Sarah Crosbie sucks, source says

Sometimes, all you can do is laugh, especially when times are trying: Economies are tanking, people are being laid off, and your shovel is calling you from the garage, taunting you that soon, it will be time to hit the driveway.

Late one night, a couple of weeks ago, a man was unloading his goalie equipment out of his car when another man approached him in the parking lot of a local hockey rink.

Now, this goalie does not usually play for this team. He was filling in for an acquaintance who was injured.

As the goalie unloaded his equipment, the other man started talking about how he knows the goalie works at The Whig-Standard and he had some thoughts to share about the paper's magazine, The Ticket.

The man told the goalie about how he'd heard that a former Ticket editor had left Kingston and gone on to a big paper in Toronto.

The man really missed the former editor, he said.

Really, really missed her. Really, really, really missed her. He told the goalie that he understood that the editor he liked so much had been filling in for the current editor (that would be me) while she was on maternity leave and The Whig was forced to give the current editor (me, again) her job back once she returned after a one-year maternity leave. (Isn't that nuts that women are allowed to have babies and return to their jobs?)

He said the fact that the paper had lost the former editor and had to welcome back the current editor was a stain on The Whig since the former editor was a genius, who was funny and smart and articulate and much better than the new editor (still me).

The goalie asked the man whether he knew the former editor, since it was odd to hear a reader heap such praise on an editor, especially one who'd left the paper. Was she his sister? His cousin? His friend?

No, no, no, the man said. He just loved her work.

The goalie happily chatted with this man and listened to him - like any good journalist would do. You never know where you're going to hear a good story.

The goalie wondered what he should tell this unhappy reader ... and decided to think about it.

(This tale reminds me of a great riddle my father told me once when I was a girl: "A boy is riding in a car with his father when they get in a car crash. The father dies. The boy is rushed to hospital. When he arrives at the ER, the surgeon refuses to do the surgery. 'I can not operate on this child. He's my son.' How can this be?" Now, back in the 1980s, in the days when no one could have foreseen a black man and a woman being two of the top choices to run the White House, it wasn't easy to come up with an answer.)

"The surgeon is a ghost who came back from the dead!" I shouted.

"No! The boy was a twin separated at birth and the surgeon is looking at the wrong twin!"

The answer, of course, is that the surgeon is the boy's mother. But, back in the 1980s, my little brain heard "surgeon" and I thought "man."

Now, in 2008, there's still an interesting gender stereotype that remains. People assume that women take their husbands' last names when they get married. But some do not. Like me.

As the goalie walked into the rink with the man, he wondered what he should say to him.

"Have a good game," the goalie said as they hit the change room.

"Wait until I tell my wife this one," he thought to himself.

(Have I ever mentioned that my husband is a goalie?)

And here is the rest of it.

There might be more(or not)

Essential tactics for gossip girls

My husband and I have a thing we do (OK, it's a thing I do) when I want to tell him a story about someone when we're out in public.

If we're going out for dinner, I'll prep him on the drive to the restaurant.

"Tonight," I'll say, "I'm going to tell you a story about Dan Bandanamana. But, when I do, I'm going to call him Bille Bo Bob."

"Uh huh," my husband will reply, knowing that he's going to have to sit through one of my dramas.

It's a scheme I've devised so that I can talk about someone without worrying about whether his wife/sister/coworker/brother is sitting next to me - unbeknownst to me.

I started doing this a few years ago because when we went out for dinner we could never tell stories that involved anyone because we were always surrounded by people we knew, or people who we knew knew us, even if they didn't know we knew them. Know what I mean?

The new-name scheme is a plan I think other people should adopt.

I was out for dinner the other night with my girlfriends talking about whether it's OK that we feed our toddlers wieners, chicken fingers and chocolate milk for dinner when I heard: "Blah, blah, blah, Sarah Crosbie, blah, blah, blah."

The table next to us was having a good time chatting - about me. I was sitting just one person away from them so I gave them a smile.

They were so involved in their conversation, they didn't notice my gesture. Nope, they had no idea that that girl enjoying her glass of Australian shiraz was me. Sarah Crosbie.

"Blah, blah, blah, Sarah Crosbie, blah, blah, blah," – I could make out only every third word or so. I wasn't annoyed I was being talked about. I was amused. But then, my amusement turned to worry. I know I'm due for a hair cut and, yes, I've gained five pounds over the last few months. Maybe I looked so out of sorts I didn't even look like myself?

Working at a newspaper brings a certain amount of celebrity when you live in a city the size of Kingston.

There are times I like chatting with readers - like when I'm out on a date with my hubby, having a nice time, sipping wine - (when I look good) -and there are times when I'm not so keen about chatting with readers, like when I'm at the drugstore buying diapers with bedhead and raccoon eyes from yesterday's mascara.

One time a few months ago, a lovely older man who was in his 70s or 80s met me at the cash register and wanted to chat.

"Well, fancy meeting you here so early in the morning, Sarah Crosbie!" he said with a huge smile.

"I'm getting my newspaper. Whatcha getting this time of day?"

"Oh, well, you know," I said, as I tried to hide the box of tampons behind my back.

I slowly backed away, mumbling something about having to go grab something, anything, to get me out of the humiliating situation. It was like having to talk about feminine products with my grandpa.

I also once had a Kingstonian tell me she was at a little resort, Los Corales, in Santiago de Cuba, the same week my husband and I were there - and she saw us.

Saw us doing what? I thought. Frolicking on the beach? Kissing?

Hoovering our dinner? Jumping in the pool with our clothes on? My mind raced as I tried to rewind the entire vacation in my head.

I don't have a problem with people talking about me. All I ask is that if you are going to take my advice and give me a new name so you can gab about me openly, you make it something fun like Billie Bo Bobette.

There might be more(or not)