AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH

Recently, Dax Shepard put out a call to listeners of his Armchair Expert podcast, asking for their convenience store stories. The story I emailed them never made it onto the podcast, so, I thought I’d share it here, on my blog. It’s two stories, actually, at the same convenience store, six weeks apart. It was 1988 and I was 20 years old when I worked at my neighbourhood corner store.

Story #1. It was late, close to 1 a.m. closing time, and I was doing end-of-shift cleaning, stock refills, cash register accounting etc. I had my head down as I counted hundreds of scratch tickets at the checkout counter, when a guy came in wearing leather gloves and a blue bandana over his face. He pointed a gun (possibly a .22 revolver) at my stomach and demanded that I open the cash register and give him all the money.

My reaction? A weary sigh and "Get lost, asshole. I'm busy."

He nervously shifted his weight and shoved the gun in my face. "I'm not kidding," he said. "Give me the fucking money!"

Now, a normal person, a woman, working all alone in a convenience store with a gun pointed at her head, would probably freak out at this point and do as she's told. I've always had an "attitude problem" when it comes to people ‒ especially men ‒ giving me orders and telling me what to do. So, I folded my arms across my chest and glared at him.

"I have a thousand scratch tickets to inventory, and you just made me lose count. Get the fuck outta my store!"

And you know what? He did.

"OK, sorry," the would-be robber muttered, then, ran out the door.

As per store policy, I locked the door behind him, called the police and, while waiting for them to arrive, wrote down a description of the guy, from head to toe. When the police came, I gave them a quick run-down of what happened, then, handed them the piece of paper with the description of the robber. The two officers looked at each other.

"You're being awfully calm about this," said one.

"Is this some kind of prank?" asked the other. "Were you robbed, or not?"

Not a prank, I assured them. I just don't panic about things like this. Having a gun pointed at my head is just not that big of a deal to me (if you’ve read my blog, you know I had a rough childhood🙂).

The two officers left, saying they were going to start looking for the guy. A few minutes later, the store owner came in, I told him what happened and proudly reassured him that the miserable little fucktard didn't get a dime from the cash register. He was equally unnerved by how calm I was and sternly reminded me that the money was insured.

I shrugged my shoulders. "Yeah, whatever."

I grabbed my coat and said goodnight, thinking nothing more of it, really. However, the police, firmly believing that no one could possibly be that calm with a gun pointed at them, decided it was either a prank OR I was somehow in on the robbery. An accomplice, as it were. An accomplice to what? I wondered. They didn't get anything!

A senior officer called me two days later and requested ‒ more of a demand, actually ‒ that I come down to the police station, write and sign a detailed witness statement, then, allow myself to be hooked up to a polygraph machine, for questioning.

It was not fun, having all those wires connected to my body parts while the officer hounded and accused me ‒ for two fucking hours ‒ trying to trick me into admitting the robbery was all a lie, so, they could charge me with filing a false police report. A criminal offense which could’ve resulted in jail time.

Of course, I passed. Much to their disappointment.

The police never found the guy who tried to rob the store and, for years afterward, I remained under suspicion by the authorities. And I know this because my boyfriend at the time (10 years my senior) was a news reporter at our local radio station and was very chummy with the town's police force.

Story #2. It was six weeks later, middle of the afternoon. The store was busy, with customers in every aisle. A man, about 40 years old, came in and headed for the shelves where we keep drug store and infant care merch (aspirin, antacid pills, razors, shampoo, baby food etc.). He grabbed a package of diapers for newborns and brought it to the checkout counter, cheerfully paid for it, then, left.

A few minutes later, a woman came bursting through the door, carrying the package of diapers. "You people should be ashamed of yourselves," she yelled at me. "Ten dollars for diapers?"

I looked at the price sticker. "I'm sorry, ma'am," I began, "But the yellow sticker means that it was priced by the vendor that sells these diapers to us. We are contractually obligated to sell it at that exact price, or they could sue us."

"Well, I'm not fucking paying that much for diapers. I want my money back!" she fumed, then, flung the package of diapers, full force, into my stomach.

Surprised by the unexpected physical assault, I stumbled backwards into a shelving unit full of merchandise, which then tumbled down on top of me, as I hit the floor. The enraged woman ran out of the store as fast as she could, while stunned witnesses helped me to my feet.

I thought I was OK. My head was a little sore. But, then, my stomach really started to hurt. Two minutes later, I couldn't stand up straight. Worried that I might have internal bleeding, the store manager rushed me to the hospital, just 3 blocks away. After a quick examination and an X-Ray, I learned that I was about 6 weeks pregnant. Emphasis on the word "was."

I just lost the baby.

The convenience store owner installed video cameras the day after the incident, but I quit working there within the week. The police were never able to track down the woman who killed my unborn child.

A sad situation, to be sure. But I was young, with lots of plans for the future, and not at all interested in being a mother, like, ever. So, it all worked out in the end.

KJC

FINDING YOUR TRUE SELF AFTER A BREAKUP

I'm a regular follower of Katee Sackhoff's podcast. You may remember Katee as Starbuck, in the Battlestar Galactica reboot, or her role as Bo-Katan, in The Mandalorian. Her guests are typically longtime friends and former co-stars, such as Grant Gustin (The Flash), Lucy Lawless (Xena, BSG), Simon Pegg (Star Trek, Mission Impossible) and producer, Mike Flanagan (Oculus, Midnight Mass).

I just finished listening to her YouTube podcast interview with Paulina Porizkova. If that name rings a bell, she was a famous supermodel, in the 1980s, before marrying Ric Ocasek, lead singer of The Cars. For the most part, Paulina's efforts to be a devoted wife and mother were recognized by her husband — and the public, at large — but there were also cruel comments and insults, over the years, about her "trapping" a rich and famous celebrity into marriage, for her own personal gain.

In the interview, Katee, herself, recalled a longtime relationship that emotionally tested her, at every turn. According to Katee, her ex was demanding and cruel. Constantly gaslighted her, and tried to force her into a box of his own design, instead of letting her flourish and grow as an independent, freethinking woman.

This frank and honest discussion between two middle-aged women about their tumultuous history with abusive, high profile men gave me PTSD, as I recalled my own soul-crushing 10-year relationship with a broadcasting celebrity, here in Canada. I was 20 when he and I started dating. He was 30, divorced with two toddlers (not living with him) and had an ardent fan following who thought he could do no wrong (imagine a Canadian version of Dick Clark).

It was the late 1980s. I was a feisty little goth chick, with a potty mouth and a free spirit, who loved as passionately as I fought. I was happy in my career as a nightclub manager and had no real ambitions beyond that. But that wasn't good enough for...Oh, let's call him "Mike." He'd been a radio DJ since age 15. Overweight, nerdy and insecure, at first, he blossomed into a bona fide broadcasting celebrity by his mid 20s. Very good looking, very suave — but still horribly insecure. Although Mike was considered "creative talent" he almost exclusively socialized with the executive ranks in the entertainment industry. "The Suits" with whom he strategically ingratiated himself.

When Mike and I first starting dating, everyone was alarmed by our age difference — not to mention our social and financial inequality. People kept saying: "You're so lucky, you snagged such a hot celebrity." and, more often: "I know you're just using him for his money and connections, you little skank."

I thought I could rise above all the naysayers. But Mike, himself, was always quick to remind me that I was...less than. He tried, so very hard, to push me into adopting a more "respectable" public persona. Trash the red lipstick, high heels and black leather jackets in favour of pretty dresses (never above the knee), a simple hairstyle and kitten heels. Elevate myself to someone who knew how to schmooze with the execs and make him look good — while also fulfilling his every desire, in the bedroom.

He decided what job I could have, what family members I could associate with, what friends I could spend time with. I was absolutely forbidden to be alone in a room, with any man — married, single, gay or straight — so there would be no question of impropriety, in the eyes of his fans, coworkers and employers. For years, after our wedding, Mike hounded and harassed me into becoming the perfect, obedient Stepford Wife. The exciting and vivacious little firecracker that my friends once knew and loved had been replaced by a lost, anxious and depressed 25 year-old shadow of my former self (imagine going from Pat Benatar to Bree Van de Kamp, from Desperate Housewives).

As I inched closer to my 30th birthday (and he turned 40), Mike's career started to wane, while mine was really starting to take off. There was a 6-month waiting list to book me (actress, singer, voiceover artist) and I was regularly signing autographs. That's when Mike got really nasty, bitter and cruel. He never physically assaulted me, but his emotional and psychological abuse had me sobbing into my pillow, 25 nights out of every 30.

The final breaking point, for me, was when he deliberately sabotaged the trust and professional reliance that one of my biggest clients had in me, which very well could've ended my career. That's when I told Mike I was divorcing him — and kicked him out on his scrawny ass!

Finally free to be the woman I knew was still deep inside of me, my career — and income — skyrocketed beyond my wildest dreams. I became a hard news journalist, screenwriter, comic book writer, television producer and trusted aide to some of the most powerful people in Hollywood.

Success really is the BEST revenge! 😀

KJC

A MOVING EXPERIENCE

A recent investigation by CBC Marketplace, about moving company nightmares, reminded me of this tragic story of my own, first published on my blog in September, 2011.

The last week of June, 2011, I moved from Pickering, Ontario, to Ladysmith, which is a small town about 20 minutes south of Nanaimo, BC. I’d had plenty of experience moving from town to town within Ontario, so, I thought I could handle a move halfway across the country without too much difficulty.

Boy, was I wrong!

My first mistake was hiring Metropolitan Movers to load up my belongings (VegaLine Moving & Storage, in Richmond, BC, would deliver the stuff to my door in Ladysmith). They’d quoted me a reasonable price of $560 for the first 500 lbs. of furniture and personal belongings, then 11 cents for every pound after that. I lived in a 350 sq. ft. basement studio apartment with very little furniture, so, I’d calculated a final price of about $1,300, which represented every last dollar I had on this earth. I couldn’t afford one penny more.

Moving day came, and I waited for the movers to arrive at 10am. I waited...and waited. I called the office around noon to find out why they hadn’t shown up yet, and a female rep told me that their truck had broken down but would be at my place within the next two hours.

OK, shit happens. My flight to Vancouver didn’t leave until 1:30am the next morning, so, that was fine.

And, so, I waited...and I waited. Called the office again around 4pm, and was told that the truck was now behind schedule picking up other peoples’ stuff in Toronto but would be at my place, for sure, around 6pm. That was cutting it a little close for my non-refundable, one-way flight to Vancouver. But, hey, no sense getting worked up over something that I can’t control, right?

I started to get hungry (threw out all of my perishable food), anxious and tired as my watch ticked past 8:30pm, with no moving truck in sight. Finally, while on the phone with a company rep at 9:37pm, the truck rolled into my driveway with three very tired men inside. Desperate to move things along as quickly as possible so I wouldn’t miss my flight, I helped the men load all of my stuff onto the truck. It didn’t go as smoothly as I would have liked but, thankfully, there was no major disaster to contend with.

The man in charge of the move filled out pages and pages of paperwork for me to sign, then asked for my destination address, which I’d already given to several other people at Metropolitan Movers during previous phone conversations over the past two weeks. I gave him my new address in Ladysmith, on Vancouver Island, where I’d be staying with my father until I found a new job and apartment in Nanaimo.

“Vancouver Island?” he asked. “You know there’s an extra $550 charge for the ferry ride, right?”

I panicked. “Uh, no. No one at Metro Movers told me anything about that – and I can’t afford it, either. I’m already giving you guys every last penny I have in this world.”

He shrugged. “Well, can you charge it to a credit card or borrow the money from someone?”

In desperation, I called my father and he offered to throw in the extra cash.

Exhausted and in pain from all the heavy lifting, I signed the paperwork and asked the man in charge how long it would take my stuff to reach my new home, in Ladysmith.

“Five to seven days,” he said, which I thought was reasonable. I bid the three men good-bye around 11:30pm and called a cab to get me to the Toronto airport ASAP.

The flight was uneventful. Well, as uneventful as it can be for someone who hates to fly, is afraid of heights and gets serious motion sickness.

Nine days after getting all settled in at my father’s place, with only one change of clothes, my iPhone and the miscellaneous contents of my purse, I called VegaLine Moving & Storage to find out when they were going to deliver my stuff. The female customer service rep told me that the truck had yet to arrive at their warehouse, in Richmond, but was en route.

I expressed my disappointment, since I’d been told it would only take seven days, at most.

“That’s seven days in transit,” said the rep. “Once your belongings are unloaded from the truck into our warehouse, we have to wait for the first available truck to take your stuff on the ferry to your home, in Nanaimo.”

“Ladysmith,” I reminded her, then asked how much longer I had to wait.

“Next Wednesday, at the earliest,” she informed me.

“Another full week?! But you have all of my clothes, my government and legal files, my computer, which I need to write resumes and cover letters in order to find a job!”

She offered me a 5% discount for the inconvenience. I hung up the phone in disgust.

A week later, in July, I called VegaLine again to get an ETA on my stuff, and the customer service rep (a different woman this time) said, “We have 6,000 pounds of furniture and belongings to deliver, and no truck big enough to carry the load across the ferry to Nanaimo, so, you’re looking at another 7 to 10 days until one is available.”

I was livid. Again, I explained that I had been living with only one change of clothes for three weeks, no computer, no makeup or hairdryer, and it was imperative that I find a job before the end of the month (automatic withdrawals from my account with an 87 cent balance). I demanded that VegaLine deliver my stuff within the next three days.

“We don’t have your address,” the rep said, incredulously. “How can we deliver your stuff when you never even gave us your destination address?”

I pulled the phone away from my ear, stared at it in disbelief. She didn’t just say that to me, did she? I wondered to myself. I put the phone back to my ear. “You have my address. I’ve given it to every driver and every customer service rep I’ve talked to for the past six weeks.”

I heard her fussing with some paperwork. “Oh, yes, here it is. It just hadn’t been entered in the computer.” With a stern, unapologetic tone the woman insisted that I would just have to wait another week. End of discussion.

On July 20th, I called VegaLine Moving, once again, certain that I would get another run-around. But instead I got some good news...sort of.

“Oh, yes. I remember you,” said the perky female rep. “After looking at the truck full of your personal belongings we guessed that it weighed a lot less than our original estimate, so, we re-weighed it and discovered that the load was 3,000 lbs. lighter than we originally thought. So, it looks like we actually could have delivered your stuff to you last week. Sorry about that. Anyway, it’s all sorted out now and we can deliver your stuff next Tuesday, the 26th.”

Awash with relief, I thanked her. “So, you’ll call for sure on Monday to confirm a delivery time on Tuesday?”

She agreed.

Next Monday I got the expected call. All was good – except for one thing. One huge thing.

“So, the total cost, including the ferry ride and taxes, minus the 5% discount we promised, is $4,069.24,” the female rep cheerfully informed me.

I sucked in a breath. “Uh, no. No, it isn’t. I’ve already done the calculations and it should be somewhere around $1,600.”

She tapped on her computer. “No, it’s definitely $4,069. And how will you be paying for that?”

“Look,” I said, “There must be some mistake. Three thousand-eight hundred pounds, at 11 cents per pound, is — ”

“It’s 75 cents per pound.”

“No, it isn’t,” I insisted. ‘When I booked this move almost two months ago, the rep at Metropolitan Movers quoted me a price of $560 for the first 500 lbs., then 11 cents for every pound after that.”

Her tone turned ice cold. “It’s 75 cents. No one charges 11 cents. The standard fee across Canada is 75 cents per pound. That is the agreement we have with Metropolitan Movers. If you disagree with that, you’ll have to take it up with them. In the meantime, if you want your stuff delivered to you tomorrow morning, you must pay us $4,069.24 immediately, or we will sell your belongings at auction in order to recoup our money.”

By this time, I was on the floor in tears. Barely able to speak or think. I told the rep that I would call her back later in the day, once I’d straightened out this mess with Metropolitan Movers.

The female customer service rep at Metro couldn’t have been nicer to me. Once I had explained everything, through my sobbing gasps for breath, she informed me that the rep I first talked to in May, to book the move, had been fired for incompetence. Giving people the wrong quote etc. She told me to calm down, that everything would be OK. She’d talk to her boss and see if he could negotiate some sort of special arrangement with VegaLine, to get me a credit of some kind in the weeks ahead, as restitution for their massive screw-up. In the meantime, I did have to pay VegaLine the full amount they were demanding, or they would indeed sell my stuff.

My father, bless his eternal soul, is not a rich man. But he nonetheless offered to put the entire $4,069 charge on his credit card in order to ensure delivery of my belongings the next morning. If I thought that was the end of my nightmare...Oh, no, my friends. I was deeply mistaken.

The truck pulled up right on time the next morning, and the men started unloading all of my furniture and boxes. Furniture and electronics that were chipped, scratched and cracked with pieces missing. Boxes that were ripped and crushed, with contents missing, slightly damaged or a complete write-off. Eighty percent of my artwork and ceramics were destroyed. Twenty percent of my furniture and electronics had to be thrown right into the trash. My toiletries (i.e. deodorant, razors, body lotion, Q-Tips etc.), vitamins, hairdryer, makeup and professional cosmetic brushes (estimated value: $400) wasn’t in the box I packed it in. In fact, it was completely missing. And if that wasn’t bad enough, my $5,000 worth of suede and leather clothing (all of it custom dyed and custom tailored) was dumped in a crumpled heap at the bottom of a 5 ft. high box which was filled to the top with miscellaneous crap – after I’d been promised (and paid $25 for) it would be packed in an extra sturdy wardrobe box, with a hanging rack to keep them neat, before making the trek across Canada.

I looked over my contract to see how much the moving company’s insurance would pay for the estimated $900 in damage...and discovered, much to my dismay, that they only pay out a few CENTS PER POUND for damaged or missing goods. Not their actual replacement value. So, I was looking at a refund of maybe $18 to $20?

Forget it. Just...forget it.

Metropolitan Movers never contacted me, again, about a refund or credit because of the screw-up on their quote. And VegaLine remained blissfully unconcerned about the chaos and emotional strife their profound incompetence caused me.

Fucking assholes.

KJC

ADDENDUM:

Apparently, I'm far from the last person these people have fucked over.

Marketplace did a March 2022 update on nightmare moving companies.

WOMEN IN COMICS

In addition to being a comic book lover since age 10 (the first one I ever bought with my own money was the graphic novel retelling of Star Wars, 1978), I'm also a highly experienced, multi-award winning writer with a background that includes everything from corporate slogans, TV commercials and promotional pamphlets to lifestyle magazine pieces, celebrity bios, screenplays and hard-core investigative journalism stories. I was also the editor-in-chief of an online news site where my main duties were to proofread and edit stories submitted by seasoned journalists from CNN, The New York Times, The Huffington Post, USA Today and other major newspapers across North America. I'm a damn good writer, and believe I am fully capable of writing a comic book.

With the guidance and support of my comic book brethren, including Jeff Mariotte, Geoff Johns, Brad Meltzer, Dan DiDio, Jimmy Palmiotti and Jason Badower, I went to the message boards at Comic Book Resources to announce my latest project in the works, The Black Tower, in 2007, and to inform my fellow comic book geeks that I was in need of an artist who would be available to draw & colour at least the first two or three issues (of a planned 36) for $17,000, per issue.

Well, the venomous, hateful and misogynistic remarks I got in the comments section below my post, hours later, were just so shocking and unbelievably hurtful. These were my fellow comic book lovers and sci-fi/fantasy geeks, telling me to "Fuck off, loser!", "Chicks can't write comics!", "Why don't you go back to washing the dishes, bitch? No one wants to work on your stupid Black Dildo."

The most hurtful comments came from comic book veteran, Jim Valentino, whose remarks were so patronizing and condescending I felt as though he'd assumed I was just some stupid, misguided teenager instead of a highly accomplished writer – which he would have discovered if he'd just spent 10 seconds Googling my name.

I was so angry, I tore into him on the message boards, and after a heated debate between he and I about the inclusion and respectful acceptance of women in the comic book industry (which was read by hundreds of people), he retracted his clueless and ignorant statements, wished me luck on The Black Tower – and deleted the entire thread on Comic Book Resources, so, he didn't look like a misogynistic prick, online, for all eternity (Google has a long memory).

I love comics! My favorite characters are Batman, Venom, Jean Gray/Phoenix, Spider-Man, Spawn, Wonder Woman and so many others I won't take the time to list here. I'm also fully qualified to write comics, the proof being the 100,000+ readers and fans of my work from all over the world, including writers for Buffy, Angel, Lost, Heroes, Charmed, Star Trek, X-Files, Smallville, Supernatural, Doctor Who, Stargate: SG1 and Battlestar Galactica.

OK...I got that off my chest. Now, if you don't mind, I have a sink full of dishes to get to.

KJC

A MOMENT THAT CHANGED MY LIFE

Today, Sheryl MacKay, the warm and radiant host of CBC Radio's North By Northwest, asked listeners to write in and tell her of a defining moment in their life, and she would read many of those stories, on-air, over the next few weeks. It got me thinking about a defining moment in my life. One that completely changed the trajectory of what very well could have been a simple, anonymous existence in small town, Canada.

As many readers of this blog are aware, before I retired to a quiet life on Vancouver Island, I managed the lives, careers and financial bottom lines of some of the most powerful people in Hollywood – when I wasn't working as an actress, screenwriter or television producer, myself. It all blossomed from a random event that I remain equally grateful for — and embittered by. So, I emailed Sheryl an abbreviated version of this story:

It was 1989, a year into my relationship with a veteran radio & television broadcasting celebrity, ten years my senior. In addition to his Monday to Friday live radio show, in Ontario, my boyfriend (later husband) also voiced and produced radio and TV commercials at the station, for various clients, well after everyone had gone home for the day.

Late one Sunday night, we went to the station, so my boyfriend could go over the new batch of commercial scripts he had to voice, for delivery at 9 AM the next morning.

"Uh-oh," he muttered.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"There are two scripts, here. A conversation between a man and a woman."

I looked at my watch. It was 8:52 PM. "Who can you call at this hour on a Sunday night to come down to the station and spend five minutes talking into a microphone?"

"Nobody," he replied, then, more forcefully: "Which is why you're going to do this with me."

My heart sunk. I'd spent a few years as a stage actress and singer in a pop-rock cover band, but my crippling, mind-numbing stage fright made every performance such an unbearable nightmare, I quit, in 1988, and was quite happy in my new job as a part-time nightclub manager.

"Oh, no, I'm not!" I bellowed, my palms already starting to sweat. I inched toward the exit doors. "Find a way to do this without me, cuz...I...I just can't."

What followed was a 30 minute argument – with LOTS of yelling and swearing – that I thought, for sure, would be the end of our relationship. Finally, a promise/bribe of a Dairy Queen banana split after the voice work was done convinced me to go into the sound booth and, after a whiplash-fast course in radio voice acting, I finished the two man-woman commercials, plus another script my boyfriend gave me that was intended for him.

The ads I voiced started airing on radio and television the very next day and were so well-received, I started getting requests to voice more radio and TV commercials, from clients who were willing to pay more for "such a diverse and natural talent."

This random event led to a 30-year career as a professional (and very well-paid) actress, singer, voiceover artist, screenwriter, comic book writer, television producer, celebrity publicist, personal assistant and A-list Hollywood talent manager. I often wonder...what if I had stubbornly stood my ground and refused to help out my boyfriend by doing 5 minutes of voice work in a sound-proof booth?

"Would you like fries with that?"

KJC

I AM MY OWN HARD ACT TO FOLLOW

Since the 1980s, I've had friends, coworkers and employers who understood my value, my talents, education and expertise in many areas, from food service, janitorial and customer service to interior decorating, wardrobe styling, screenwriting and investigative journalism. I strive for perfection in everything I do and the pressure I've put on myself to succeed – at all costs – has, in fact, cost me my health, and my future, as I struggle with the painful, debilitating effects of an incurable disease that is slowly destroying me from the inside out (T2 diabetes).

I try not to say no to anything, any request, from a client:

⨳ You've just had a car accident and you need my help with the police, lawyers, the media, unexpected absence from work and personal issues like paying bills and hiring a physiotherapist to help you get back on your feet? Don't worry, I'll take care of it.

⨳ It's 3AM, you're in a taxi, headed to the airport, and you just remembered you left your laptop on the kitchen counter? No prob. I'll go fetch it and meet you at the departure gate.

⨳ You're throwing a little get-together and need a bartender/server to keep the food and drink flowing 'til 4AM. Yeah...I can do it – but I want the leftovers.

⨳ You need a compassionate, helping hand as you return home from an abortion clinic, plastic surgeon or weeklong jail sentence for DUI? Hey, I've got your back.

⨳ Dropped your wedding ring in a toilet full of puke? OK, ummm, just gimme a second to mentally prepare myself for the plunge.

⨳ Your maid quit? Sure, I can clean your 10,000 square foot home every fucking day until I can hire and train a new one.

⨳ Need help memorizing lines for the blockbuster movie you've just been cast in? Let's get together and act out every bloody fucking scene you're in, over and over and over again, until you know every word. Cuz, y'know, I have no life of my own.

I don't like to let people down, and I greatly value my professional reputation. But I'm sick, now. And what few clients I have left, as I slowly ease into retirement (on disability pension), still expect me to be their beck-and-call-girl. Their rock. Their problem-solver.

The latest example of me leaving – and later returning to – a client because they discovered, much to their dismay, that I am not a superworman who can do everything, solve every problem and ALWAYS be there, no matter what, is really starting to irritate me.

Cut me some slack, man...I'm dyin' over here!

THE ROAD TO DOMESTIC BLISS

One year ago, today, my life changed for the better by the unexpected birth of five precious, little kittens. The road to domestic bliss was a little rocky at first (one kitten tragically died, another was diagnosed with cerebellar hypoplasia) but my love and devotion only grows with each passing day.

I AM A FREAK MAGNET

After work, I got home and parked my car, heading toward the front entrance of my apartment building with a bag of groceries, when I heard a sweet, young voice call out “Hello!” to me. I looked up into the face of an adolescent, blonde-haired boy, waving to me from a third floor balcony.

“Hi, there!” I cheerfully called back, thus launching a 3-minute chat about how he’s 11 years-old, from Arizona, visiting family in Nanaimo for a week, while movers transfer all of their belongings from one side of the hot and dusty state to the other. We talked about the weather, fun things he’s done over the past few days...But I’ve got meat and cheese in my grocery bag, so, I said “I have to go, now. Bye!”

Twenty minutes later, I was just sitting down to a charcuterie platter for lunch, when I heard that same familiar “Hello!” calling through my apartment window.

I got up and went out to my below-grade (basement) apartment patio, to find the boy waving at me, from above.

“Is that your cat?” he asked, gesturing to Maive, sunning herself on the warm cement.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Hey, I remember you,” he chuckled. “You’re that lady I talked to a few minutes ago. Can I come down and play with your cat?”

“Uhhhh...sure. Why not?” I mumbled, with a complete lack of enthusiasm.

So, he came down the stairs to my patio and we started chatting again, while he bent down to pet Maive. His name is Ian, he starts 6th grade in September and he likes snakes, scorpions and spiders – especially tarantulas. He also likes ghosts, and he believes in ghosts because he worships the Holy Ghost.

“Oh, so...you’re a Mormon, then?” I pressed him, recalling news stories and statistics about the big Mormon population in that area of the United States.

“Uh-huh,” he said, proudly.

Remembering that I had a plateful of food waiting for me, I told him I had to go eat lunch.

“Can I come with you?” he asked. “Maybe I can help you clean up your apartment?”

W T F?

“No, sorry,” I muttered, and headed for my patio door, only to find Ian hot on my heels as I stepped back into my living room (FYI, I put my bed in my living room and set up a home office in my bedroom). So, this kid from Arizona was now steps away from my unmade bed, with black sheets and various, uh...playtime accoutrements on it, which I quickly stashed away while he gazed with amazement around my really cool pad.

“I’m an interior decorator,” I informed him, as he scanned my collection of horse head statues, gargoyles, ceremonial daggers, human skull replicas, crystals, tarot cards, framed pictures of friends who’ve played vampires in movies etc...and then he spotted my huge tome on Demonology, Witchcraft and World Mythology on a shelf, just underneath my flat screen TV.

“You read books about demons and witches?” he asked, quite innocently.

Now, those of you who’ve known me for years are fully aware that I’m not a huge fan of kids. I’ve been a nanny to several children but I am under no illusion that I resemble Mary Poppins in any way, shape or form. I tolerate kids because I understand that they are people, too, and they are curious about the world, adventurous and thirsty for knowledge. So, if they ask me a question, I pretty much flat-out tell them the truth, regardless of what tight-assed, close-minded helicopter parents might think is “age appropriate.”

“Yes, I’m a witch,” I replied. “So, I have a lot of books about demons and witches and ghosts and monsters.”

He nodded, matter-of-factly, and urged me to elaborate. So, I opened the book in question and we started talking about Odin, Thor, Zeus, Osiris, Mars, Diana, Aphrodite, Robin Hood, King Arthur, Merlin, Satan, Mephistopheles...going over pictures and diagrams and occult symbols.

Now, thoroughly satisfied that I had tainted Ian’s sweet, innocent and impressionable young mind, I told him he had to go because my lunch was still waiting for me, on the dining table, a few feet away.

“Can’t I stay just a little while longer?” he begged, and stretched out across my bed.

“Oh, no-no-no-no. Sorry, Ian,” I chuckled, trying not to appear panicked, cuz everyone knows it is SO not cool to let some random underaged kid get all comfy on top of your bed.

So, he gave me a quick hug (awkward!) and off he went.

Freaks, man. They just gravitate right to me.

KJC