Are you a Dad? Take this quiz to find out...

Just in time for Father's Day, here's a 10 point quiz to help you remember if you are a DAD:

1.  Do you own at least one painted rock paperweight?

2.  Do you know all the cheapest restaurants in town?

3.  Does your night life involve Children's Tylenol?

4.  Would you sell your soul for a sitter on Saturday night?  How about your first born?

5.  Do you habitually run over unidentified plastic action figures when mowing the grass?

6.  Have you ever gone miles out of your way on vacation to find a clean washroom?

7.  Do you jump when any little voice yells "Dad!"

8.  Have you ever encountered "The Phantom Piddler?"  In the car?  On your pants?

9.  Have you ever prompted your boss to "say the magic word?"

10.  Does your concept of an ideal vehicle include sound-proof glass between the front and back seats?

How to Score:  (Not THAT kind of score...)

0 to 2:  Nope, not a Dad.  Although it's possible to know where the cheap restos are and locate clean washrooms, failure to answer No. 4 with a resounding "YES!!YES!!" is a dead giveaway.

3-10.  Yup.  Dad material.  Get ready for another painted rock paperweight this weekend.

But there is a bright side to this career.  The Dad in this house once stunned an entire room of professionals playing Trivial Pursuit, with the correct answer to 'Portuguese for 'open''.  He learned it from Sesame Street.

THE HAMMER WILL ROCK TONIGHT! (okay, well it might shimmy a bit...)

Tonight!  GOH Guest Speaker
In which, we might want to invoke 'The Warning' (Pee before you attend this)
Laubach Literacy Ontario and Ontario Native Literacy Coalition Conference
Mohawk College
Hamilton

ROAD WARRIOR! (probably my most popular stand-up routine from the early days)

This post was my single most popular humour column/stand-up routine (with appropriate gestures) back in the days when I wrote under Funny Girl.

(With apologies to gorillas.)

Who needs a telephone booth?  My guy can step into any car and become:  ROAD WARRIOR!

There must be a primitive instinct that overcomes a male each time he gets behind the wheel of a car, and which also makes him forget that he actually got beyond the evolutionary stage of the giant African gorilla. 

Because every day, millions of men the world over climb into their twenty-first century chariots of steel to hear a voice from the heavens proclaim, “Gentlemen, start your engines!”  At which point all lads who possess a scrap of testosterone drop into first, stomp on the gas and lay a trail of smoking rubber in an attempt to beat the other blokes away from the lights.

I can remember traveling in my guy’s car down Gerrard street one day, when a red Camaro, which was traveling about two miles an hour faster than we were, pulled up beside us and tried to pass.  Whereupon, the man I promised to love and honour until death do us part – or at least until the next tax year – stepped on the gas and roared up the street doing a wheelie, in case, of course, the Camaro might just DARE to cut in front. 

The driver of the red Camaro, not wishing to appear shortchanged on his giant gorilla genes, immediately dashed up alongside, and proceeded to make extremely rude hand gestures while shifting gears and controlling a skid, all at the same time.

The two cars jerked their way down Gerrard, both drivers screaming at each other through closed windows, until my own true love slammed on the brakes, effectively blocking two lanes of traffic and the entire Jarvis Street intersection.  He then got out of the car.

Now the occupants of the Camaro were the sort of people one would expect to see driving a red Camaro down Gerrard: guys with names like Carlos and Guido, whose idea of a fun Saturday night is counting the notches on their machine guns.  And if I hadn’t started screaming and fainting in the manner of Fay Wray with King Kong (another gorilla) we would probably all still be there; my guy standing out in the middle of the intersection flailing his arms, ready to “teach them a lesson.”

What was he going to do? Kick their tires?

Of course, we females don’t participate in ridiculous behavior like this. We’re far too busy shopping for things we don’t need.

Golf is a Four Letter Word

By Melodie Campbell

Golf season always fills me with awe. Not because I immediately become what is euphemistically known as a ‘Golf Widow.”  Nope.  In fact, after recently upping our insurance coverage, the concept of ‘widow’ has taken on a slightly merrier outlook.

But I digress.  My problem with golfers is that they speak an entirely different language.  For instance, take a look at the following words that are associated with golf:

Tee:  This is silly.  Not only is it spelt wrong, but golfers don’t drink tea.  They drink beer.

Club:  The place with the bar that you go to after the game.  Sometimes the object OF the game.

Caddie:  Those big cars in the parking lot that you try not to hit with your golf cart.

Hole:  The thing you fall into and twist an ankle when you’re trying to find your ball in the ‘rough’.

Iron:  What you don’t have to do, because golf clothes are made of plastic.

Putter:  As in ‘putter around the golf course’.

Driver:  The guy who has to forgo the beer after the game.  Hence ‘tee’ above.

But without a doubt, the biggest problem with golf is the way it is scored.  Obviously, the person who hits the ball the most times has done the most work.  But the rules say the person who swings a mere 67 times wins.  That’s hardly trying at all.  This is supposed to be a Scottish game, so I ask you:  Where is the Protestant Work Ethic Here??

There’s only one explanation, and it has to do with the other Scottish religion – the one I apparently married into - saving money.  The fewer times you hit the ball, the longer the ball lasts…

Melodie Campbell got her start writing stand-up.

I’m fatally allergic to bee and wasp stings – Here’s what it means

Yup, a serious post from me today.  Pretty well as serious as it gets.

When I was eight, a wasp stung me.  Within minutes, I had fallen asleep, and couldn’t be wakened. My terrified parents rushed me to Emerg, as my heart rate fell and my body went into anaphylactic shock.

What I can tell you is that people who are allergic to venom cannot ‘tough it out.’  They aren’t awake to do so.  And what happens next is often a complete respiratory shutdown.  That means death.

My cousin’s teenaged daughter had a terrible experience when she was a lifeguard.  While she was working, a man in his mid-thirties died in her arms.  He had never been stung before, and thus no one knew he had an allergy.  Such a tragedy haunts you and everyone around you, for years later.

Those people understand the seriousness of a wasp or bee allergy.  Thing is, a lot of people don’t.

Our northern culture is one that worships summer

In Canada, it’s considered outrageous not to enjoy every moment of summer.  Let me go further: it is almost considered a sin.  We are scolded for not being outside as much as possible.  Bookworm?  Get outside!  Don’t be a weakling.

Here’s what it means to be allergic to bee and wasp stings:

I can’t eat outside in bee and wasp season, which is pretty well from May until the first frost in October. 

I can’t be outside around people who have food and drinks.

Translated, this means no outside patios at restaurants.  No backyard or corporate BBQs.  No pool parties.  No large events outside where food is being served.  No Wonderlands and CNEs.

In September, it doesn’t matter if food is being served.  I don’t spend much time outside at all during the day, because of the yellow jackets.  Doctors warn me that if you are allergic to bee and wasp stings, you are most likely allergic to spider venom too.  Avoid them. Never touch them. Have someone else remove them.

I can’t go camping.  I can’t travel to third world countries.  My specialist tells me not to be more than twenty minutes from a hospital at any time. 

I’ve adapted pretty well to these restrictions.  I carry an epi-pen at all times, which will give me ten minutes.  Enough time to get me to the closest hospital (if I’m awake enough to inject it.  Hopefully someone else will be with me.  I try not to think about that too much.)  It sucks, but better safe than dead.

Don’t make it difficult for people with bee and wasp allergies

No, we can’t come to your BBQ.  I’m sorry you decided to have your book launch or wedding outside.  Please enjoy it, but don’t insist that I be there, or make me feel guilty for declining. 

Please don’t shame me into taking a risk on my life, so that your plans won’t be upset.

Don’t say the following:

1.  ‘Don’t bother them, and they won’t bother you’

Of all the things I get told, this useless statement angers me the most.   And yet, I can’t count the number of times people have said this to me.   I’ve been stung four times.  On none of those occasions did I deliberately bother the wasp/bee in question beforehand.  I didn’t even know the insect was there.

4.  ‘If the wasps are bad, you can just go inside.”

I’m sure people don’t realize how cavalier this sounds.  They can’t know how little value they are putting on my life, right?  Would you knowingly go to a party where rattlesnakes are commonly found in that patch of grass at this time of year?  Would you say to someone, ‘don’t be silly, they hardly ever strike…’

My allergist said it best: “Tell people, ‘would you be comfortable eating dinner outside with a rattlesnake lying six feet away from you?’  Because that’s the sort of danger we’re talking about here.”

Thank you for reading this!  You may save someone’s life.

On the other hand, you may come up with a really neat plot idea for a murder mystery.  Remember to credit me in the acknowledgements.

My Novel is a Mess (again...repeat...one year later)

My Novel is a Mess

(How to survive the chaos point in your novel)

By Melodie Campbell  (Bad Girl)

(Most of the words are the same.  But here I am, a year later, working on book number thirteen.  And just like eleven was at this time last year, my book is a mess.  Which just goes to show that the blog post written below is dead on the mark.)

Yes, I’m at that point.  Writing to a specific word count, three-quarters written, and my eleventh novel is an unqualified mess. 

If you are a veteran writer like me, you say it’s not going to happen this time.  But it does. EVERY FREAKING TIME.

Here’s why:

The Linear Approach:

This time, you are going to write linear, by gawd.  One chapter after another, in mathematical order, until you reach the end.  Each chapter will have an outline.

But here’s the problem with that.  You signed a contract that specifies a pretty exact word count.  Is your story going to magically end at the precise word count you need?

Damn straight, it’s not.  It’s going to meander along, minding its own business, taking little side trips, refusing to stay on course.

Because, of course, outlines are just that.  They’re a guide.  You don’t know whether the story is really going to pull together with sufficient motivation and all the goodies until you actually write the thing.  And here’s what happens mid-writing:

You need a new character to make the plot work.  You just thought of a fab new subplot.  Orlando doesn’t work as a side-setting.  You need to move it to Phoenix, and that means a whole lot of changes…

And before you know it, you’re scribbling on the outline, adding this, subtracting that, and then it happens.  Your book is a mess.

Scene plus Scene

I write comedy, and comedy is finicky.  Those good lines come when they come, and you have to get them down fast.  Sometimes they’ll present themselves to me when I’m in a restaurant.  Sometimes, when I’m already in bed.  (Yes, I keep a pen and paper on my bedside table. Ditto, by the loo.)

I always have an outline.  But when writing a highly comedic book, you have to write those funny scenes when you are inspired.  This means hopping around the timeline, writing the scene that works for you today, thinking of another great line, hopping back to an old scene to insert it, when you should be moving forward. 

Which brings you to this point: the important scenes are written, and they present themselves like completed sections of a jigsaw puzzle.  You need to put them together.  Find the pieces that are missing and write the bits to connect them.

Because Sister, your novel is a mess.

That’s the point I’m at now.  The comedy is there.  The conflicts are in place.  The climax is written.  Now I need to take that kaleidoscope and move those pieces into the pattern that works best.

How to cope?  I think the best thing you can do is accept that this is going to happen.  Unless you are a robotic automaton lacking inspiration, you are going to veer from the plan more than once. 

At some point, every novel you write is going to be a mess. 

My advice: just accept it.  And understand that part of your role as writer is that of clean-up artist. 

That’s where I stand today, staring at a story that looks like a tornado just ran through it.

Time for the cleanup crew. 

Comedy and the Older Woman – How far can you go?

Today, I’m writing a serious blog.  (‘NO!  Don’t do it!  Don’t’ <sounds of heels screeching on floor as body dragged offstage>)

I write comedy.  I wrote stand-up, and had a regular column gig for many years.  My published crime books and most of my short stories are (hopefully) humorous.  My blog…well, that sometimes goes off the wall.

But I’m noticing that as I get older, the comedy seems to become more shocking.  Or rather, I am shocking people more.  They don’t know how to take it.  I see them gasp and act confused.  Did I really mean what I said just then?  Was it meant to be funny?

I don’t believe it’s because I’m writing a different level of material.  Nope. 

So why?  Why does my comedy seem to shock readers more than it did twenty years ago?

It’s not the readers.  It’s my age.

Writing comedy when you are thirty is ‘cute’.  I can’t tell you how many people told me that I ‘looked cute on stage’ as I innocently said some outrageous things that made people laugh. 

Saying outrageous things on stage when you are over 50 is not ‘cute’.  Women over 50 are never described as ‘cute’ (unless they are silly and feeble and quite old. Not to mention petite.)  Women over 50 cannot carry off ‘innocent’ (unless portraying someone very dumb.)  Women over 50 are expected to be dignified.

Phyllis Diller was a wonderful comic.  She did outrageous things on stage, and we laughed with her.  But she dressed like a crazy-woman and had us laughing AT her as well as with her.  Some women I know dislike the fact that Diller made herself ridiculous in front of an audience.  I don’t, because I know why she did it.

Forgive me while I pull a Pagliacci.  Yes, I still write comedy.  But I don’t do stand-up anymore.  I’ve found that women my age are not well received by crowds (especially liquored-up crowds). 

Women who are young and pretty can get away with murder.  Even better, they can get away with comedy.

BUT: A woman over 50 who makes fun of younger women is (often) seen as jealous.  A woman over 50 who makes fun of men is (often) viewed as bitter. A woman over 50 who makes fun of other women over 50 can get away with it, but the big audience isn’t there.

So my hat goes off to women like Rita Rudner, who do it still. I admire her so (and not just because she is slim and petite.)  I’ll stick to combining comedy and crime on the printed page.  At least that way, I won’t end up murdering my audience.

Postscript:  I pulled a tribute to Phyllis Diller, at the launch of my latest book, The Goddaughter Caper.  I wore an outrageous hat and a sign that said, "Return to the Holy Cannoli Retirement Home."  Everyone laughed and loved it.  I made myself look silly.  Which demonstrates that when a woman over 50 engages in self-deprecating humour, it is approved by audiences.  'Nuf said.