The UPS Man

My mom and I were out for a walk the other day, when we noticed a brown UPS truck speed past us, and then slam on its brakes. My mom and I both stopped and turned around to see why the truck had stopped so suddenly.

We feared a cat had gone to meet its maker… But no.

Everything seemed fine. The UPS truck was idling quietly, and we just shrugged and continued on our way.

“Kim!”

I shook my head, and nudged my mom to keep walking. The person was obviously not calling me. The person was obviously calling some other person named Kim, because I know like six people*, and one of them was currently walking beside me (the same woman who bore me and birthed me, I might add).

“Kim!” It was louder this time, and the voice was strained.

“It’s obviously not for me,” I said to my mom, who nodded quickly, thereby acknowledging the fact that I only know like six people*.

“Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!”

I turned around, and there he was, hanging out of the driver’s side, waving frantically in my direction.

“Kim, I have your new bed in my truck!”

You know you might have a problem** with online shopping (specifically, Amazon) when the UPS man recognizes you, and announces your deliveries on the street.

And, it’s happened more than once.

One time while I was out walking in another city.

Same guy.

Okay, yes –  I do order a lot of stuff online.

And, yes – the UPS man and I have a deep, almost spiritual connection that surpasses most transporter/receiver relationships…

I think he could be my seven.

 

+++

* And by “know” I mean “know” – because how can you really “know” someone unless you “know” someone, you know?

** It’s only a “problem” if it’s a “problem”.

The Special Request

Last month the husband and I headed to the Okanagan for a little getaway. We wanted to visit my 92 year-old grandfather (AKA “Gramps”), and see some friends that skipped town permanently (you know who you are).

We booked the trip at the very last minute – well, more specifically, just a few days before we were set to depart – using the travel website Expedia.

(I’m a big fan of Expedia… I love searching for vacations, and dreaming of vacations, and also – going on vacations. It’s my thing… Like breathing. Or, getting hives from eating lobster. Or, having webbed feet.)

(Does this sound like a commerical for Expedia? It’s not. I mean, I really do love Expedia and I don’t understand why anyone would not use Expedia to book their flights, hotels, cars, cruises, activities, and all-inclusives. It’s fast, it’s easy, and you often save money when booking a flight and hotel at the same time. Did I mention they have great customer service? Well, they do.)

I digress (but I really do love Expedia).

When booking a little (or BIG) getaway on Expedia, you are able to select your flights, choose a hotel, and then write in the little box marked “special requests.”

Well, I love special requests just about as much as I love Expedia… I mean, they’re special, and they’re requests… What’s not to love?

Here was mine:

Important things to keep in mind: At the time of my “special request” Trudeau hadn’t approved the Kinder Morgan pipeline, broken his promise re: electoral reform, or shaken hands with the evil orange one. In other words, I still “respected” him (it had nothing to do with the fact that he is easy on the eyes).

Well, when we finally went on our little getaway (days later), and I opened the door to the hotel room, I was pleasantly surprised.

They couldn’t have chosen a better picture.

I didn’t actually think the hotel (The Manteo Resort in Kelowna) would honor my “special request,” (I mean, there was a winky face, and everybody knows what a winky face means*), but they did, and it meant a lot (less than world peace, more than someone offering you a piece of gum).

 

+++

* Unless they don’t… A 😉 implies humour.

The Name-dropper

I was recently accused of being a name-dropper.

At first, I was confused.

I mean, I didn’t even know how one would drop a name. Were other people carrying around names? Lots of names? So many names that they were at risk of letting them fall through, or out of their hands?

And what were the names printed on? Index cards? 40 lb printer paper?

And then I wondered, is littering the real issue? Did they see me litter?

(I don’t litter!)

I spent way too many hours thinking about the logistics of dropping names, and thinking about which font I should use.

(Futura.)

And then I realized that dropping “names” was probably the new code word for dropping acid, or partaking in some other type of illegal narcotic.

But that made no sense because I don’t do drugs.

And then I thought I should probably just google “name-dropper” (rather than have an existential crisis).

This is what Wikipedia had to say:

Name-dropping is the practice of mentioning important people or institutions within a conversation, story, song, online identity, or other communication. The term often connotes an attempt to impress others; it is usually regarded negatively, and under certain circumstances may constitute a breach of professional ethics.

Okay, that is obviously not me.

I definitely DO NOT mention important people or institutions within a conversation, story, song, online identity, or other communication to try to impress others.

And I never breach professional ethics!

Also, I don’t know how to write a song.

I mean, yes… I did write a blog post about that time I received a letter from Steven Spielberg, and that time I attended Elton John’s Oscar Party, and that time I propositioned Jimmy Kimmel, and that time I was in a sketch with Amy Poehler, and that time I shopped for Danish modern furniture in Silver Lake with Thom Yorke, and that time I went to Sting and Trudie Styler’s auction, and that time I dared my husband to follow Emilio Esteves into the washroom, and that time I hung out with Elijah Wood, and that time when I sat in the front row at a Martin Short show and he gyrated in my face while wearing a nude bodystocking with drawn-on genitals... but…

Okay, I see it now.

Sorry.

That Time I Received a Letter from Steven Spielberg

I recently received a letter from Steven Spielberg.

The Steven Spielberg.

You know, the American director, producer and screenwriter of such films as E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial, Jurassic Park, Munich, Schindler’s List, Jaws, Saving Private Ryan, The Color Purple, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Amistad, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Lincoln… to name a few.

The same Steven Spielberg that won two Academy Awards for best director (seven nominations), and created the “Blockbuster” film genre.

That guy.

Hi! I’m Steven Spielberg.

As a screenwriter, I have always looked up to certain filmmakers – specifically Steven Spielberg, Chris Columbus and Wes Anderson – and envied their ability to tell a story. These filmmakers totally suck you into the world they create, and you are completely captivated for one and a half to two and a half hours.

So, you better believe I was beyond excited to find a letter with a return address labelled “Steven Spielberg, Amblin Entertainment” in my mailbox.

I mean, it was from Steven Spielberg!

The Steven Spielberg!

The one and only.

Steve-o! (That’s probably what his close friends call him, and obviously it is only a matter of time before I lovingly call him that too.)

I should note: the letter wasn’t totally unexpected. After publishing my novel last month I sent my book to a few of my favorite filmmakers with the hope that they would read it, love it, want to make it into a feature film, and pay me money for the right to do so.

So, when I saw the letter, I was like…

I ripped open the envelope and pulled out the letter…

And it said, “Thank you for your enquiry. We do not accept unsolicited materials. Please do not send anything ever again. Thanks, The Legal Department.”

And, at first I was like…

But, then I was like…

“I got a letter from Steven Spielberg!” 

Because, it’s always better to focus on the positive rather than the negative.*

 

+++

* Unless you’re talking about a blood test where a positive would actually be a negative.

 

 

That Time I Went to Elton John’s Oscar Party

No big whoop, right?

It’s just Sir Elton John… Singer, songwriter, pianist, actor, philanthropist, and recipient of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire by her Majesty, the Queen. He is only one of the most celebrated, influential and successful musicians of all time, with 300 million records sold, and 50 Top 40 hits (but who’s counting?)…

And his Oscar Party is only one of the most sought after and high profile parties in the film and television industry…

And I was invited.

Sort of.

Pretty much.

Okay, not really.

I had gone down to LA with two friends from work, and earlier in the week we had gone to a club where we met some interesting (read: whackadoodle) avocado farmers from Northern California that told us they could get us into Elton John’s Oscar party.

(Note: This is LA in a nutshell. Anything can happen at any time. You can sit next to Goldie Hawn at Le Pain Quotidian, or have Judd Apatow photobomb your selfie, or have Adam Sandler show up to an open mic night. It is what makes LA strange and wonderful and exciting, and why I miss it very much.)

Long story short… We met up with the two whackadoodle avocado farmers the night of the party, but they said it was way too early to go. They said that anyone who is anyone goes late to these sorts of events. So we all went to a diner across the street and sat around for several hours, learning the ins and outs of the avocado industry.

At around 1 or 2am, one of the whackadoodle avocado farmers (and yes, it’s important to continually note their whackadoodle-ness… They wore thick, wool sweaters in LA), said that it was finally time to go to the party.

As we walked across the street, we were beyond excited, nudging each other breathlessly. We didn’t know what to expect, but surely Sir Elton John would be there?!?! And there would probably be alcoholic beverages, and possibly recognizable celebrities, and maybe even a shrimp ring?!?!

One of the whackadoodle avocado farmers nodded as we passed the security guard* perched outside on a bar stool, and I remember being very impressed by his nonchalance. We strolled into the Mondrian Hotel like we owned the place.

As I entered the hotel’s grand ballroom, I prepared myself to be welcomed into the fold of Hollywood elite…

But the party was over.

Like, way, way over.

The caterers were folding the table linens, the DJ was packing up his equipment, the few remaining guests were being poked by security, and all that remained of Elton John was his essence (note: it was still very potent).

The whackadoodle avocado farmers acted like they were surprised the party was long over, and suggested that we continue the party in their room.

We started to wonder whether they had ever even had the means to get us into Sir Elton John’s Oscar party, or if it had all been an elaborate scheme to get us up to their room. We also started to wonder if they were actually avocado farmers, or just very knowledgeable about avocados.

Some questions will forever remain unanswered, and that’s the real lesson here.

How dare you, Judd Apatow…?!        (JK, I loved it)

+++

* It could have been a big hobo.

The Book

For the past year I have been writing a book.

Obviously, I have not been working straight through, 24 hours, 7 days a week, for the past 365 days (I have definitely taken breaks for eating, sleeping, and attending to personal needs – I shower almost every day). However, much of my time and energy has been spent thinking about, dreaming about, and agonizing over, said book.

I have turned down social invitations. I have stayed inside on sunny days. I have re-drafted nine or ten times. I have meticulously checked for spelling, punctuation and grammatical errors.

I have also thought that I was finished, submitted a version for approval, started celebrating, and then found an inverted apostrophe on page 61 (and subsequently lost my shit).

I have had this story floating around in my head for many, many years, and it meant a lot to me, so I wanted it to be perfect.

This week I came across a quote from Elizabeth Gilbert’s book Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear that put things into perspective:

“No matter how many hours you spend attempting to render something flawless, somebody will always be able to find fault with it. (There are people out there who still consider Beethoven’s symphonies a little bit too, you know, loud.) At some point, you really just have to finish your work and release it as is—if only so that you can go on to make other things with a glad and determined heart.”

I am really happy to say that I have released my book into the universe (well, released on Amazon), and I hope to go on to make other things with a glad and determined heart.

Magnus the Magnificent is a heart-warming and whimsical Christmas tale set in England in the 1950s, and it is now available on all the Amazons…

Amazon.ca

Amazon.com

Amazon.co.uk

Note: I would like to thank all of my readers, sincerely – from the bottom of my heart. It means a lot that you read what I write.

 

 

 

That Time I Accidentally Joined a Cult

You know what they say… $#!* happens. And, yeah, sometimes you accidentally join a cult.

Before I continue, I should note: this wasn’t one of those pill-popping, incestuous, murdery cults. Obviously, I would not go and join one of those!

The particular cult I accidentally joined was just your standard, run-of-the-mill, garden variety religious cult. And who among us hasn’t accidentally joined one of those?

Seven years ago we moved to England, to a very small town 25 miles west of London called Maidenhead. I was going to school, and my husband was working at a film studio, and apart from my classmates and his workmates, we did not have any friends to speak of, or to speak to. In an effort to amend this, we decided we should check out our local church. That Sunday morning we were greeted with welcoming smiles, handshakes, and the community we had been missing.

We started to attend the church regularly, mixing and mingling with some local, devout, god-fearing Brits. The services were short, and they served tea and biscuits. It was a win-win situation**.

A few weeks later, we met Ed and Buffy*. Ed and Buffy were church leaders, and they seemed like a very friendly and pleasant couple. They said they wanted to get to know us better, and invited us to dinner at their house. We of course, eagerly accepted, excited to make new friends.

The following Saturday we went to Ed and Buffy’s house for dinner. They pulled out all the stops with wonderful food, plenty of wine, and great conversation. We were really hitting it off, and I kept nudging my husband’s leg under the table as if to say, “We did it! We made some friends!”

But, what is a cult, really? It’s just a small group with questionable religious beliefs. But the problem is that sometimes you don’t realize that someone’s beliefs are totally, 100%, bat-$#!* bonkers until you’ve agreed to have coffee and dessert.

We were a few glasses of wine in, when Ed leaned on the table and said that we had been “brought” to their church for a reason… Ed said that all church members needed to recruit 12 non-believers, and cult-ivate*** them, as part of a “ladder to success.” Meaning, we needed to find 12 non-believers, help them become “believers,” and then help them to recruit their own 12 non-believers to cultivate. Ed said that church members should always do as they are told, never question the leaders of the church, and that we should not google any of this because, “there’s a lot of bad stuff posted about it on the internet.”

I nodded my head, and smiled, and said, “Uh huh,” but inside I was like, “Oh, $#!*.”

We ate the dessert (I mean, it was sticky toffee pudding so…), drank our coffees, and then got the H-E-double-hockey-sticks out of there.

When we got home, I turned to my husband and said, “I can’t believe we accidentally joined a cult!”

My husband was very quick to point out that he had never actually accidentally joined a cult. He had always maintained a safe and suspicious distance, but he thought it was absolutely hilarious that I had.

And then we googled it… And yep, it was a cult.

 

+++

* These were their actual names.

** Until it wasn’t.

*** I should have known – cult was right there in the word.

The Discovery

I have not been this excited in a very long time.

Yesterday I discovered SPOON – the band, not the utensil – and I am overjoyed.

It has been a very, very long time since I found a musical artist, duo or group that played music that was pleasing to my discriminating ear (which, BTW – is the only part of my body which discriminates).

In fact, I thought that I had come to a point in my life (as all adults do) when they have extreme dislike for any music created within the last two decades and only listen to “classic rock.” My Sirius Satellite radio channel of choice is called Lithium, which is named after a Nirvana song and exclusively plays 90s Alternative and Grunge Rock. In other words, I have been on a slippery slope.

Yesterday I had a tickety-boo around iTunes and the algorithm (which I’m guessing is actually a guy named Al Gorithm who has a lot of time on his hands) suggested a song called, “Inside Out” by Spoon. I listened to the preview, and I was like, “OMG, Thank you Al, whoever you are.”

The song is unlike anything else I’ve heard in the last two decades. It is so melodic and sweet-sounding – it is as if angels from heaven had played a part in its creation. I might also mention that it sounds very similar to the marching music on the Wii, and that in itself is a win.

I began researching the band, eager to find out more. It turns out that they are from Austin, Texas and enjoy lying on their sides, closely nestled together – which I think is very sweet.

Let’s be clear: If I had just discovered the utensil I would have been equally, if not more excited, because can you imagine going through life eating soup with a fork, or ice cream with a knife? It would be extremely impractical.

Luckily, I am now well-acquainted with all kinds of spoons.

 

The Shoes

Sometimes you just need to go for a drive, and this morning was one of those times. I was feeling a little bit blah, the weather was a bit overcast and dreary, and it was the first day where it was very clear that summer is officially over (sorry for the hard truths), so I donned a coat, grabbed a Christmas CD (no – it’s not too early), and hit the open road.

As I pulled onto the highway, I saw a single shoe – a New Balance tennis shoe – lying by the side of the road, and I thought to myself, “How does someone lose a tennis shoe on a highway? How does any scenario end with a tennis shoe being lost on a major thoroughfare?”

I quickly forgot about the tennis shoe, as I drank my coffee and sang along to Angels We Have Heard On High (really, it’s not too early). The clouds parted a little bit, the sun peeked through, and it felt like everything was right in the world.

And then I saw a black rubber boot lying on the side of the road.

Again, I thought to myself, “What situation calls for a black rubber boot to be thrown from a moving vehicle? And if you were to accidentally lose one of your rubber boots from a vehicle, would you not pull the aforementioned vehicle over to go back and get said boot?”

I quickly forgot about the boot, as I focused on the road (I was not at all distracted by singing along with the Christmas music and doing actions with my hands and body).

Less than a mile later I spotted a single flip-flop, lying on the shoulder.

WTF.

Seriously.

I looked at the flip-flop and thought to myself, “What happened to the person who was once the proud owners of this flip-flop?! And what about the other flip-flop?! Did the owners toss it, thinking it would never be reunited with its wayward twin?!”

 

Life is full of mysteries – like, WHY ARE WE HERE – but I feel like I really need to know why there are so many single shoes lying along the side of the road.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Diamond

No, I’m not talking about the shape with four straight sides of equal length that forms two opposite acute angles and two opposite obtuse angles AKA, a “rhombus.”

Nor am I talking about the area on a field where the game of baseball is played.

I’m also not talking Neil, even though he’s definitely worth talking about.

I mean, come on.

 

I’m talking about a pure and precious stone, consisting of a clear and colorless form of metastable allotrope of carbon that has been crystallized.

The other day I was just walking along, minding my own business (minding no other person’s business!), and enjoying Vancouver’s fair weather, when I spotted a brilliant flash on the sidewalk. I stopped, and bent down to get a closer look. It was the biggest diamond I had ever seen in my life.

I quickly picked it up, and shoved it deep into my pocket. Then I took it out of my pocket to get another look at it, and then feared it would somehow fall out of my pocket, so I put it in the change part of my wallet. I walked a few steps, and then thought the diamond would somehow get damaged by the change, so I put the loose change in my pocket, and left the diamond in the zipped pouch. I then called my husband and told him that I found a diamond.

“That’s great honey,” he said, while he, unbeknown to me, googled lost property Vancouver.

“It is great.” I whispered, hoping no one overheard. “I’m just ball-parking it*, but I bet this sucker is worth at least $10,000. It’s celebrity engagement ring big.”

I could hear my husband typing.

“I already know what I’m going to do with the money. I’m going to give half the money to charity, because that is the kind of wonderful human I am…”

My husband grunted his agreement.

“And then I’m going to use the other half for a vacation. I’m thinking Hawaii.”

The typing stopped, and my husband piped up: “You know you have to turn it in to the police, right?”

“What? No. Why?” I said, rather defiantly.

“Because it belongs to someone else.” My husband is nearly always the voice of reason.

“How can it ‘belong’ to someone else? It’s not a piece of jewelry. It’s not a ring. If it was a ring then it would be a real thing and somebody could say, ‘yep, that’s my ring,’ but this is just a loose diamond. It’s just a bit of rock, isn’t it? It’s essentially a worthless rock that someone, somewhere decided to assign value to. Who decided that diamonds are more valuable than any other mineral? Personally, I prefer a nice bit of quartz…” I took a breath. “It’s like a hundred-year-old bottle of scotch that someone has decided is worth $27,000. I would never pay $27,000 for a bottle of scotch… Never!”

The husband exhaled. “I’m just telling you what I found online. You have to turn it in, or make a reasonable effort to find the original owner.”

“First of all, who asked you to look online? Second of all, what did you google? Third of all, how do I make an effort to find the owner of what is essentially a rock? Should I make a ‘found diamond’ posting on craigslist so someone can say, ‘yep, that’s my diamond.’”

As soon as I got home, I started doing a little googling of my own: How to tell if a diamond is real.  

The fog test. It passed with flying colors.

The stone’s refractivity. This mother refracted light like nobody’s business.

The stone’s reflections. It sparkled like the night sky, except sparklier.

The water test. Real diamonds sink, and this bad boy sunk like Luke Skywalker’s X-wing in the Dagobah swamp.

I didn’t turn in the diamond in that day. Or the next, or the day after that. In fact, a whole week passed before I was even willing to discuss it again.

I put the diamond in a plastic Ziploc bag and left it on the kitchen counter.

It haunted me.

“Okay, seriously what should I do?” I said, after having agonized about the moral and legal issues for the past seven days.

The husband stood firm. “You should turn it in.”

“Ugh. I knew you were going to say that.” I flung the Ziploc in his direction.

“The good news is that they hold the item for 90 days and if no one claims it, it’s returned to you.”

“Fine.” I was so not fine. “But we should probably check if it’s real first. We don’t want to get all the way down to the police station, which is in a very sketchy part of town, to find that its just a rock. Even though a diamond is actually just a rock.”

…

My palms were sweating as the jeweler looked through her loupe. She looked up and smiled at us, and I smiled back.

“It’s cubic zirconia.” She handed me the loupe, and I stared through the little circle, not exactly sure what I should be looking at. “You can tell it’s not real because you can see right through it.”

“Ahhhhh.” I said, but I was really like, “Damn.”

As I left the jewelry store my disappointment quickly turned to sweet relief… I didn’t have to drive to the sketchy part of town to turn in the diamond, or meet anyone from craigslist.

Things always seem to work out. 

 

+++

* Another way to ball-park it.