gushed over the costumes of other people's children, we'll go home and dump the goody bags and separate the contents into piles. We'll sneak a treat while the kids' heads are turned and it will all be over for another year. Here's hoping you all have that much fun on Spook Night too!

Refresher Course...Rules of the Road

2007-10-11T22:43:00.000-04:00

I'm the first person to admit that I am not the world's greatest driver. The formula one people are not knocking down my door to sign me to an obscenely lucrative contract. I have run up my share of kerbs while trying to parallel park and I stalled so much when I learned to drive a standard that I got frustrated and gave up altogether. However, I am reasonably sure that I, and the vast majority of us, know the rules of the road and apply them, as well as the rules of courtesy, regularly. This gentle reminder is for those who do not.

1. The lane on the left is for passing, hence its name The Passing Lane. It is not for cruising along absently. It is not a feeder lane for the left hand turn you intend to make fourteen blocks henceforth. It is not there to alleviate the boredom of always driving in the right hand lane. It is for passing. Once you have finished passing, please move over to the right hand side and feel free to cruise along absently. The rest of us will use the left lane to pass you.

2. And on the eighth day, God created turn signals. Enough said.

3. You, in all likelihood, were born with two hands. One is clearly on your mobile phone. The other is wrapped around your coffee cup. What, in the name of hell, are you steering with?

4. Weaving is for qualified basket makers. In the city, in the heat of rush hour traffic, the only place you are going to get to ahead of me by repeatedly changing lanes is the next red light. And you might just endanger other drivers, not to mention yourself, in the process. Relax. Turn on the radio, listen to the morning drivel and enjoy the fact that the traffic is making you ten minutes late for work, a place you probably don't really want to go to anyway. Tell your boss there was a bottleneck holding things up. He'll understand. It happens.

5. While we all enjoy a little music while we drive, we don't need to hear each other's. Here's a good tip: if the car is visibly vibrating and drivers around you are clutching their chests and covering their ears, your music is likely too loud. Apart from the fact that you are a nuisance to everyone, you will go deaf. Period. For all our sakes turn it down, even just a little.

6. You cannot effectively discipline your rambunctious brat, in bumper to bumper traffic, by giving him the evil eye via the rear view mirror and swatting him with a road map, and still stay focused on the road. Pull over. Admonish/ scold/ threaten the offending waif to within an inch of his life, then resume the commute. My unblemished bumper thanks you.

7. Cyclists...you cannot demand equality on the road if you are not willing to comply with the rules. We all understand that you have every right to be on the road too, and you are just as important as motorists are, but if you want to be entitled to the privileges you must also accept the responsibilities. Therefore, hand signals are not elective. You must use them. If you don't you have no right to complain that a motorist got in your way when you didn't bother to tell him where you were going. Also, stop signs and red lights apply to you too. And it is probably worth the few bucks investment to buy a head light and a tail light, for your safety, of course.

8. Just because your fancy car cost more than my house does not mean you own the road. You just own a fancy car that cost more than my house. Now get over into your lane so I can pass you. Thanks.

9. DON'T F*ING TXT MSG WHILE DRVNG. IT'S DNGEROUS, **SHOLE!!

10. If it says 'No Parking', it means you can't park there. If it meant 'You can stop here with your hazard lights on and/or motor running for five minutes while you just nip into Starbuck's for a quick coffee' it would say 'Pretentious Prat Parking - five minute time limit' or 'Starbuck's Drive Thru'.

11. And finally...ladies, there is not enough time, at a red light, to rummage through your purse looking for lipstick or eyeliner. The 422nd law of the universe clearly states that items lurking in the depths of a woman's handbag can only be retrieved when needed by removing every single item one by one. The required item will always be found last. As soon as the item is no longer immediately required, it will leap into the hand of the woman every time she reaches into her bag. That's just the way it is. Even if you could find a lipstick before the light turned green, if the person you want to see you with full, pouty, hyperglossed, kissable lips is in the car with you, they've already seen you without it so the lipstick can wait. If they are not in the car with you, you can take a minute when you get where you are going to touch up your face. The person in the car next to you doesn't care whether you have on lippy or not. They're too focused on the road.

Hopefully this clarifies a few things. Happy Driving!

Note: Thank you to Lane for the Rockin' Girl Blogger Award. I've never been awarded anything before.

Sick Day

2007-10-03T23:40:00.000-04:00

So, I think it's about bloody time I actually wrote about writing, seeing as the writing process is the reason I started this blog in the first place. I will likely be up half the night, having slept for three hours late this afternoon, so I might as well do something productive with the time. I was off work today. I took an impromptu holiday yesterday to enjoy the crisp air and breathtaking scenery of autumn. I love autumn. Truth be told I was feeling a little sorry for myself. Not exactly sure why; things are good, but every once in a while we all need a completely self-indulgent day to feel unabashedly sorry for ourselves and nurture our souls. Yesterday was that day. The boss was away, my work was caught up, for the most part, and our office was closed for the morning, so it seemed like a great day for a holiday.

Today is, emphatically, not a holiday. Today is punishment for the wanton hedonism of yesterday. Today I feel like some sadistic bastard is continually snapping elastic bands against the soft, fleshy part at the back of my palate prompting me to swallow what feels like a stew of thumb tacks, gravel and wet sand in a rich, thick gravy of snot and battery acid. Thank God for tea. I was well into the second pot by ten o'clock this morning.

There are certain things you discover while hunkered down with a blanket on the couch on sick days that you would never get the opportunity to discover otherwise. For example, the floor of the Rachael Ray show actually revolves so that the audience doesn't have to move when the focus of the show changes. So if you are an exceptionally lazy person looking for free entertainment while on holiday in NYC, get tickets to the Rachael Ray show. Also, tea molecules duplicate themselves inside the body. I'm not a scientist, so I'm not entirely sure if this is true, but it would explain the fact that for every two pots of tea I consumed, I peed four. Anyway, enough about the hideous sore throat day. It feels a whole lot better now after drinking enough tea to float a cruise ship, a cup of chicken bouillon and a spoonful of grainy vanilla ice cream that really should have been thrown out weeks, if not months, ago.

Tonight I am writing. I foolishly sent the first three chapters of my manuscript off to an agent before it was finished and received the rejection slip last month. The first draft has been finished for ages and I thought sending it off prematurely would force me to finish it completely. I won't do that again. The entire time it was away I was terrified that the agent might want to see the rest of it and I'd have to send an email to the effect of 'Thank you for your interest, Splendid Agent. Unfortunately I am a putz of mammoth proportion and have only a shoddy second draft riddled with holes to show you. Please hang in there. I will send the rest in due course. Sincerely, Arsehole.' Now that I have been rejected I am going to take the time to finish it properly before taking the plunge again. My stomach can't take the stress of potentially looking like an idiot to an agent who has taken the time to request a full manuscript.

I'm having a bit of a hard time trying to put the bits and pieces together. I don't write sequentially so I have to put it all together after I've written vignettes. The problems come when the vignettes contradict each other or when I inadvertently leave little holes in the plot here and there. Now I am filling the holes. It's difficult to get into a rhythm when you're just filling holes. Although I suppose it might be easier if I'd buckle down and get on with it. So that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to make one more cup of tea then buckle down and get on with it. Goodnight.

No longer a meme virgin...hurrah!

2007-09-28T00:12:00.000-04:00

I have been meme'd for the very first time ever!!! When Lane said she'd meme'd me, I didn't have a bloody clue what it meant, being new to this blogging business. I only hoped it didn't hurt. Then I read her blog and Jen at work enlightened me. I have to say it's all very exciting. Just thinking that someone wants my opinion on something gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling. Of course she might just have been desperate for a fifth person, but I'm choosing to believe the former. Anyway, enough of the pleasantries. Here goes:

Total number of books: A few hundred. If I didn't live in a matchbox there would be walls of bookshelves, but space is an issue. There isn't a room in my apartment without reading material.

Last book read: Currently reading Fame Fatale, a feisty little romp by Wendy Holden.

Last book bought: Bright Lights, Big Ass, by Jen Lancaster. I laughed so hard I think I might have peed a little. (Too much information?)

Five meaningful books: It's sad really but I'm just not that deep, however I'll give it a whack anyway.

Anything by Dr. Seuss. Loved him as a child, love him still. I think he has somehow shaped the life and imagination of any child who has read him.

The Great Gatsby by Fitzgerald. Read it initially in high school. It has everything you could ever want in a novel and it is so beautifully crafted. It made me realise how effortless writing can seem.

Oliver Twist by Dickens. Saw the musical film first as a child and developed a huge crush on the character, or maybe developed a huge crush on Mark Lester who played Oliver. Then years later I read it and loved every word of it.

The Reader by Bernard Schlink. It's a story about the nature of love and whether or not love can survive the unfathomable. Very provocative.

The Other Side of the Story by Marion Keyes. It's just a good, funny story, but it focuses on the publishing industry from three different perspectives, so it was meaningful for me. A good laugh is always meaningful for me.

So, there you have it. Now, in the tradition of the meme, I'm supposed to tag five more victims...er, enthusiastic, willing participants. I would like to hear what Travis Erwin, Sarah G, Terrie Farley Moran, Juliette M and KeVin K have to say about this.

A little service, please.

2007-09-25T15:18:00.001-04:00

Let me say at the outset that I do not profess to be an expert on customer service. I am much better at it now than I was at seventeen, when the manager (and by manager I mean pimply-faced youth on a power trip with a mere three months more seniority than me) at a major McFood chain hauled me into the office to give me McShit, made me sign my file and suspended me for a week for not smiling at a customer. (May my nipples fall off if I'm making this up.) I lost a week's salary and a substantial chunk of my teenage dignity for not smiling at one jackass customer with nothing better to do with his Saturday afternoon than complain about the poor little girl at the counter just trying to make enough money to buy a pair of Nike All-Courts with the smurf-blue swoosh and a pair of red Lee painter pants. (Stop laughing! They were cool at the time.) You'd think he would have been happy that the burger he ordered without the sauce actually arrived on his tray without the sauce, but I guess that wasn't enough for him. He wanted an effing smile too. Bastard.

So, I've acknowledged that teenagers don't always get customer service bang-on, and that's understandable. Their minds are full of other things like the opposite sex and rock stars and film stars and zit cream and the opposite sex. I get that. But the little twerp who served me, and I use that term very loosely, at the cleaners the other night needs to have his ass fired, or he at least needs to be hauled into the office, given shit, forced to sign his file and suspended for a week.

I didn't go there to drop off or pick up clothing. I'm a firm believer that if it needs to be dry-cleaned or ironed then I don't need to wear it. I went in to see about a part-time job, because when you work in the non-profit sector and you don't have a roommate, you need a second job. I stood at the counter for at least a minute, maybe two, waiting for him to figure out that I was there. A minute doesn't sound like a long time but it is. Stop reading this and time one minute. Go.......See? It's a long time. Finally he came out from behind a door, presumably a washroom or a stockroom door, scratching his arse. And I mean that quite literally.

"Yeah?" he grunted. Not 'Hello, can I help you?' Not 'Hi, how are you?' Not even 'Yes?' Just 'Yeah?', with all the enthusiasm of Lindsay Lohan at a sobriety convention.

"Hi, I understand that you are looking for staff."

"Uh...I think we were? But the boss? Isn't, like, here."

He began to fidget with some invoices on the counter.

"You think you were?"

"Yeah, but we hired someone already. But, uh, maybe we need one more person."

'As soon as they fire your butt, you mean?' was on the tip of my tongue but I pulled it in. I might, after all, have to work with this guy at some point.

"Is there an application form I can fill out?" I said, positioning myself directly in front of him, trying to prompt him to look at me and give me his full attention, such as it was.

"Nope. You have to bring in a resume."

"Okay, to whom should I address the cover letter?"

"The manager."

Mental note to self: Do not slap this child, do not slap this child, do not slap this child...

"Does the manager have a name?" At this point, the bitchy was beginning to creep in but can you blame me?

"Fred." (Name changed to protect the idiots.)

"And Fred's last name?"

Idiot Boy looked at me as if I'd just asked him to mentally calculate pi to forty-six decimal places.

"Does Fred have a last name?" I asked. Slowly.

"Uh, just a minute." He opened the drawer under the till and riffled through the pages of an address book. This could take a while, I thought, since Idiot Boy doesn't know Fred's last name and therefore won't know what alphabetical section to look in first. Sooner than I expected, he said "I think it's Smith." (Name again changed.)

"Okay then. Thank you. I'll bring Fred a resume tomorrow."

"He won't be here tomorrow."

"His day off?"

"Yeah, but I'll be here tomorrow so you can just give it to me."

Not a hope in hell! "When will Fred be here next?"

"Monday, I think."

"Okay, I'll drop it off Monday then."

"Cool," he said, and resumed farting about with the invoices.

Like I said, I was no customer service genius at seventeen but if anyone had come into my McWork and said 'I hear you're looking for staff,' I'm reasonably sure I could have come up with 'I think so but the manager won't be in until Monday. Feel free to drop off a resume to the attention of Fred Smith.' Although there's no guarantee I would have smiled when I said it.

NB - It is not my intention to, in any way, denigrate the McFood chain alluded to in this post. They are splendid and I had some of the best times of my young life working for them. I don't mind denigrating the anonymous McDink who suspended me. You know who you are.

If they're on sale, buy lots!

2007-09-24T01:18:00.000-04:00

So, after the ten-pages-gone-mysteriously-missing fiasco of last week, I felt compelled to restore some semblance of order to my postage stamp-size apartment so that future attempts at locating vitally-important objects are not quite so distressing. Don't get me wrong. It's a lovely, little apartment with a lovely, little sunroom to write in and a lovely, little kitchen, perfect for preparing lovely, little meals. It's just so small that if I don't keep on top of the editing, things can get out of hand very quickly. You would think that the smaller the flat, the lower the chance of losing things because there are only so many places they could be. But let me assure you, it is staggering how much extraneous crap you can cram into a scarcely four hundred square foot space.

Let me emphasize that I am not the kind of slob who doesn't clean for twenty-eight years until Kim and Aggie turn up, rubber-gloved and ready for action, at the door. The regular cleaning gets done, well...regularly. No obvious buildup of thick, brown grot on the stovetop, few, if any, spiders lurking in the corners, no long-dead vermin or wayward hairs in the fridge, no pet by-products ground into the carpet and left to petrify. I would not be mortified if company were to show up unannounced. I am not sure, however, whether I'd be comfortable with them rifling through my linen cupboard.

I started with the front hall closet. How hard could it be? Take out the coats, footwear and vacuum cleaner, sweep, mop, put everything back. Piss case. Except that I completely forgot that over the past three years I've used the shelves at the top as a catch-all. I found two cans of spray paint that I have never used; can't remember what I bought them for but, clearly, there was a project in the offing at one point. I also came across a bottle of carpentry glue that I used to fix my coffee table. And ruin my couch. (If anyone knows the secret to getting an obscene quantity of wood glue out of upholstery, please post.) There were also many small, tool-type items including my handy-dandy electric screwdriver - the single woman's best friend. Alright, maybe not best friend but certainly in the top five.

I vaguely recall tissues being on sale for the crazy low price of fifty-nine cents a box. I vaguely recall a limit of four boxes per customer. I have no recollection whatsoever of making three trips to the shop to snap them up. If you consider the fact that I keep a box of tissues beside my bed, one in my sunroom, one on the back of the toilet, one on the bookcase next to the couch and one on top of the fridge, you will realise that there are seventeen boxes of tissues in my scarcely four hundred square foot space. Seventeen! Does that seem excessive to anyone else or is it just me? What in the holy and sanctified name of God am I going to do with seventeen boxes of tissues? Two of the opened boxes are printed with bells and snowflakes, which would obviously suggest that I have not managed to get through them since last Christmas. It's nearly October. It will take me roughly four years to use them up. Kids who started ninth grade two weeks ago will graduate high school before I need to buy tissues again. They will have cast, shot and premiered Pirates of the Caribbean VII before I need to buy tissues again. Britney Spears will have been married and divorced two more times before I need to buy tissues again. Interesting, I think, that I just put the last roll of bog paper on the spindle this morning. I can cruise right through seventeen rolls of that stuff in about eight weeks. Must buy some more, though I suppose I could just use tissues, if need be.

My front hall closet is now spotless. The tissue boxes are piled neatly at the back of the top shelf, like a floral cardboard brick wall. The things I use more frequently are stacked in front of them. I've made space so that accessing the coats, footwear and vacuum cleaner is much easier. In a few weeks, when I've recovered from the trauma, I will tackle the linen cupboard where, incidentally, the linens have not been kept for the better part of a year because there is no room for them.

Fall cleaning

2007-09-18T01:41:00.000-04:00

I started a story a little over a year ago, but ten pages in I put it aside to work on the Effing Novel From Hell. The idea has wandered into my thoughts a handful of times since I put it away, but I've always managed to simply scrawl one or two brief notes on a post-it or the back of a grocery receipt and banish it to the shoe box of random ideas under the bed until I finish ENFH and can devote my undivided attention to it. That all changed Friday night.

I was watching Sex and the City on DVD - the episode where Big drives out to Aidan's house in the country to cry on Carrie's shoulder over some snooty actress who doesn't deserve him. Classic episode - moving on. I'm not sure what part of the show made my story pop into my head but it did. With a vengeance. I had to find it and reread it immediately and, with any luck, whip off ten more pages in an hour and a half then stand back in awe of my sudden bolt of inspiration.

I opened the file box marked, ever so originally, STORY IDEAS and opened the pink folder I had filed the story in. But it wasn't there. I scanned through the rest of the folders for the pages. No luck. I looked through all of them again but it was definitely not there. Somewhat perplexed, I opened the desk drawer, but all I found was a box of paper clips, two erasers, an exacto knife, a roll of Scotch tape, two keys that must open something, although what I have absolutely no idea, and half a box of Smarties that have been there so long that the packaging has since changed. No papers of any sort, unless you count the cardboard insert on the Scotch tape. I systematically went through the heap of yet-to-be-filed papers that have been piled on the second shelf of my bookcase since dinosaurs roamed the earth, but the story remained elusive.

It was about that time that all hell broke loose. We've all experienced it - the volatile cocktail of confusion, panic and sheer frustration that compels us to rip through an apartment like a category five hurricane, leaving untold chaos and destruction in our wake. I turned things over, emptied things out, pulled things down, strew things from one end of the flat to the other. Somewhere in this heap were ten pages I had a feeling I would never see again, no matter how hard I searched for them. I resigned myself to the fact, made tea and started on the Smarties, still delicious after all those years.

It took three days to sort through the wreckage. In the recesses of my brain I suppose I thought I might come across the pages during the clean up operation. But as I placed the last box on the shelf, I solemnly accepted the loss and vowed to move on.

Yesterday my earring rolled under the couch. I reached to retrieve it and my fingertips brushed across the dog-eared edges of what felt like ten sheets. I pulled the stack out and skimmed the first few pages. But the mood had passed. I filed them in the pink folder.

SWM seeks...

2007-09-12T23:56:00.000-04:00

Here's what his personal ad said:

Single, white male, late thirties, seeks vivacious female, 18-40, for adventure. I am sensitive, loyal and caring, average height and build, ice blue eyes with flecks, employed, financially secure, no children. I am looking for someone I can enjoy exciting activities with, as well as quiet times. I enjoy long walks on the beach, hikes in the hills and the great outdoors. If you are looking for someone to pamper and spoil you, take you for romantic al fresco dinners and show you the sights, I just might be your man. Photo provided on request.

Here's what his personal ad actually meant:

Single, white male: separated, but hanging on until I get half the sale value of that double-wide

Late thirties: forty-three, if a day

Seeks vivacious female: seeks hot, racy minx, preferably gorgeous

18-40: Legal but not old

For adventure: for hot, racy sexual encounters

I am sensitive, loyal and caring: My sister told me to write this

Average height: 5'6''

And build: 280 pounds

Ice blue eyes with flecks: dull grey on a good day, perpetually rimmed in bloodshot

Employed: part-time at Dairy Queen

Financially secure: broke and okay with it

No children: that I'm aware of

I am looking for someone I can enjoy exciting activities with, as well as quiet times: after the rambunctious sex, there will be lengthy periods of sleep.

I enjoy long walks on the beach: free
Hikes in the hills: free
And the great outdoors: free

If you are looking for someone to pamper and spoil you: I'll rub your feet after a hard day's work because I have a kinky foot fetish...oh, and it's free.

Take you for romantic, al fresco dinners: How does a burger, fries and a double-thick shake on the tailgate of my truck sound to you, darlin'?

And show you the sights: but you have to show me yours too...

I might be your man: I said might, girl, don't push me.

Photo provided on request: My mom thinks I'm a looker...honest.

Needless to say, there was no second date. On the plus side though, I don't feel half as guilty referring to my fat ass as bodacious.

Let's talk a little bit about rejection.

2007-09-10T19:07:00.000-04:00

A few days ago I received my first rejection letter and, while I'm not planning on jumping off a bridge any time soon, I'm a little disappointed. But I'll get over it. At first, I wasn't sure if a form rejection letter, all printed up on rather impressive agency letterhead, made me a bonafide writer or if it just made me a very bad one. I have since decided that it takes more than one agent's opinion to confirm, beyond a reasonable doubt, that I am absolute crap, so I will reserve judgement until at least ten reputable agencies have told me to sod off. To give credit to the agency, the letter was nice. It didn't come right out and say 'You're absolute crap, Shearer, but we hear that McDonald's is hiring, so all is not lost.' It just said something along the lines of 'We certainly don't want you, but keep on trying.' Which I suppose is standard, but it made my first rejection that much easier to take. I'm thinking that literary agencies should offer courses in tactful rejection to teenage boys. It might help to reduce the instances of low self-esteem in teenage girls, but that's another topic altogether.

My next step is to send my manuscript to more agents. Submitting a manuscript, if the agents' websites are to be believed, is moronically simple. Send a cover letter (easy peasy - If you can't write a decent cover letter you have no business trying to write a novel), a short synopsis (one page - think blurb), the first three chapters, unbound, double-spaced, printed on one side of the paper, and include a self-addressed, stamped envelope. Straight forward.

I decided to go with a British agent because, while I have lived in Canada for most of my life, I am still a British citizen. I wrote the cover letter and synopsis, printed the entire package and stuffed it all into the envelope. A quick visit to Canada Post and it would be off to London where, after reading it, the agent would be so impressed that he'd offer me a multi-book deal and a sizeable enough advance that I could quit my office job and stay home to write, in my jammies, full-time. I know, I know, that sort of thing rarely happens, but if you can't have your self-indulgent little fantasies, is life really worth living? I think perhaps not.

It turns out that Canada Post doesn't carry foreign postage. I went to their website, the postal outlet down the road and their corporate headquarters. No dice. So I went to the Royal Mail website to order UK postage straight from the source. You can order stamps from their site quickly and easily, but only in enormous quantities, and although I understand that postal costs are always rising, I was quite sure I would never get through hundreds of pounds' worth of stamps. I was happy to discover that they offer a print-your-own postage option. You figure out how much you need, place your order, type in your credit card number and print. Perfect!

Or not. Printed postage must be used within two days. No good. By the time my manuscript travelled to London, sat in the slush pile, got read and sent back, four to six weeks would have elapsed, and although I'm quite certain the Royal Mail staff are lovely people, expecting them to extend the deadline for printed postage usage by several weeks hardly seemed realistic. In desperation, I rang the British High Commission. Their slogan is 'Britain In Canada' but it should really be 'Everything From Britain In Canada Except Bloody Stamps'. Finally I phoned Royal Mail and spoke to a splendid young man called Ryan (if I remember correctly), who assured me that I could order a small quantity of stamps but they would take several weeks to arrive. Defeated, I ordered them and settled in for the wait. I decided it was a perfect opportunity to proofread my first forty-six pages yet again.

Here's what I don't quite understand. We can put a man on the moon, break the sound barrier and send text messages to the farthest reaches of Outer Mongolia in a fraction of a second but getting a few quids' worth of stamps from the motherland in a reasonable amount of time seems beyond the realm of possibility. How can that be? Some authors will tell you that slogging through the middle third of their novel is the most difficult part of getting a book published. Others will tell you it's finding an agent. I'm inclined to believe it's actually procuring the postage for the self-addressed, stamped effing envelope!

Getting Started

2007-09-08T03:15:00.000-04:00

Hello everyone,

Welcome to my blog. I'm an unpublished writer who has been working on a novel for longer than I care to admit and I thought a blog might be just the place to get some things off my chest. Don't worry. Nothing too deep. No politics or religion here, folks. Just some tiny, insignificant observations about my world and the people in it (names changed to protect the idiots, of course), the odd laugh, shopping tips, maybe a little venom now and then, but only directed at those who truly deserve it (people who cruise in the passing lane, irresponsible pet owners, skinny people on diets - you know who you are).

If you have anything to add, please do. Don't be shy. The blog police, to the best of my knowledge, won't swoop in with their virtual red pens and dock you for blatant lapses in spelling and punctuation. Nor will I. Although, if you happen to mix up they're, their and there or to, too and two, I will most definitely have a laugh at your expense and, quite possibly, show your gaffe to liquored-up friends and acquaintances at parties, but you will never know. After all, rubbing your nose in your mistake would be rude and unforgivable. Not to mention it would render it open season on me when I fuck up which, incidentally, I do with appalling regularity.

So, now that we're acquainted, what should we talk about first? Gimme some time to think. I'll be right back.