It finally

happened.

I have done many school talks and there comes a moment in every one when I get the strange feeling that there is something wrong, that my fly is unzipped or that there is a long strand of toilet paper trailing from my shoe.

On Friday I had the chance to speak to the three groups of students at Bayside Middle School (including the very entertaining Aaron, who is the author of a selection of quite entertaining jokes, and Ali, who got special permission to come to the talk). Anyway, during my second talk, that horrible feeling came creeping over me. I surreptitiously checked my pants. They were closed. I looked at my boots. They were TP free. I forced myself to brush the feeling away, even though I was sure people were staring at me a bit harder than my little anecdotes warranted.

When it was over I went to the washroom and discovered that I'd managed to get lipstick all over my front teeth. I looked like a cross between Marilyn Manson and someone who'd spent a life time treating her teeth like they were her worst enemy (i.e. banging them against solid objects and chipping at them with small sticks).

I'd like to send out an apology to all the people in the audience. If you fail a test sometime in the next week, please feel free to explain to your teacher that my dental hygiene has thrown you off your normally high standards. And if you are one of the teachers who was in the audience, you have my permission to take a sick day.
I know I'm going to. Not because I'm particularly upset, but because it's kind of a relief when something you've always dreaded finally happens and it's really not that bad. I think I may actually apply lipstick directly to my teeth in future. Just for something a little different. That way, if people don't like my stories, they can just stare at my gory teeth.

I'm giving a talk at UBC tomorrow. Perhaps I'll take control of my own fate immediately by tucking my skirt into my nylons or something.

Note...

Just a reminder for those who've asked that I'm teaching the Novel Writing Workshop again starting Feb. 6th. For more information:

Novel Writing

Okay, back to our regularly scheduled program of nothing.

Holiday (sung the Madonna way)

I've just handed in a new manuscript (woo hoo!) and am going to take a bit of time off. Not completely off, as I have various commitments, but time off the computer. So there probably won't be any updates for a couple of weeks. See, usually I just stop blogging. This time I've announced it. It's all part of my Become More Responsible program.

But before I sign off, I would like to send a shout-out to the young man I saw at my gym yesterday who worked out in jeans. I love to see anyone buck the tyranny of workout clothing and go for the gusto in street clothes. Sure, he probably did it because he forgot his track pants, but I like to think he was being a rebel. I also appreciate the older gentlemen at the gym who wear black dress socks with their runners. There's something quite bracing about that.

So, to all of you who exerciser in non-traditional clothing, I salute you.

Reminds Me of Myself

People sometimes ask me what I do during all that time I spend at the barn with my horse. "Well," I say. "It's not easy to describe. A little of this and a little of that."

Lucky for me, a fellow from France has made a little film that demonstrates the kinds of activities Tango and I enjoy.

Reminds Me of Myself

Thanks to Diane for sending me the link!

The Lottery

On my way to visit my horse I used to drive past an old black Newfoundland dog tethered outside a yellow house. The dog was big and hairy and motionless. He lived in a shabby dog house placed under a big tree. On cold days all you could see was his clothesline disappearing into his house. On the searingly hot days he lay in a depression he'd dug himself in the ground.

I felt terrible every time I saw him. Often I averted my eyes. And then one day, I didn't see him. The clothesline was empty and I was glad. I wish I could say I thought he'd gone to live with people who welcomed him into their home, people who took him for walks and for swims, and people who took the time to pat his broad head, but the truth is that he probably died out there in his hole in the yard.

After that, when I drove past that house and saw the chain dangling on the ground, I was relieved that at least he'd escaped.

Then, about three weeks ago, that chain wasn't empty anymore. I nearly crashed my car when I saw the little short-haired black puppy standing in the middle of the yard, looking confused but heartbreakingly hopeful in that way puppies have.

Another dog had lost the lottery.

A few days ago I went by and saw that the pup's chain was wrapped around a tree. I pulled over the car and unwrapped her and gave her a cuddle. Her owner saw me and asked what I was doing and I explained that she'd been tangled up. There was much, much more I wanted to say, but I didn't.

I've been having trouble sleeping for the past three weeks. We've had relentless wind and rainstorms and I can't stop thinking about that little pup alone in her wet and drafty dog house. Today it's snowing and I know from previous experience that the SPCA won't do anything if a dog has food and shelter, so calling them would be a useless exercise.

Yesterday, I bought the puppy a couple of toys and a chew bone and dropped them off. I gave her her plush toy to play with and put the rest of the stuff on the front porch of the house. The owner came out again and told me I was on private property and should get off. So I went.

If I was a different kind of person, a braver and more confrontational one, I'd have asked the woman if she'd give the puppy to me. Or sell the puppy to me. I'd have told her that at very least, the pup needs a collar that isn't too tight and insulation in her dog house. I'd have told the woman that the puppy needs a fenced yard and to be allowed inside at night. But I didn't.

Life is full of people and animals that have lost the lottery. It's funny how some of them get under our skin.

I think I'm going to approach the city and talk to them about anti-chaining bylaws. It may not work, but it'll be one way to deal with sleepless nights and regret over all the things I'm too afraid to say. I hope like anything that puppy's luck changes.

So you think...

writers never get the celebrity treatment? Gawker lays some celebrity-style whup-ass on a few ink-stained wretches.

Fake Writer Day

(I'm going to think about these articles the next time the only person who shows up for my reading is a gentleman with a keen interest in interstellar space travel who hasn't spoken to anyone else in two weeks due to having BEEN on an interstellar space junket.)