The Book Bully

I have a vivid memory of muffins. When I was about eight years old, my dad took me and my sister to this new store called "Wal-Mart." He had dragged us to do the household shopping, which I found just as unpleasant as a child as I do now. As we were leaving, he took us to the adjacent Tim Hortons and told Kayla and I that we could bring home muffins to have for breakfast the next morning. I was excited; my sister was excited. We didn't often eat out, and we especially didn't often get a sweet treat for breakfast. The only cereals we had in our house usually had "flakes" in the title, and I still to this day have no idea what Cookie Crisp tastes like. I carefully mulled over the shelves and selected a chocolate chip muffin. My dad and sister chose the rest of the half-dozen, and we started the journey to the car. It was a typical St. John's winter day: the sky was grey and hazy with drizzle, and the parking lot was a mess of slushy snow, salt, and d

I walked home from work a few nights ago, half an hour after the clock had struck 2014. The temperature was well below -20 degrees and a fresh layer of snow covered the sidewalks, so my boots made that satisfying soft crunch as I trekked home. The streets were dead - not at all unusual for an Ottawa night in a bougie area, but a bit unexpected for New Years. But as I rounded the corner to my street, a few people were leaving houses, waving goodbye at the door and shouting final "Happy New Year!"s as they climbed over piles of snow to their cars and into cabs. I hate New Years. I have since I can remember. I wasn't very good at staying up late when I was young, and when junior high/high school hit, I hated the pressure of having to find something to do. I hated the inevitable discussion of "well, this year we won't dress up! Just PJs and junk food and TV!", always said with the unspoken knowledge that we really should  be trying harder to have a fancy Ne