Today must have been Friday the 13th, even though the calendar says it is March 16th. I overcame minor trips, glitches and stumbles throughout the morning. Then, the mail came, with a $50 gift card for Esso. Is this a great life or what?
I trundled over to Esso, where I bought gas, the obligatory lotto tickets, and, as a treat, a $25 gift card to Zellers. There’s not much available at Esso, aside from lotto and gas, but at Zellers, YAY, all sorts of treats. Perhaps I should have been more mindful of the Esso cashier’s warning: “Better hang on to this receipt, just in case there is a problem.”

Problem? What problem? I am an old hand at gift cards. I give them all the time, and have received my share. Great invention. Better than receiving a box of six candles in a shade that makes you extremely depressed.
I patted myself on the shoulder for my canny use of a gas gift card. I practically beamed at myself in my rearview mirror as I sped to Zellers to have $25 worth of fun.

However, once I got to Zellers and planted my purchases at the checkout, I was greeted with the news that my gift card was “inactive”. I trotted off to Customer Service, where an extremely efficient and ebullient clerk who has solved many a problem for me in the past, with great style, examined the dead gift card, and told me that the Esso staff was scanning the wrong bar code.

So off I went, back to Esso (luckily I drive a cute little Yaris which uses very little gas) and found a different cashier, who was bewildered by my problem. About eight people fidgeted in line behind me (I couldn’t help it, I kept turning around and saying, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” even though this attached blame to me, when I felt, quite rightly, that I was blameless in this little drama.) They were all deadpan, in the way people are when they are fantasizing about throttling you and throwing your remains into the trash bin by the pumps.

Finally, the young clerk and I agreed that she would simply give me a new gift card. I had paid for it, after all. TWENTY FIVE DOLLARS. Which maybe ten years ago, would have seemed like coffee money, but in today’s economy, seems like a rather large sum to meeeeeee. She had called her co-worker, who insisted that the Zellers staff was at fault.

So off I went to Zellers with my NEW gift card. Same old, same old. It came up ‘not activated’. Ebullient clerk insisted that the Esso staff were swiping it wrong. It took all my will power not to lie down on the floor and weep piteously, “I am not going back to Esso. How much do you expect of a person who just wants to get through the day and come out at the end with a few little treats from Zellers?” I was a big girl and resolutely cheerful to the Zellers staff. As I love Zellers, my personal bias was that they were no doubt in the right in this exchange. And besides, only an idiot thinks she makes the world a better place by stamping her Aerosoles and screaming at all and sundry.

I drove back to the Esso, reminding myself how wonderful it is that I drive a Yaris. Once again, the Esso cashier tried to activate the card and informed me it was already activated. I suggested she simply refund the cost of the card back to my Esso gift card, as this driving around the city was exhausting me. She put me on the phone (how germy was this phone? how many people have used it?) with her boss, a rather crisp woman who told me that she had no way of knowing what Zellers had said to me. Excuse me? I had just told her what the Zellers staff had told me. Obviously, that was not good enough for her. Perhaps she imagined a gum chewing, tattooed, drug addled criminal at the other end of the line, instead of a respectable woman with a whimpering Yaris.

I wasted a few moments of the prime years of my life longing for the good old days, when the customer was always right. Remember those days? When businesses actually believed you, or pretended to believe you, when there was an issue, because (GASP) they actually valued your patronage.

The way we left it (after she reproached me for not addressing this earlier in the day, before the end of business hours in the east, even though all this had transpired in the past hour) was that she would ‘look into it’ , contact her bosses and Zellers, who, I gather, in her opinion, were clearly at fault, and call me on Monday.

I am Not Hopeful.

This is the Esso/Zellers face off. I somehow think I am not going to come out even in this. I am thinking that Esso is going to eat my $25 and try to make Zellers take the fall.

Stay tuned. I will post an update when and if I hear anything. In the meantime, I think I will take a little bouquet of flowers to the nice woman at Zellers, who seems to know what she is doing. I hope she isn’t out of a job when Target takes over. If Target has any brains, they will make her a store manager or national vice president.
Linda (who has done way too much driving and whining today)

I am often asked about my writing technique. I have to confess it is more of a buffet than a carefully prepared dinner. I will leap into one project (maybe a mystery novel) write for as long as I can, then sign off, and switch to a magazine piece, and then, after that, try an essay on my life and times, to be bronzed for my memoirs. No doubt the world is waiting with bated breath for said memoirs.

I don’t have a disciplined way of working. I always loved Auntie Mame’s quote: “Life is a banquet! And most poor suckers are starving to death!” That’s how I write, running from treat to treat, and often finally settling on one subject I will finish off to the last bite.
I realize that not everybody works this way. But it is what works for me.
I have done some editing in my time, and find it interesting to take a break from my own work. Time to put out a signboard and say, EDITOR FOR HIRE! Fun for me. Sometimes lucrative. And useful for those who need some help with their manuscript.
As soon as I get my email fixed, you can contact me about this.
Onward!
Linda

Every Sunday, I count the moments until the next episode of Downton Abbey is broadcast. I always hope for more O’Brian-and-Thomas delicious plotting, and a nice bouquet of Cora’s priceless reactions to Isabelle’s meddling.

Oh, boohoo, last week I was downhearted over some aspects of the show. I am still a big fan, but was taken aback by Lord Grantham’s shameless smooching of a maid with whom he has had little more than a few casual conversations. It just didn’t fit with the noble character established. I felt like covering my eyes in embarrassment. (Instead, I used the time honoured and very handy Channel Switch.)

And then, dear dim Daisy, carrying on about truth and honesty and not giving a hoot about the late William’s generous love for her. I still haven’t forgiven Daisy for blabbing about night time cargo carrying in the halls of Downton. Really, Daisy, do you have to be honest about Absolutely Everything? Think of the estate! Think of all the kitchen help that will be thrown out of work if Downton Abbey collapses in a scandal! Think of the hapless viewers who will blame you forever!

At least, we got to see Thomas in fine form as anguished mark, and cipher O’Brian begging forgiveness from Cora (even though Cora was in the throes of extremely unappealing flu symptoms nicely administered by the excellent makeup department and was totally oblivious to O’Brian’s momentous moment of attempted confession, which is just as well)

I am eager to find out just how Lady Mary is going to extract herself from the clutches of Sir Richard. My best bet is that Cora will sic O’Brian on him, and then he will be in real trouble. Or maybe Cousin Violet will arrange for him to be exported to the colonies.

I also hope there will be no more lines like “She died of a broken heart” which must have been hell for the actor to deliver, and to his credit, he did it very well.

Only a few more hours until Downton Abbey, when more will be revealed!
Linda

I was sad to read of the passing of Dorothy Gilman. I was entranced by her wonderful writing: Caravan ( a mystical mystery) The Tightrope Walker (funny and frightening all at the same time) Incident at Batyama (magical and exotic) and A Nun in the Closet (extremely funny with spiritual overtones, natch). Although I enjoyed her Mrs. Polifax series, especially because of the middle-aged, very proper heroine, her stand alones inspired me more.

I always wished I could have met her. I looked at her photo and felt she was so extraordinary, so possessed of gifts and powers that made the world a better place. Her writing was positive, inspiring, and often, very funny.

Wherever you are, Ms. Gilman, I raise a glass to you in homage.

Linda

Just a few more sleeps until I can see One For the Money. I am a huge Janet Evanovich fan and am eager to see what the production team and actors have done with her first book. I have watched the trailer a zillion times. Well, okay, maybe not a zillion. Maybe more like fifteen.

I think I will find the movie delightful. I like Ms. Heigl as Stephanie, and the actors playing Ranger and Morelli, both of whom I recognize from other gigs. Who would have thought that the designer in The Devil Wears Prada would end up as macho Ranger? And the serial killer in The Closer (he was brilliant) as Morelli?

I was a little taken aback by Debbie Reynolds as Grandma Mazur, as I recall Grandma being described as looking like a scrawny chicken. Ms. Reynolds, delightful to watch and a screen icon, is amazingly glamorous and healthy looking. But what the hey, I’ll watch the movie and probably love her, too.

Linda

These days, I think many of us are overwhelmed by challenges: financial, creative, personal, professional. There’s something in the air.
Even though I wouldn’t go as far as to print t-shirts ordering us to ‘Get Back on Board’, I sort of enjoy the concept of reminding people that we are all in this together, and that the more we help each other, the better we are. And the better the world we live in.

So I sing the praises of the author who encouraged me to explore a new market, of the friend who invited me to promote my jewellery collection at her next party for women entrepreneurs, the cousin(s) who remembered my mother’s birthday, and the friend who offered to foot the bill for an unexpected expense. (I turned her down, because I can handle it, but I am still deeply touched.)

This is what makes a better world, and hey, you are all going to end up in a book celebrating this! This is what writers do, we find something in every day that we can turn into words.
Linda

Probably most cities have a co-op store. I shop frequently at my local co-op grocery store, for myriad reasons. The store stocks stewing hens at a great price. (Have you ever wandered fruitlessly around a city, looking for stewing hens, to cure your nearest and dearest of a vicious cold or flu, only to turn up empty handed? I tell you, hie thee to the Co-op.)
I love trout, but can never find it. There it is, beautiful, coral, gleaming, fresh, at the Co-op. I usually hum a few strains of The Trout (Schubert, I think) as I trot down the aisle, cradling it in my arms, already imagining how it will be transformed into a glorious meal, after dashes of olive oil and kosher salt.
I know it sounds crazy, but there are fewer crabby shoppers at the Co-op than at other stores. Maybe it is because the staff is happier? Or the customers are happier? I can only say I am am happier when people aren’t ramming their shopping carts into me and then cursing at me as if it were my fault, while flinging bags of frozen veggies around like soccer balls. I want shopping to be a swift and easy experience, not a gauntlet. I am grateful for the relative serenity of the Co-op.
And last, but not least, I love the Co-op, because every time I am fondling a piece of trout or salmon, I am just ten feet away from a rack with a display of history books, which includes – YES! – my first book, Rebel Women: Achievements Beyond the Ordinary.
Of course, I am totally cool about it. I don’t stand in front of the rack for more than a few minutes. But sometimes, I shamelessly accost strangers with beef briskets in their hands, and point at the book, and say, “I wrote that! It is a Canadian bestseller!”
I wish I could report that they then proceed to fall about in 25 different directions, totally impressed. Instead, they usually back away from me, very carefully. However, sometimes, I have actually run across a person who doesn’t think I am a lunatic or impostor, who gets me to sign the book, and then buys it, bless them! Is this a great life or what?
Onward to my next shopping trip,
Linda

Many of us begin the New Year with positive thoughts about our past and hopes for your future. Who drifted into my thoughts yesterday? My beloved high school French teacher, Mlle. Dorothy Hawley.

She looked a little like Lilian Gish. She was elegant and positive and dreamy in many ways. She taught the little philistines at Viscount Bennett High School the French language by singing us through it. The only reason I can conjugate or compose some sentences in French is by remembering, to the tune of John Donne, “Je me suis couche! Me suis couche! Je me suis couche! Me suis couche! Je me suis couche! Je ne me suis pas couche! Passe compose de verbes comme de coucher!”
We sang our little hearts out while she conducted. Maybe some of the boys felt a little silly, but we sure learned our French grammar, spelling mistakes above, aside.

I am grateful to Mlle. Hawley for her joy in the unexpected and the original. While other teachers might quash the eccentric and artistic imagination in somebody like me, she gave every impression of delighting in the unusual voice and child who essayed creative expression.

In retrospect, I might not have survived high school without her. How I regret taking a pass on the last high school reunion, not wanting to see the butch girls who had beaten me up on the basketball court, or the trashy gals who ridiculed me in the hallways (gee whiz, just because I was what was known as A Brain, go figure ….) Only after the fact, did I hear that my beloved Mlle. Hawley was at the reunion. How I wish I had attended and told her what she meant to me.

I went to her funeral a few years ago and cried like a baby.

If I am an artist and a writer, it is because of Mlle. Hawley and her wild, creative, feminine, courageous spirit.

Happy New Year! As they say, if you can read this, thank a teacher!

Linda

If anybody out there has read my second book, The Rebel Cook: Entertaining Advice for the Clueless, you will know that I am not a cook. I am a non-cook, but a relentless hostess of dinner parties. Go figure. So The Rebel Cook is, as one of my publishers noted, an anti cookbook.
Here is my recipe for Boxing Day Loaf:
Leftover turkey (or chicken) cut into small pieces
Leftover stuffing
Leftover mashed potatoes
Leftover yams and carrots
One egg, beaten up a bit, just so it cries uncle
Salt, pepper, maybe curry if you like it
Mash it all up and squash it into a loaf pan.
Grate (or cut, if you are lazy like me) some cheddar or havarti cheese on top.
Throw it into the oven at 350 degrees for 45 minutes.
Put your feet up and inhale a glass of chardonnay.
Serve with cranberry sauce or jelly and whatever else you have left over from Christmas dinner, including the wine, brandy, and cognac.

For those of you who are wondering who took the Extremely Cute and Flattering photos of MOI for the website, the name of the photographer is Bill Vauthrin. He is extremely talented, a lovely man with a wide range of interests, and he is responsible for the photos of my Deadly Dues launch, as well. He also is responsible for the photos of me looking demented (and occasionally cute) in Rebel Cook: Entertaining Advice for the Clueless.
Given my luddite ways, I have not yet figured out how to add his photo credit to the relevant photos. In the meantime, I sing his praises. Hallelujah.
I figure I am extremely lucky to have a friend who is a professional photographer who shows up at events and snaps away at MOI and all and sundry. I must have done something right in an earlier life.
Onward!
Linda