What Was IN That Salad?!?

So, the other night I was gambling in Vegas with James Spader and a couple of Klingon women in 70s-style fun-fur maxi coats.

Then things got weird.

As I noted in I Dream Of Dillweed, I usually don’t remember my dreams unless I’m sick.  Well, physically sick.  Let’s not get into the delicate issue of mental health.

But the other night I had this vivid dream, and James Spader was in it.  I have no idea why; I haven’t watched TV for years, and the last thing I saw him in was Boston Legal.  Also, though he’s a fine actor, if I was going to dream of an actor there are lots of others I’d prefer to meet in my dreams, ifyaknowwhatImean.

The Klingon women made sense… I guess.  I’ve been a Star Trek fan pretty much all my life, but Klingon women aren’t really my type.  Though they could have been Klingon men in drag.  It’s hard to tell with Klingons.  Either way, they weren’t doing it for me.

Also, I was winning in Vegas, which is weird in itself.  I was playing video poker (my game of choice, so that was normal).  But the machine was spitting out real coins, which doesn’t happen anymore.  And I was chortling and stuffing the coins into the capacious pockets of the white painter’s coveralls I wore.

That was all fine until I got the Superhero Distress Call.  I thought my blogging buddy Tom was the only one who has an inner superhero, but apparently I do, too.  Sadly, she seems a little on the incompetent side.

In the first place, I got my cape on backward.  Which actually turned out to be a good thing because I’d forgotten to put on the rest of my superhero suit, so I was running down the sidewalk holding the cape closed over my bare ass.

But that started to make sense when I arrived at Superhero Central a few moments later, and it turned out I had the clumsiest superhero suit ever invented.

All the other superheroes were suited up and leaping into flight, and I was still struggling to pull my suit out of the storage locker.  It was stuck underneath its belt, which consisted of a bunch of heavy diving weights strung together on aircraft cable.

I was still trying to yank it free when the Bad Guy launched himself into the air from a black spiderweb trampoline.  (The Bad Guy was dressed like Robin from the old Batman comics, except he wore black gloves.  That actually makes a bit of sense, because I’ve always thought Robin was disturbing anyway.)

Fortunately, one of the other superheroes realized I was in trouble and came back to rescue me.  And he was a handsome superhero, too, which was nice.  In fact, he looked remarkably the way I picture John Kane, one of the characters in my books – no surprise, since I’ve been writing my fingers to the bone the last couple of weeks.

Problem was, he didn’t do anything useful; he just jammed a Cone Of Silence (anybody remember that from Get Smart?) over our heads.  And then I woke up.

Earlier that evening at the pub I had eaten what they called a “California Salad”:  Mixed greens with Brie, spiced roasted pecans, sliced apples… and laced with much-too-sweet cranberry sauce.  And no, I didn’t dream that, though I kinda wish I had – the cranberry sauce was gross.

But now I wonder what else was in there…

28 thoughts on “What Was IN That Salad?!?

  1. Pingback: I’m A Pro… Crastinator | Diane Henders

  2. Pingback: The ABC of me | The Heartsongs Blog

  3. Okay, I’ve stood it as long as I can. The whole superhero with the cape on backwards thing is killing me. I just gotta do this. Warning. Flash fiction ahead. With a different take on the “flash” part. Remember, you were warned. 🙂

    It was a dark and stormy alley. The arch-villainess crept surreptitiously (seriously, is there any other way to creep?) through the dank darkness. Or dark dankness, whatever. The howling-pink cape she wore had once again taken on a life of its own and slithered around to the front of her, er, unusual costume, leaving her posterior extremity bereft of clothing and glowing with a pale light of unearthly beauty. Freckles and all. And just how does a natural redhead get freckles back there, anyway? In Florida, yes, but Canada? CANADA? Evidence of a misspent youth, apparently. Probably all those weddings she went to back in the sixties or seventies, or whenever. Or maybe hanging out at all those wacky San Francisco salad bars. Heck, EVERYbody knows what went on at THOSE places, right?

    Anyway, she of the bare assets continued to lurk and skulk from dumpster to dumpster, wrestling with the errant cape, trying to get it clubbed back into submission. She succeeded, but only after promising it that she’d lose the diving belt. And spear gun. And flippers. And snorkel. And accordion. Geez, she thought, what is this thing, the fashion police? Okay, maybe the orange flippers and mother of pearl accordion were not so fashion forward these days. Maybe.

    Anyway, she continued her quest for her intended victim. The sound of voices raised quietly in screaming whispers wafted through the night. “Honest, sweetheart, I was just admiring that beautiful full moon,” said the male voice. Another, clearly female, with an almost silent sibilant shriek complained, “Yeah, I seen that loony redhead struttin’ around with her cape on backwards again. Full moon indeed! The next time I catch you ogling that bitsy ditch I’ll punch you clear back to Noo Joisy! And what’s up with that accordion, anyway??”

    Okay, our villain thought, maybe it IS time for the squeeze box to go.
    Anyway, she detoured undetected around the still-arguing couple and pushed onward to her target, the focus of her loathing, the hated authority to whose demise she devoted every shred of her existence, the penultimate expression of all that was wrong with her world, the life-goal that filled her almost-depleted universe. She clung to her hatred like a tongue to a frozen flagpole, like a new tire chain to black ice, like Texas barbeque sauce to a white shirt, like used chewing gum to the bottom of a school desk, like a sprung trap to a wharf rat…

    Anyway, time after time she encountered some lost, wandering soul, some weary stranger journeying from place to place, some ravaged bit of human detritus moping about disconsolately, hoping desperately for just one more glimpse of that hauntingly full moon, that glistening example of pale perfection, that shining orb, er, make that two orbs now that I think of it…and what’s that red licorice thong thingy doing there in the first place? And don’t ANYbody mention Nutella! I mean it!

    Anyway, here was her destination! She’d arrived undetected, invisible to the sad, moaning masses of lonely guys and irate wives. It was just across the street, within her grasp! And nobody was looking! NOW! DO IT NOW!

    She ran across the street, her bright pink cape billowing behind her, the sequins on her fishnet stockings and flesh-colored taffeta anklets sparkling in the dim light of the administration building’s security lights. Quickly she drew her weapon from her taffeta waist pouch and got to work. She shook the can of spray paint a couple of times, flung the top aside, and spray painted a huge hot pink W on the door of the Office of Graffiti Enforcement and fled unseen into the night.

    Her hated foe had been tagged by…

    Wait for it…


    Almost certainly not to be continued. Don’t thank me. Seriously. Just don’t… 


    • O. M. G!!! I’m laughing so hard I’m in tears! I think you managed to tag every single wardrobe malfunction I’ve blogged about so far. And topping it off with the Fuchsia Weasel is just… just… words fail me.

      But the fishnet stockings were all you; and I think we need to talk about the snorkel and the accordion. Freud would have a heyday with that… 😉

      F. Weasel


      • It was my pleasure entirely, I’m almost certain. 🙂

        I’m glad you got a chuckle. That stuff just oozes up from somewhere periodically. I’ll try to keep it to an absolute minimum from now on. 🙂

        And I lost it when I saw that you closed with F. Weasel! Now THAT’S funny!!!


        • …and now you’re privy to the inside joke in Book 4. What are Hellhound’s words when Weasel attacks Aydan outside his shop?

          All my friends read it and cut out laughing: “You used fuckweasel in your book!”

          Yes. Yes, I did.


  4. What a fab dream, Diane! And thanks for the mention – my Inner Superhero recognises another instantly, wardrobe malfunctions included!
    It had to be the brie… I had part of a good dream the other day that I wouldn’t mind getting back into, so I’ll be off the the cheese shop right now just to confirm this for you. As the Bad Guy may say… I’ll be back. It was the bad guy, wasn’t it???


  5. Lemme see here…

    Okay, Klingon girls. That kinda works. Salad? Not so much. I didn’t claw my way up the food chain to eat salad. But back to the Klingon girls. And, say, Nutella…

    Nope, never mind. Er, maybe later. 🙂


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