It’s Spring! Time to get the eff outdoors!
Our nephew trying to murder my bubbles at my in-laws’ last Sunday
I’m going to try this whole back-deck-garden thing again — I have NO IDEA what I’m doing. (cherry tomatoes, jalapenos, cilantro, rosemary, basil)
Many thanks to Leslie for graciously letting me get dirt all over her car.
And finally, possibilities for the front yard:
How was your week?
“Sometimes when I think how good my book can be, I can hardly breathe.”
– Truman Capote
Today is a holiday for most of Canada, including Ontario, where I live.
All long weekend I’ve been having these… flashes, presentiments I guess, of what life would be like if I were ready to write full-time. I mean, for the last 72 hours I haven’t worn a lab coat; I haven’t worn safety glasses or gloves or sensible footwear. I haven’t spent any time at all doing things according to what other people wanted.
Instead I spent time outdoors, with family. I rose when I felt like; I stayed up late, reading. In short, I made my own schedule, a privilege denied me by my workaday week. And while I never stopped thinking about writing or where my career is headed, it was with excitement and hope, not dread.
When I came to the page I felt refreshed and thrilled to be so lucky, and I can’t help but yearn for the time when this will be my daily routine. Nothing excites me more than the idea of spending eight, ten, twelve hours at my desk, watching movies play in my head while I chase the words that describe them.
I had one of these little flashes just now, sprawled on the bed reading We Need to Talk About Kevin (which is brilliant, by the way). The sun’s going down, and the branches of the trees are starting to do that black-silhouette thing I love so much. I just felt so calm, so at peace, and it makes me want to move forward into the time when I won’t be under fluorescent lights at this time of evening. When I can look forward to spending time watching my bats after a long day of writing, when I can sit on the back deck with a hot cup of coffee and not have to worry about whether it’ll keep me up that night.
I get these little glimpses, and they make me briefly so happy. But like a junkie, I want more. It used to hurt unbearably, reaching for something that seemed so out of reach. But every month my writing’s earning a little more, then a little more, and it makes me start to think: There could be something here, if only I can keep on track and push myself a just a little further each day.
I decided last week I’d move the Sniderville posts to Sunday, to better incorporate Saturday’s goings-on. A full week, if you will. I don’t think I like it. It messes with my title (what week is this, exactly?)
Back to Saturday next week.
Hmm. So, what went on this week…
Sunday was Mother’s Day, of course, and I took my beloved Mom out for lunch.
We went to our Thai haunt, and it was delicious as always. We’d gone to the flea market, also, per her request, and I ate fantastic creme brulee. Everything was going so well, until suddenly it wasn’t. Something I ate didn’t enjoy being part of my person, and long story short I cut out to go home and lay in my bed whimpering and trying not to die. Some Mother’s Day. I love you, Mom.
I went out to Target to buy the cats some furniture.
Yep, you read that right. We’d had a box of cardboard by the back door, destined to go out for recycling, but it was commandeered by the cats. Turns out it was at a good level for squirrel watching, and since we’re exceedingly indulgent we let it stay. For months. Finally I decided this was ridiculous, and set out to buy them a little bench to sit on. An awkward conversation with the Target clerk* and $100 later, I have never felt like such a cat lady in my life.
Worth it.
I discovered that the groundhogs who live in our backyard had babies.
I’ve tried to get pictures, but the mama is understandably protective and won’t let me too close. There are two adults and at least two babies, and they’ve made an elaborate series of hidey-holes in the neighbourhood backyards. C has taken it as an excuse to let the grass grow on our little hill, since they’ve built a burrow inside. I’m just waiting for one of us to snap an ankle in the hole.
I published a new horror story.(Click here for a preview)
Honestly? I think this may be my favourite yet. A little more suspenseful than the others, with a definite wallop of gross.
How was your week?
*“Oh, looks like all we have left is the one on the shelf. I can check in the back for you; sometimes the ones on the floor get a little scuffed up.”
“No, thanks, that’s okay. It’s just for my cats, anyway.”
“For your…”
“Cats? For them to sit on?”
“Oh. O…kay. I hope they…like it?”
BRAND SPANKIN’ NEW HORROR from yours truly!
Excerpt from All You Can Eat below:
“I heard about it through my boss; her daughter’s friend’s boyfriend knows the guy who hung the drywall.”
“I know the painter.”
“I read about it online.”
Jenny and her husband, Nick, heard the murmurs as they walked the endless line that wrapped around the restaurant. It was a standalone building, one that had been a series of failed clubs. It had sat empty for months; it had been forgotten. Then all at once tall wooden walls went up around it, blank walls with no hint of the business to open. People became curious, and the longer it hid the more curious they got. No one knew who’d bought it. No one knew what it would be when the walls came down.
There were rumours, sure; in a small city like theirs, everyone wanted to know everything. Most figured it would be another bar, a bad idea out on the edge of town. It cost too much to get a cab there. There was no subway. It would fail, they figured, like all those other businesses had before it.
Must be someone new to town.
Must be someone who doesn’t know better.
But how could you not? some said, Commercial buildings don’t sell cheap for no reason.
Must be someone just starting out.
But as the noise behind the boards grew louder, people started getting excited. It sounded like they were knocking walls down in there. Maybe they were adding walls, getting bigger, changing the whole structure. Maybe the new owner knew what they were doing, after all. Maybe it had a fighting chance.
The last of the trucks pulled out on a Thursday afternoon.
My sister said it’s ready to open.
My husband’s coworker thinks it’ll be this weekend.
It sat, hidden and waiting, in the cool May night.
It caused three minor accidents as drivers craned their necks for a peek.
Friday morning came, and the fortress of plywood still stood. By this time, usually, there would be childish scrawls of spray paint along the front, complicated illegible signatures laid under the cover of night. But the wood remained untouched.
Sometime on Friday afternoon, the walls came down and a sign went up.
EAT. ONE NIGHT ONLY.
What does that mean?
Some said they wouldn’t be caught dead in a place that couldn’t even manage a proper name.
Some wondered what the hell the “one-night” bit meant, and exactly what kind of idiot was running the joint, anyway.
Some quietly left work early, rushing home to their closets, desperate to be the first at the doors.
By four it had made the drive-time news. By five the lineup had begun. By seven, while Jenny was badgering Nick to take her out, the line had made its first tentative steps around the back of the building. By eight, when they arrived, it had made a full loop and people were stacked two-deep.
“We could go somewhere else.” Jenny grimaced at the hint of whine creeping into Nick’s voice.
“We could, but we’re already here. And I heard on the news that they’re thinking this place might be closed tomorrow.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Jenny pointed at the sign above the door. “’One night only’. They were saying this place might only be open for one night.”
“That’s stupid.”
“No, that’s avant-garde. It’s the thing, now, in New York and LA: these places open for one night then close forever. I heard weirdo billionaires run them. So if we leave…”
“It won’t be here tomorrow. Got it. Doubt it.” Nick eyed the inner line of people; women in impossibly high heels and men in suits that stopped just short of tuxedo. “The food better be really frickin’ good, if we’re waiting this long.”
“It’s not the food, it’s the experience.” Jenny beamed as she took in the people around her. She’d worn her most expensive dress, a designer piece she’d gotten at an outlet the summer before. Even with the rip it had cost her almost five hundred dollars, though of course she’d never tell Nick. She’d bought it with the leftovers of the grocery money. It was the first time she’d ever lied to him. She hadn’t known then when she’d ever hope to wear it, but here, in the heavy twilight, she felt at home. She’d even caught another woman looking her over approvingly.
“We could have gone to a movie.”
Jenny sighed. Men didn’t understand these things. She’d never get the chance to eat here again.
Ever.
To be glamourous, if only for an evening.
“Yeah, well, we’re staying.”
“My feet hurt.”
She rolled her eyes. The shoes she’d paired with the dress had heels four inches high and they pinched at the toes. She wisely said nothing.
The line moved forward sluggishly, and given their starting point they passed the entrance as it snaked by. Jenny tried to see over the people going in, tried to snatch a glimpse of what awaited them. It looked dark inside. She thought she caught a glimpse of blue uplighting, but that was all. Then the doors drifted closed and she was left looking at the small woman who tended them. The woman looked back at her, coldly, and Jenny was embarrassed at having behaved so gauchely.
She squeezed Nick’s hand.
After a moment, he squeezed back.
Nick looked over his shoulder; there were dozens of people already lined up behind them. All were dressed for the red carpet. He smirked. “This whole thing is ridiculous.”
“Fine. You really can’t stand being here? Let’s go, then.” Jenny pulled on his hand, and for a second Nick really thought she meant to leave. He sighed dramatically.
“No, we can stay. I guess. But you owe me.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. She rolled her eyes.
They’d looped three sides of the building and were almost at the front again. This time they were on the inner track. Good thing, too, Jenny thought: the line was now three deep, long spirals of people speculating about what waited for them inside.
“Hey, wanna know what’s weird?” The tone of Jenny’s voice startled him.
“Mmm?”
“Where is everyone? I mean, we’ve been here an hour, and they keep letting people in but no one’s come out. Are they sitting on each other’s laps in there?”
Nick’s forehead creased. She was right: they’d been around the whole building and not once had they seen anyone leave the restaurant. A few people had been loitering in the parking lot out back, but that was it. He shrugged. “Maybe it’s bigger than it looks. They’ve gotta be fitting everyone in somehow.”
A cool, damp breeze blew past them, bringing with it the cold smell of damp earth. Jenny shivered a little and Nick put an arm around her.
At last they neared the doors. Only a handful of patrons stood ahead of them. Jenny tried to peer through the windows but the glass was blackened. The diminutive woman manning the doors scowled at her. Jenny smiled back nervously.
“At least she can’t spit in your food from out here,” Nick whispered into Jenny’s hair.
The last couple gained entry. Minutes passed, Nick and Jenny both desperately trying to avoid eye contact with the rabid little woman. She nodded infrequently, occasionally muttering so quietly into her headset that Jenny couldn’t make out the words. Finally she jerked her chin at them.
“Welcome to Eat, enjoy your meal,” she said mechanically, and pulled on the heavy brass handle.
Jenny froze, suddenly hesitant. She looked up at Nick. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
He grinned. “Come on, you simply mustn’t miss such an ‘avant-garde’ experience.” He stuck out his tongue and she followed him inside.
From All You Can Eat, new horror from Stefanie N Snider. Available now from Amazon and Smashwords.
I was meandering through the dictionary (I knew I spelled “whininess” correctly, even though my spell check claimed there was no such word. I’m editing a story and it may or may not make the final cut, but the point is I WAS RIGHT.)
And there it was: Dark Side staring at me from another ad.
I love this, make no mistake, but it’s feeling a little… aggressive. Wherever I go, it’s already there. Waiting.
And the next thing you know…
So this just happened:
It’s probably because of my browser cookies, but still: I kind of love the idea of the internet harassing me to buy my own work.
This week I:
– worked on a new story. This one’s about dire diner consequences, and what happens when you don’t clean your plate.
– planned out a back-deck overhaul, spending way too much time browsing decorating sites, until I subconsciously started colour-coding my desk:
– went to The Early Bird, which is quickly becoming my favourite place on Earth. By day, it’s a kickass rock diner:
…by night it’s a crushed-velvet leopard-printed rock bar. They have a sandwich called the Fat Elvis: French toast layered with peanut butter, bacon, and deep fried bananas. Best heart attack food ever. I bumped into the lovely Chef Chainsaw outside (she’ll have her own post later.)
– went to a house party, had a fantastic time, succeeded in not peeing my pants from laughing so hard. It’s the minor victories in life, really.
– went thrifting with my Dude, something we haven’t done in a long time. The store has mannequins now…
…I was a little afraid to turn my back on this one. I’m pretty sure his hand was molded like that so he could hold a shiv.
Now I’m off to craft some creepy words and search for stock images of questionable meat. I love my life!
How was your week?
This made me so gleeful. Just the right mix of charming and grotesque, just what I love.
I don’t know what it says about me that I find this so adorable.
(PS: Sniderville will be a day late this week; I’m going to a PAAAAARTY! See you Sunday xoxo)
Ads like these made the comics I read as a kid so much more exciting. X-RAY SPECS! SEA MONKEYS! INCREDIBLE MONSTERS FOR A DOLLAR! Kids these days… they’re missing out, I tell you what.
(via Tumblr)
The Balut Incident
I like to think I’m adventurous. I like to think I’m always up for a new challenge, to push my limits and try new things.
Sometimes that gets me in trouble.
Like when a coworker and I were talking about all the weird and wonderful exotic foods we’d be willing to try, and balut came up.
What’s balut? A fertilized duck egg. Big deal, right? We eat eggs all the time. Except the eggs in the grocery store are just eggs: dormant, neutral, never ever going to be anything else. Fertilized eggs, well…
…they start to develop baby birds.
Squishy, chewy baby birds. Considered a delicacy in places like the Philippines and eaten intact: feathers, beak, and all.
Eaten on Fear Factor in North America.
The next day another coworker happened to bring them in and ate them while the rest of us gathered, horrified, and watched. First Coworker heard about it afterwards and was disappointed he’d missed out. Promises were made for more balut to be obtained, and the next thing you know somehow I had agreed to join in.
I talk a big talk.
Tuesday came, “Egg Day”, and I started having second thoughts. Big, feathery, crunchy thoughts. But I said I’d do it. I tried to quiet my rolling stomach. I didn’t manage breakfast.
I sauntered into DayJob, full of machismo.
Oh, the egg is here? Cool, yeah, I’m totally down. Pffft, it’s just an egg.
And I sat, and I tried to concentrate on my work, and I thought way too long and hard about textures and the probable unpleasantness thereof, and…
I — if you’ll pardon the expression — chickened out. I hadn’t even said I’d eat the thing, just that I’d stuff it in my mouth, but even that was too much. I thought about going through with it anyway; I thought about vomiting in front of my coworkers. Eventually I had to admit defeat and watch as Second Coworker fulfilled his end of the deal and chowed down, proclaiming it “Good” and worthy of eating again.
I have no shame, and I still have my stomach inside where it belongs.
How was your week?
(photo by laurababycake on Instagram)
sniderwriter 