We are in a restaurant and the family next to us is talking about a family recipe for Beef Stroganoff and ever one of them, including the children, pronounce it, completely innocently, as ‘Beef Strokin’ Off.’
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The first time, it was funny and adorable. Now it hysterical.
The dad said there was NOTHING like his mom’s strokin’ off and that almost killed me.
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Help me help help they won’t stop going on about their strokin’ off.
Help.
I want to go ask, innocently…”excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing. How exactly DID your mom do her strokin’ off? What made hers so special?”
Oh, it turns out that grandmama brought HER strokin’ off technique from the old country.
Bless her heart.
Hope she’s with us for a long time, sharing that good strokin’ off with neighbors and friends for years to come.
Good night, grandma!
I bet granny was very popular in her village…
YOU GUYS!
It turns out the secret ingredient was love.
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Many of you already know I used to be a hairdresser. I had a salon of my own, in a nice area of my little town, right near the waterfront. It was lovely. Instead of fashion magazines, I had graphic novels. My clients were great.
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Most of my clients were well-off, quite a few were retired, and I never felt unsafe in my salon, even when I was alone.
I had a lot of male clients, they would pick up the graphic novels because there wasn't anything else to read, and they'd scoff a bit, then get hooked.
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I loved my clients, I was damn good as a hairdresser (to the point that, even years and years later, former clients were always hoping my writing career would crash and I'd start doing hair again).
I have a short little story of a thing that happened yesterday. I don't know what the message is, but it gave me a lot of feelings.
As many of you know, we live in a small town on the Oregon coast. There are a couple grocery stores and one variety store called Bi-Mart.
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So we went to Bi-Mart, which is a local chain that is very casual and friendly and less corporate than a lot of national chains. We went to buy key fob batteries and some planters for my garden.
While shopping, there was this older couple there, in their seventies, I'd say.
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The man was oldschool in all ways, crew cut, quite fit with big muscles and a tan from working outside. Wife was pretty and petite and soft-spoken.
He was NOT soft-spoken.
He was quite loud, and got mildly annoyed at seemingly everything.
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Every year on his birthday (which is today), I write a little letter to @JoeQuesada, wishing him health and happiness for him and his family. We have not spoken in person in years.
In that note, every time, I thank him for asking me, out of nowhere, to pitch for Deadpool.
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Because I had a comics comedy column on CBR and I made him laugh. He used to read the column on the phone to friends. Garth Ennis didn't have email, so he called him long distance to read one about Garth TO Garth.
Even when I made fun of JOE HIMSELF, he would laugh about it.
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So every year, I say something to the effect of, "Thank you for taking a chance on me, and for opening the door that had made my life's dream come true over and over."
And he always says something humble and sweet, that I make it happen myself.
I have been thinking this forever but this morning it really hit me.
@stephenking is a badass.
Just a combustion engine. Love that guy.
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There have been a dozen times where the thing getting me through a tough time was simply having a Stephen King novel or anthology or movie adaptation to enjoy.
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When I was a kid, the very first novel I ever read (I was probably a little young for it) where the cast was all female and took all roles from villain to tragic hero and everywhere in-between was Carrie. To this DAY, I still haven't read many novels that can make that claim.
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