I come in from the cold Arctic blast that is January in Ontario, stamping my boots and huffing and making an emphatic “Woo!” to let  all the indoor folk know the state of the whirlwind out there, like all good snow-shovelers do. I pull off ice-encrusted gloves, kick my boots in a corner, gesture meaningfully at the snowy window, and exhale hard at my husband.

Me: I need a ski mask.

Viking: Never.

Me: But… I need one for shoveling snow.

Viking: YOU are never getting a ski mask. Ever. With a capital-N Never.

Me: But look at the pinkness factor of my cheeks.

Viking: Cute.

Me: But it’s COLD out there. Really-really cold. I need a ski mask.

Viking: We’ve been together 17 years. You’ve never needed a ski mask. I am FORCED, with no small amount of dread, to wonder why you need one now.

Me: I got old. My old-lady cheek-al regions are more delicate.

Viking: No.

Me: My old-lady chin might freeze and fall right off.

Viking: No.

Me: You’ll have a chinless wife. You’ll divorce me for some young chick with both her cheeks and an intact chin.

Viking: Wait.  You said the D-word. *dreamy look* Let me enjoy that for a second.

Me: My old-lady fist might punch you right in the ass.

Viking: Good luck with all that. Let me get you the step stool.

Ten minutes later…

Me: Is the credit card still linked to my Amazon account?

Viking: Buying a book?

Me: Yep.

Viking: What’s it about?

Me: *blinkblink* It’s about, uh…an old lady. Who lives in the, um, Arctic. Her chin fell off and her husband left her. And she has to–

Viking: Buy a ski mask on Amazon?

Me: Drat.

Fifteen minutes later….

Me: Goin’ on a Timmies run, want a coffee?

Viking: Sure, thanks.

Me: Okay, so, yeah, I’m gonna take $20 from your wallet for that cuz I’m broke.

Viking (not looking up from his laptop):  A ski mask shouldn’t cost a whole $20…

Me:  It doesn’t, it’s on sale at–oh, drat.

Viking: You suck at ski masks.

Me: I DO NOT!

Viking: You really do. How are you ever going to make your big foray into the criminal underworld?

Me: I’m gonna skip ski masks altogether and go straight to full-on HAZMAT.

Viking: Stealthy.

Me: You don’t know. I’m very small. I could be stealthy in HAZMAT.

Viking: You couldn’t be stealthy wearing an invisibility cloak during a vow of silence.

Half an hour later….

Viking: That’s some bright yarn. What are you crocheting?

Me: Oh, just somethin’ I saw online …

(Author’s note: On a writing note, I am finally finishing up Death Rejoices, the second book in the Marnie Baranuik Files, and plunging directly into the third, tentatively entitled Last Impressions. My new home–even in this -25 degree weather–has been the Old Lakeview Cemetery in Thorold. I find myself driving out there in the evenings alone and just wandering. If I do happen to go missing, probably I bumped into a bigger, weirder nutbar out there and someone should check between the stones for my sad little remains. Hrm, that ended on a gloomy note, jeez. Back to happy, back to happy!)  

Earlier today:

Me: Jenny, I need you to eat more vegetables.

Jenny: *blink blink* Tsk.

Me: Jennifer Autumn, are you listening?

Jenny: Ye-es. Vegetables. Yes. YES! Gotta love the veg.

….and then…after supper…I find this….

Now, I’m not sure whether I should be glad she’s eating lots of carrots (a marked improvement), irritated by the twelve-year-old sass (OH, DEAR CROM, SO much sass), or worried that my tits are sometimes NOT calm, as the note clearly indicates that this may be the case. And what do my agitated motherly tits DO, exactly? Do they scold somehow without my knowing? Am I gesturing with them chidingly and no one has told me? Maybe I don’t want to know.

Before I get angry letters about my parenting skills or lack thereof, yes she’s grounded. But yes, I laughed. Hard.

Three hours later….

Me: *shaking my head in amazement, posting to FB* Calm my tits? Seriously, kid? Ba hahahaha….

(Editor’s note: AJ Aalto ate her veggies today…if by “veggies” you mean the tomato juice in my Bloody Mary…)

So, mmmnnyeah, “paranormal physics”… No, I did not misspell psychics. I meant physics. You know, science of energy and matter etc. Today, I was at the north end of the Welland Canal’s Lock One with my favourite cop discussing a (fictional, don’t freak out) crime scene, walking him through the movements of the characters pre-crime, and having him explain how the investigation might play out. It was a brief meeting, compared to our usual, as it was eight million degrees below zero and therefore hard to talk, what with our faces frozen. Did you know that ink freezes in your pen? Makes note-taking a futile endeavour. I solidified my plan to have Britney die (for fakesies! I’m not killing anyone) at the spot I had scouted earlier. The first time I went down there, it was warm and calm and dark, a summer night. Today, even though it was nine in the morning, it was grey and chilly. Grim. Though the lake was choppy, the canal was ominously still, like it knew I was there. (SEE? That’s what horror writers–and mental cases–tend to believe. It’s called magical thinking.) There was a horrible noise, a scree-whine-ting, coming out of the shipyard, wind through the masts and rigging of sailboats. I did not like it. It sounded like slippery demon teeth chewing on the souls of the damned, and made my shoulders scrinch up; I have a damned soul and don’t want it chewed-on, thank you very much.

<So, anyways, this is where Britney dies. Sorry, Brit! It’s gonna suck.>

I was having trouble imagining certain paranormal elements of the story in this scene, specifically the play of physics and the ghost and the body… and by “body”, I mean of course “corpse” (FYI, you may assume I always mean corpse.). I wondered aloud if “paranormal physics” was a thing I could Google, at which point my grounded-in-reality cop buddy did one of those combination eyebrow-twitch-plus-tiny-smirk things that he thinks I don’t notice, which mean he’s humouring me and biting his tongue. One of these days, he’s gonna let that mask of politeness slip off and give me an OMG-AJ-your-ridiculousness-hurts-my-brain forehead scrunch. I will enjoy that. *chuckle*

Once home and warm, I did Google “paranormal physics” on the off chance I might learn something. Now, don’t get me wrong. I AM a super-serious scientist. I have a for-realsies degree–a Bachelor of Science, Biology–to prove it. Four years at university, bitches. So, no, I don’t believe that there are actually rules of physics that apply to–HOLY SHIT, there are physics dudes who specialize in the paranormal. Well, slap my ass and call me Kitten. This is going to be an enormous help.

<like this was an enormous help to Hatchet Hank. Totally made that up, no such guy>

Before tackling the actual pen-to-paper on book three, I now have some new avenues of research to persue. Nobel-prize-winning physicist Brian Josephson of Cambridge university said: “Max Planck’s original attempts a hundred years ago to explain the precise amount of energy radiated by hot bodies began a process of capturing in mathematical form a mysterious, elusive world containing ‘spooky interactions at a distance’, real enough however to lead to inventions such as the laser and transistor. Quantum theory is now being fruitfully combined with theories of information and computation. These developments may lead to an explanation of processes still not understood within conventional science such as telepathy, an area where Britain is at the forefront of research.” This sounds like a gentleman worth looking up before I embark on the third book, which plays with ghosts, psychics, and a poltergeist-like haunting.

Also: good news! Some (or one?) of the locks have been drained, which means it’s possible the pondage is drained, which in turn means it’s time for more research around the submerged cemetery, which will now be…unsubmerged? Desubmerged? Supramerged? Those aren’t words. Risen? Gee, that’s not a scary word to apply to two-hundred-year-old bones at all. Eeek. Anyways, by “research” I don’t mean “snooping.”

Me: I’m not going to look for bones.

Cop: Yes you are.

Me: I’m totally going to look for bones.

Did I mention my inability to lie to law enforcement? Heh. *snort-laugh*

As for the second book, Death Rejoices continues to give me trouble, but I am confident that I can wrestle it into submission fairly quickly, now that I can more clearly see the ending the way it should have been written the first time. Did that make sense? Probably not. Again, I will say: I really need to learn how to outline properly.

(Editor’s note: AJ Aalto is a very tired, very cold, very hungry little writerghoulie who could use some hot tea and a whole box of Oreo cookies. Anyone seen my combat butler?)