Cake or Death: The Excruciating Choices of Everyday Life

Cake or Death: The Excruciating Choices of Everyday Life

Heather Mallick

Language: English

Pages: 240

ISBN: 0676978401

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Cake or Death: The Excruciating Choices of Everyday Life

Heather Mallick

Language: English

Pages: 240

ISBN: 0676978401

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


A brilliant new book from one of Canada’s most popular columnists – a no-holds-barred riposte to the mess we’ve made of things.

"Mrs. Tittlemouse is heaven in a sponge mop. I read Beatrix Potter’s books as a child and love her paintings, her stories, her home-boiling of squirrels so her watercolours could be anatomically exact. But most of all, Beatrix Potter made domesticity desirable. All right, she didn’t, but she domesticated me. Personal order has become my badge and it’s the only thing that really works with melancholy."

Heather Mallick is sorely disappointed. The world has not turned out quite the way she had hoped it would. But rather than retreat from it, she takes the world head on, fearlessly and formidably on her own terms.

In a new work of entirely original writing, we have Heather unplugged (some might even say unhinged), and uncensored from the restrictions of her Globe and Mail column writing. As her many fans have come to expect from her, she is incisive and outrageous, whether she’s cataloguing the many situations and items in our daily lives that we are told we should fear, teaching us how to cope with people we just can’t stand (ruthless mockery is the key, really, says Heather) or writing about the valuable life lesson to be learned from one of her childhood heroes: Mrs. Tittlemouse, the original domestic goddess.

A candid reflection on the complicated state of our lives and our world today, viewed through the lens of Heather’s inimitable wit and outlook on life, Cake or Death: The Excruciating Choices of Everyday Life will provoke and delight readers.

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would be wrong. Clearly, the essays are mostly slanted on the side of death, but may I say that the last one is a real piece of cake. So there. You can splurge and hoard. You can enjoy and give plentifully to others. You can choose cake and death. Mrs. Tittlemouse Why we clean, an essay to grease the elbows I am so bloody depressed. And the awful thing about it is that gloom used to be something to be ashamed of. I was very good at being ashamed of it and had a variety of slogans to use as

infinitely interesting women tend to be. They know that we’re the dish rack and they’re the flat rubber mat that goes underneath, so dull that there isn’t even a name for it. They’re just the flat-rubber-mat-that-goes-underneath. It’s oblong, useful, simple and mute. Perhaps I shall never write again, having written this. But then, men don’t buy the books, do they? Heh heh. Give Me Taxes And death doesn’t upset me, by the way What’s a sure thing? My husband’s love is a sure thing. Or is it?

keeping cable companies in line, clean air, truck inspections for airborne wheels, loan forgiveness, autopsies, massage therapy, campgrounds, divorce, licence plates so you can track the guy on the cell phone in his Humvee who hit you, fluoridation, teacher training, privacy, universities, fair elections, fire trucks, child guardianship, hazardous waste control, name changes, hostels, museums, protocol (see golf shorts), trees, zoning, high-tech passports, standards in general, notary publics,

granny pointing her shaking finger at the young black man facing her in the courtroom. It was him! Naturally, she is pointing at the Crown attorney. I can’t remember people’s names. I can’t even remember their faces. Their character and sense of humour are things I recall in a general way. And I can’t quote poetry correctly. I could swear that the poet who said we had no time to stand and stare and who was standing on London Bridge saying “Dull would he be of soul” was W.H. Davies. Why would I

and lying on a bed of pain for months until you can hobble about with no one except other shortish Chinese even noticing. And they’re noticing the limp, not your extra 6 centimetres. There’s an actress I adore, Kristin Scott Thomas or Resse Witherspoon or someone. She’s 5 foot 3 inches. And why shouldn’t she be? She’s magnificent. She radiates such life force that no one suggests she shatter her shins and assemble something totteringly taller. That plant is dead. Enjoy the statuary corner. It

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