Conversations With Authors

Well, folks, Sarah Turner has posted our interview on Suite 101. If reading my books, my short stories, & my blog isn’t enough (and really, if you’re reading all of that and still crave more, you must be a stalker, in which case I must politely ask you to cease & desist!), then feel free to shimmy on over there and read our conversation. It’s been posted in halves: Part One & Part Two.

(I think I quite like the word “halves”. Can you, within the boundaries of proper English, have more than two halves? Is “three halves” considered grammatically correct? Or, upon reaching a number greater than two, does the word “halves” become meaningless? “Three portions” would be better form, wouldn’t it. Lucky me, she only broke the conversation in two, so that I get to use the word “halves” and not have to fret over improper use. Because that’s the kind of hardcore word geek I am.)

I don’t normally enjoy reading or watching interviews with authors, but (against my nature) I watched Stephan Colbert interview Neil Gaiman yesterday. It was wholly entertaining. Gaiman has this wonderfully droll, quiet wit. His voice wasn’t what I imagined, and nor were his gestures, but he proved to be endearing and I liked him all the more for the surprise. “The Sandman” was one of the pillars of formative literature for me, and while I haven’t always enjoyed Gaiman’s novels, I think I’d like to see him give a reading — less for the story, and more for his personality.

And that reminds me: I really have to get my Dave McKean artwork framed. It’s under my bed, gathering dust. What kind of lame-o fan am I, to leave it rolled up in a protective tube? It needs to be promenently displayed in my living room, under spotlights, with all chairs and couches positioned so that they face it.

Goodbye, friend.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

W.H.Auden knew that of what he spoke. Grief is soft and quiet, stalking the silent halls on little fox feet. A friend is gone, and we’re trying to make sense of it, but not having much success. I’ll be gone for a few days, but I’ll be back when the sun returns. I promise.

The Good Fight

Toro Magazine has posted The Good Fight for your enjoyment. Grit your teeth & wage war against illiteracy, o Defenders of Education, and never let them see you cry!

What Motherhood Has Taught Me (ongoing)

(1) Jewellery is for the Infantless
Special occasions are now defined by my ability to wear dangly jewellery. Before getting all sassed up, I must appraise the situation: this evening, will my dinner date lunge for my necklace and cram it in his/her mouth? These days, the answer is almost always, “Yes.”

(2) If You Think An Item is Too Large to Fit in a Baby’s Mouth, You’re Automatically Wrong
It’s like a freakin’ black hole in there. It defies the laws of physics. Manderine orange, baby food jar, the head of rubber duckie — somehow, it fits. But just because it goes in easily doesn’t necessarily mean it will come out.

(3) Items Small Enough to Fit In Mouth Will Go In Other Orafices, Too
Because the ability to recognize that a Cheerio in the nose is unpleasant is, apparently, not innate knowledge.

(4) The Inverse Law of Sleepiness
A parent’s level of fatigue is in direct opposition to the child’s, and no amount of caffeine in the world will hype you up to the level of an excited toddler. Man, you could power a small city on the wattage produced.

(5) Trust Me, She’s Fast
No, really. Trust me. No, don’t just oogle her when you’re holding her because you — watch the soup! — you have to make sure you pay attention to those hands, because she — oh, teacup! — she automatically goes for the most dangerous thing within — oh, sorry, she loves eyeglasses — within arms reach. Were those frames expensive?

(6) When Mothers Say They’d Kill/Die For Their Children, They Really Mean It
When I was little, a German Shephard attacked my brother. My mother, who is very quiet and sweet and demure, took a canoe oar and fought it off him, roaring in rage, as wild as an Amazon. She charged between my brother and a savage dog, swinging the weapon above her head, and the look on her face was bestial, primal and unyielding. I was always in awe of this secret facet of my mom’s personality, but now, I get it. The mother dolphin who wedges herself between her offspring and a shark? The lioness who fends off a pack of wild dogs to save her cubs? I understand, and not in a cerebral way, because I don’t think I can fully describe that instinct, but in the past, when I’d say I’d give my life for something, it was only words. It was hollow sounds. Now, it’s blood and flesh and bone. I can feel that maenid lurking in my heart, perpetually prepared to be unleashed and defend my child. It’s powerful, and dangerous, and you know what? It’s also comforting, because it’s the primeval manifestation of maternal love.

Adventures With Maggie

I think the best thing about geocaching is this: it takes you to places you would never, otherwise, have reason to visit, and might never have discovered, even though you’ve passed that way a million times before.

The time: Saturday morning.
The place: my bed.
The question: What do I want to do with my day?

The answer: Let’s hunt for treasure!

As soon as she hears the word ‘treasure’, Little Z is ON BOARD with that idea. YES! If he’d had other plans, S finds himself roundly and soundly out-voted, but he amicably agrees and says nothing about other responsibilites, chores or hopes for the day. Sure, he says, let’s go geocaching. Should be fun, but my thought is this: perhaps this time, can we try a landscape that’s closer to the ocean, so that it’s not so covered with snow.

With that humble goal in mind, I type in a list of co-ordinates into the GPS (whom we now affectionately call “Maggie”) and everyone hops into the car. With Loki in the back seat and a bag of provisions in the front, we hit the accelerator and… Off We Go!

The farthest geocache we found was 100 km from our house — yep, we really did make a day of it. Maggie led us to a wonderfully secluded beach with a fantastic view of the strait, in a tiny little community park at the end of a subdivision that we would never have driven through, never mind stop and visit. From the road, the park looked like a vacant lot, covered in blackberry brambles. But when we began to follow the co-ordinates on foot, we discovered a well-tended trail with one hundred wooden stairs, leading down into a gully, and ending in a tiny pebbled cove. Beautiful! We found the geocache, too, and the sense of jubilant accomplishment gave us enough energy to make it back up those 100 steps to the car.

We weren’t so lucky with geocache #2. We spent an hour searching around a playground while Little Z played on the slide and the swings, but we never found a hint of the cache. Maybe it’s gone missing. Maybe some children found it and, not realizing what it was, took it home. Certainly the joggers and grandmothers strolling by looked at us askance and scowled at us with suspicion; they probably thought we were searching for the location of our latest drug drop. I entertained the idea of wearing a t-shirt that reads in big bold letters, “Don’t Worry, What I’m Doing Is Perfectly Legal.”

But all disappointment disappeared when we followed the co-ordinates to geocache #3 — ah, Maggie, you confounded us once, but you led us to the best cache last! At the end of a road, a small pyramid of stones hid a bundle of cute little trinkets. It wasn’t too difficult to find, which was nice, because we were all a little tired and ready to go home.

I love the way this activity makes me see my surroundings in a fresh way. Familiar locations become puzzles, and a simple children’s park becomes a scavenger hunt. Plus, we diverged from our regular routes, and Maggie took us to spots we would never have otherwise seen. Little Z got to play in a brand new playground, we walked along a new stretch of beach, and Loki ran around with unfamiliar dogs. Too bad tomorrow’s forecast calls for rain. There’s hundreds of caches in my vicinity, and each one offers the opportunity to see this landscape through fresh eyes.

In The Name of Science

Clever people who enjoy something different – devilishly different and delicious – will welcome this exciting Winter Warmer…. Hot Dr. Pepper!

So sayeth the advertisement on the post below, circa 1960.

And, because I am the highly suggestible type, I decided to give it a try. I bought a bottle of Dr. Pepper on my way home from work, pulled the small saucepan out of the cupboard, and grabbed a lemon from the fridge. I measured out a mug of fizzy pop, set it on the stove, and waited for it to boil.

S’s eyebrows arched. Then he left the kitchen, saying nothing. He was shaking his head slightly; it’s an expression I’ve grown accustomed to, over our twelve years together.

I followed the instructions with great care. I am an awful cook, and I’ve learnt that it’s best for everyone concerned if I do NOT improvise. (Kim’s Creative Impulse + Kitchen = Nausea, Heartburn, Indigestion.) So, very carefully, I poured the steaming Dr. Pepper over a lemon slice in my mug, let it sit for a moment, and then, with great trepidation, I took a sip.

It was like… like…

Well, it was like a prune and a lemon made sweet sweet love and then exploded into their basic molecular components.

I’ve never tasted anything quite like it. A hot carbonated beverage fizzles and foams when it hits your tongue and turns into a mousse-like consistency. The first sip was tooth-achingly sweet, followed closely by lemony tart, then the entire mouthful vaporized into a starburst of bubbles. It’s really, really weird. I’d say it was an acquired taste, but I think it moves beyond ‘acquired’, and into ‘kooky’ with just a hint of ‘kitsch’.

For the second serving, I heated it in the microwave. (Yes, there was a second serving. In the name of science, I felt it would be prudent of me to test different methods. And it was a big bottle of pop, and no one else around here will drink it, so I had to use it up.) The microwaved beverage didn’t taste the same. It tasted duller. Less fizzy, more prune-ish, less lemony. In my opinion, heating on the stove was the preferred method.

I can see why this Winter Warmer never caught on. It really is an odd flavor sensation. But I think it might just be odd enough for me to crave it on long February nights, when tea is too boring and hot chocolate is too heavy. Hot Dr. Pepper is curiously tasty… with all the emphasis placed on ‘curiously’.