Guess who’s doing some BOOK SIGNINGS?! *jacks her thumbs at herself* Now guess who’s experiencing a heady goulash of cold-cocking terror and industrial-strength bliss about it? *jacks her thumbs at herself*

Last question: Guess who’s gonna quell her giddy theatrics and pull off these signings with grace, poise and dignity? *snort-chortle* BA hahahahaha HA! Nu-unh, sweetheart. Not me. I’ll be the one with 12 shots of rum in her Starbucks hot chocolate, greeting people with a big spank on the ass and a broad, cheesy wink. OK maybe not when my husband’s looking, but the minute he turns his back, you’re all fair game.

Where to find me

(note to stalkers: this part doesn’t warrant your attention, sooo skip to the end for a sweet Fall recipe!)

Friday, October 28th 6pm-9pm: CHAPTERS in the Fairview Mall, St. Catharines. Since it’s Hallowe’en weekend, you’re welcome to wear your costume!(family-friendly & public-appropriate, no dead hookers pls–AND NO DAMN CLOWNS! FUCK YOU, CLOWNS! I repeat: NO NO NO.)

<These: No. All clowns will be kicked repeatedly in the gonads>

Friday October 28th 9:13 pm:Having complete mental breakdown in the staff room at CHAPTERS in the Fairview Mall, St. Catharines (slide the book under the door. I’ll sign it when I regain consciousness)

Saturday October 29th 1pm-4pm:CHAPTERS in the Fairview Mall, St. Catharines

Saturday October 29th midnight: out in the barn doing mandatory ritual sacrifice to Belphegor the Demon Prince of …. I forget. Somethin’ spooky, I bet. Doesn’t matter. It’s Hallowe’en; gotta make the rounds.

October 30th 2 am-2:30 am: Your back yard. But I’ll be much too busy taking pictures to sign books, so please: respect the artist’s process and back off. Jeez.

November 26th 1pm-4pm:COLES at the Pen Center St. Catharines

<not the entrance to COLES at the Pen Center>

AJ’s Near-Famous, Droolworthy Apple Crisp Recipe

It’s cold out, and it’s rainy, and icky, and depressing, and you need something warm and sweet and comforting that isn’t too terrible to eat, especially if you’re on a diet like me. You may ask yourself, ‘when she’s not eating door-to-door salesman-kabobs, what does a horror writer nosh while she’s plotting yet another gory murder scene?’ Welp, here’s my modified apple crisp recipe for you. I hope you enjoy.

5-7 apples, peeled, in slices (any kind, but I love tart Granny Smith apples)

sprinkle lemon juice

1/4 tsp cinnamon mixed with 1/2 tsp Splenda

optional: 1/2 cup raisins or dried cranberries

crumble topping

1/2 cup Splenda brown sugar

1/3 cup flour

1 cup oatmeal

1/4 cup oat bran

1 tsp cinnamon

1/3 cup melted butter

Season apples with lemon juice and sprinkle with the cinnamon/Splenda blend, place in greased pan. Prepare crumble topping and cover the apples. Bake at 350 F for 45 minutes, and enjoy! Easy peasy.

(Editor’s note: AJ Aalto is blamelessly deranged, and should be institutionalized as soon as her signings are done. If she is not, she can in no way be held responsible for her actions. Also: she needs someone to buy her these gloves–I’m talking to you, stalkers. You want my love? Shit like this is your way in! I can be bought! Look, I want em so badly, I forgot to talk in the third person. Buy me these. BUY THEM.Kthnx.)

Dear Book Two:

Uhhhhh, hello? What is this garbage? Back before the launch of your predecessor, I was given to understand that you were “mostly done”? Didn’t you tell me that? Didn’t you say, and I quote, “hey lookey-loo, I’m nearly Book 2?” Probably, I didn’t IMAGINE you saying that.

Ugh. *flips pages* Disgusting. I can’t even call you a booklet, never mind a book. I’d be remiss in pimping you out as a draft, ffs. You’re a bloated outline, is what you are. Yes you are. What have you been doing while I was sweating my ass off (read: sitting in front of my computer, looking at porn inspirational photography)? Eating adverbs, apparently. With a side order of superfluous adjectives, judging by your midsection. I know, words are like Pokemon, candy and men: you just want them all. But have you NO self-control, Book 2? I mean, really. You start out ok–the Fur Con, the missing persons, the creepy dude–but then you veer off into self-indulgent babble for six chapters. SIX CHAPTERS!  Then for some unknown reason, you bounce back to wonderful, and for one sweet moment, with the zombies and the propane explosion and the goofiness, I have faith. But then … more babble. How you do exhaust me with the babble.

Now I have to slam on the hip waders and shovel through all your nonsense for gems and clues and red herrings. Thanks. Like I have SO MUCH time on my hands to fiddle with your middle. Besides the latex gloves and face mask, do I LOOK like a gastroenterologist? DO I?

OH OH and don’t even get me started on your so-called ending. Honey, if JLo has junk in her trunk, you’ve got a trash heap in your fuckin’ caboose. Perhaps most importantly: I don’t even know if there’s a sex scene in this book! If there is, who/what/where/when/how and why? I see notes about stuff … an odd italicized section here called “hot spot” … is this supposed to be a sex scene? I don’t remember writing this. Furthermore, it’s not hot. If you can’t see how bad this is, you need baddie lessons.

I’m afraid this calls for drastic measures. Just because we’ve always done it this way, doesn’t mean it’s not stupid. No. No, we’re not spending some time apart. I’ve already given you too much dicking-around time. Monday morning, 10 am: you, me, the shredder.

Sincerely,

your author (though at this point I am ashamed to admit that).

ps. You make me want to play Warcraft.  

(Editor’s note: Having spent all summer on a break and several months on self-promotion, it’s clear that AJ Aalto has lost her flippin’ mind. Since she’s not entirely sure how to get a replacement without another stint in prison for graverobbing, please expect this hogwash to continue …)

The night is typical for October in Thorold, Ontario: that is to say, schizoid. One minute it’s lukewarm Split Pea Soup, the next it’s dog-piss hot, then it’s subzero for no conceivable reason and the weathermen are apoplectic. I expect some day, my local meteorologist will throw an on-camera Gandalf-vs.-the Balrog fit complete with howling rage and threats of sorcerous retribution, bent golf club his ersatz staff.

On this particular evening, I’ve got the bedroom window cranked open to the sound of a cool thunderstorm, and a pumpkin spice jar candle is on the sill, flickering low and cheaply noisy. It’s been there about an hour, and the dark room is filled with the comforting scent of baked bliss …. until something intrudes: gasoline.

I wind up and suckerpunch the half-Viking half-Sasquatch who shares my bed, just to make sure he’s awake and aware.

Me: Smell that?

Hub: *growl* What, my ruptured spleen?

Me: Someone’s obviously siphoning our gasoline.

Hub: Obviously.

Me: There’s no other conceivable explanation.

Hub: Put down the crowbar, woman. Or at least put something on.

Me: What for?

Hub: After the hacksaw incident of Oct 2010, you really have to ask?

I sigh and put on some latex gloves (I keep em in the nightstand like all good wives do–trust me on this one), grab the crowbar and run upstairs to confront the punkass clownsmoker who must surely be out in the driveway sucking on a tube of liquid gold.  For good measure, as I run I make valiant attack noises that my limited fighting skills have no intention of following through on. My trip across the porch is commited only after a slapstick trip face-first into the door and mad windmilling at the step. It’s not easy to windmill with a crowbar in one hand. I manage, because apparently recreational paranoia grants one immunity to pain. 

There’s no one in the driveway. I stalk around the back of the car and find nothing. The hubster stands bathed in the light from the hallway, scratching the back of his neck.

Hub: What the hell are you doing?

Me: Preparing for battle. I might have been wrong about the siphoner. It might be zombies.

Hub: Any chance of you winning?

Me: Not without some bitchin’ kung fu sound effects and maybe a Footloose dance number.

Hub: Seriously, what are you doing out here?

Me: Petulantly nursing a serious case of disappointment.

Hub: Why do you always assume the worst?

Me: The worst can’t ambush me if I’m expecting it. I’m wily like that.

Hub: I think you want it to be the worst.

I choke-squawk like a drop-kicked rooster, but I have the grace not to argue the point.

Hub: Remember when I brought you flowers last week and you were disappointed?

Me: That was completely different: you denied me the opportunity to complain that you never buy me flowers.

Hub: Makes perfect sense.

Me: I had that marked on the calendar. Tuesday evening: remind the Yeti that he’s a cheap, lazyass mofo.

Hub: And that time we heard scratching at the window and you assumed it was a chupacabra, and took ten thousand pictures of what turned out to be the neigbhour’s cat?

Me: That’s different too! I’ve never met a real, live monster.

Hub (smiling): Keep pushing me, you might.

Me: Holy crapbaskets. You just accidentally hit my Oooh Baby switch to the on position.

Hub: Maybe I did it on purpose. Maybe when it comes to the woman I love, I’ve got moves.

I start to swoon, think better of it, and make a mental note to text “omgswoonz” to his cell later.

Hub: And your sales.

Me: Wait–what?

Hub: You set low expectations for yourself and then you’re baffled when you do well. Everyone told you that you’d do well.

I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other, suddenly very interested in the state of my lawn.

Hub: Come inside. I’ll make you a martini.

Me: Hell no. Your martini is a war crime. I’d rather swallow a hobo.

Hub: Fine, less booze, more snuggles. Coming back to bed?

It isn’t so much what he says. Hub’s not known for his clever wordsmithery. It’s the spine-tickling look he gives me.

Me: And ruin this heart-chafingly poignant moment with sex? Fuck, yeah.

Hub: Must you bring the crowbar?

Me: Honey … if a crowbar isn’t the answer, I really don’t understand the question.

(Editor’s note: AJ Aalto never ever attacks innocent strangers with a crowbar … she usually just jabs them a picklefork. Also: she’s a lot nicer to her husband in person than she is on the blog … or so he’s contractually obligated to attest.)