They're just lyin' around...

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

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

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...

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

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.

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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.