Author: Diane Henders
Fly Diapers. God, I’m Old.
Monday afternoon I was contemplating diapers for house flies, and that’s when I realized I’m getting old.
It’s complicated. Let me explain:
We have a little acreage outside the city, with a tiny decrepit forty-year-old travel trailer on it. The trailer’s only features are a primitive propane furnace and a queen-size bed we shoehorned in after sacrificing all the original interior partitions and fittings. A toilet is not one of its luxuries, so I built an outhouse.
I don’t like dark, icky outhouses, so ours has a clear roof for natural light, a battery-powered overhead light for nighttime use, and a rainwater collection system that gravity-feeds a small sink so we can wash our hands. Thanks to strategies I won’t describe here, it doesn’t even stink (most of the time).
The deluxe outhouse
There are only two of us, so it’s not a big deal to keep it clean. I regularly evict spiders and sweep out the inevitable pine needles and dead leaves we track in, but that’s about the extent of my chores (other than occasionally scrubbing it just because it’s an outhouse and I’m a weirdo clean freak).
That is, until this week.
This week the flies from hell arrived. I don’t know what they’ve been eating, but these are sick, sick flies. Usually fly shit looks like little black specks. These flies dumped brown and yellow splotches the size of a pencil eraser. Or larger. Sometimes much larger. Large enough to dribble when they hit a vertical surface…
It looked as though someone had taken a baby with explosive diarrhea and twirled the poor suffering child around and around inside our outhouse before fleeing the scene of the crime.
It was disgusting, and I spent a good half-hour scrubbing it all clean again before griping to Hubby about the pressing need for fly diapers.
And that’s when I realized it.
I’m old.
In mid-August thirty years ago (okay, maybe a little more), I was portaging and paddling through the beautiful network of lakes in the rocky Canadian Shield country around Kenora, Ontario. I carried all my food, clothing, and cooking tools in my backpack. I slept on the ground, cooked over a tiny fire when necessary, and carried a small trowel whose function I shall leave to your imagination. There was no human habitation whatsoever, and definitely no outhouse.
(In fact, I only met one other group of people the entire week. In complete fulfillment of Murphy’s Law, they caught me squatting behind a bush, trowel in hand. Did I mention I was wearing a one-piece bathing suit? Well, actually, not wearing it at the moment of discovery.)
Aaaaanyway…
Fast-forward.
When I wrote the first draft of this post, I was sitting in my zero-gravity lounge chair in front of our firepit. I still cook all our meals over the campfire, but I’m not exactly roughing it:
No hunkering down next to the flames for me. I even use a nonstick frying pan.
So there I was, lounging in my deluxe folding chair, typing on my laptop beside a heated trailer containing a queen-sized bed.
And kvetching about fly shit in my deluxe outhouse.
God, I’m old.
When the hell did that happen?
I Sing Like A Bird
…if the bird in question is a crow…
Compatibility Is Overrated
Over the past decade or so, it has become apparent that my husband and I are completely incompatible:
- He’s a pack rat. I’m a cleaner-outer.
- He dwells happily in his cluttered man cave. I need a tidy house and a clean desk.
- He’s a procrastinator. I do things as soon as they come up (which is really only because I’ll forget about them otherwise, but still).
- He likes to have music or TV always on in the background. I prefer silence unless I’m actually concentrating on listening to music.
- I love all kinds of music. He’s rock & roll to the core.
- I’m a jock. He’s a couch potato (sorry, dear, but you know it’s true).
- I’m an adventurous eater. He’s a meat-and-potatoes kinda guy.
- He winds down by watching TV. After half an hour in front of the TV, I’m ready to chew off my own arm if that’s what it takes to escape.
But it doesn’t end there. We can’t even agree on the things we agree on. We have two kinds of everything in our house. I drink skim milk and he drinks full-fat homogenized. I eat crackers with unsalted tops; he eats salted. He drinks black tea; I drink green and herbal. He likes white bread; I like whole-grain. We don’t even use the same brand of toothpaste.
A while ago, I ran into an old friend in the grocery store and we were standing there catching up when he suddenly blurted out, “I can’t believe you’re still married.” When I laughed and asked him why, he couldn’t (or didn’t) come up with any concrete reason, but I suspect it was the compatibility thing. Looking at the list above, you’d think we’d have throttled each other before the first year was out.
But we’ve figured out ways to compromise (or agree to disagree), and there are lots of activities we both enjoy. It also helps that Hubby is the most tolerant guy I’ve ever met, and he encourages me in absolutely everything I try (even if I suck at it).
Yesterday was our fourteenth wedding anniversary, and I can’t believe how quickly the years have flown by. It’s been the best fourteen years of my adult life.
I think what I love most about him is the way he does little, special things for me. The surprise trip to a new restaurant; cleaning out the dishwasher because he knows I hate doing it; the fancy bows on the chairs we bought together as a mutual anniversary gift; the flowers for no reason; the way he magically appears with a dishtowel in his hand when he hears me washing dishes. No grand fanfare, no ‘look what I did for you, praise me now’; just his quiet smile.
And I love the way his mind is constantly active. Conversations at our dinner table range from quantum physics to car maintenance; astronomy to science-fiction laser guns; building computers to growing tomatoes to finding a way to filter out the awful taste of his last batch of rotgut homemade wine. (We never did figure that one out. If anybody wants a few gallons of dark-brown fluid that smells like rotten eggs and burns with a clear blue flame, let me know.)
Our basement is full of obscure mechanical and electronic oddments, and Hubby’s always working on some theoretical problem or invention. It’s unfailingly interesting, and occasionally alarming. I’ve narrowly missed being struck in the back of the head by an exploding capacitor (it shot past my left ear). Sometimes there are billows of dense smoke or worrisome chemical odours.
But I think I’ve finally trained him not to use my kitchen sink for toxic substances or my food processor for non-food items. At least, not while I’m looking.
And after all, where’s the fun in predictability?
So happy anniversary to my dear Hubby – I’m looking forward to many more! (Anniversaries, I mean. Just thought I should clarify that…)
Not A Cartoonist. Obviously.
…but I’ve been having fun drawing cartoons lately anyway. And I figured, what the heck, why not post them? I don’t know if I have enough time or inspiration to do regular Sunday funnies, but I’ve got a few floating around my computer.
Here’s one for today:
Is There A 12-Step Program For That?
My name is Diane, and I’m here to confess my addiction. No, not my addiction to tools. This is a different addiction altogether.
I can withstand it for long stretches of time, but it always drags me under in the end. The high is ecstatic. Then comes the slow sobering, followed by guilt and shame. After that comes the steely resolve to do better, and sometimes I vanquish the demons for a while.
But sooner or later, I succumb again. The longest I’ve ever stayed clean was several years. I really thought I’d beaten it that time.
I was wrong.
I’m talking, of course, about Costco. I gave up my membership years ago, but in a weak moment I asked one of my friends to take me this past weekend. It wasn’t the ugliest relapse I’ve ever had, but it proved that I am and always will be an addict.
For those unfamiliar with Costco, it’s a wholesale-style outlet that sells everything from food to electronics to furniture to clothing. In gigantic bulk quantities. Usually at lower-than-retail prices, and occasionally at screaming discounts.
I have a five-pound tin of baking powder I bought at Costco over fifteen years ago. It’s still good… but it’s also still half-full. In another fifteen years, I might actually finish it. I have half-gallon jugs of onion powder and cinnamon that date back to that period, too. There’s something about large quantities of food that I just can’t resist.
Maybe it’s because my dad was a child of the 1930s Depression years. Nothing was ever wasted in our household. The tiniest scraps of food were saved and incorporated into the next meal, and staple foods were purchased in bulk to get the best discounts.
So I harbour two horribly conflicting attitudes toward groceries: Large quantities are magnificent; and: Waste nothing.
You can see my problem with Costco. They have large quantities! Of everything! What could be better than five pounds of chocolate chips for the price of two? Three water bottles for the price of one? More toilet paper than you can fit in your car?
It’s magnificent, I tell you!
When I walk into their cavernous building, my pulse races and the demons begin their seductive chorus: “Look how much there is. And for such a cheap price! It’s an excellent buy! Large quantities are magnificent!”
Euphoria seizes me and I buy. And buy.
Then I get home and realize what I’ve done. Yes, I scored a case of my favourite Ataulfo mangoes for a fabulous discount. But Hubby doesn’t like mangoes, and I can only eat so many of them before they rot.
Guilt and anxiety kick in. I must waste nothing! I must eat mangoes morning, noon, and night!
I managed to avoid gross excesses this time. I bought what I needed and could use within the foreseeable future. (Except for the water bottles – I needed one, not three. But hey, it’s not like they’re going to go bad, right?)
And I split that giant package of cheese curds with my friend, so it was a good buy.
Really.
I think I’m improving.
Maybe I should go back again this week just to be sure…
Happiness Is A Warm Gun
I’m worried.
Being the cynical geek I am, I was sure Big Brother was watching us long before the “news” broke about the NSA and PRISM. No surprise there.
That’s why ever since I started writing the Never Say Spy series, I’ve joked semi-seriously that I’m probably on a no-fly list somewhere. Anyone watching my browsing habits will know I spend a disturbing amount of time researching untraceable poisons, the characteristics of C4 and other explosives, sonic grenades, Tasers and stun guns, specifications and ballistics tables for firearms, and a host of other unsavoury topics.
Throw in my YouTube viewing history of martial arts, shooting techniques, self-defence against knives and guns, military training videos, and some other odds and sods that are definitely non-typical for your average middle-aged female viewer.
Then add my frequent searches on computer networks, hacking, cracking, and encryption, and I just bet they’re watching me.
Meanwhile, and (until this morning) completely unrelated to this… I’m a big music fan. I love just about all genres, and, as I’ve mentioned before, my MP3 player contains everything from rock to reggae to ragtime, country to classical, metal to Motown, pop to polkas, blues to barbershop harmony. But (*gasp*) I’ve never been a huge Beatles fan.
Sure, I like their music, and I respect their impact on the music scene, but I’ve never actually gotten around to buying an album. So yesterday I thought, “Hmm. What kind of self-professed music lover doesn’t have a single Beatles song on her MP3 player? Maybe I’d better go and buy an anthology.”
So off to Amazon I went, and I found a remastered 2-disc set that looked good. I checked the track list and discovered the song “Happiness Is A Warm Gun”. I’d never heard of it before. So I played the preview, then messed around a bit and got distracted. And forgot about the whole thing.
Until a mere 18 hours later.
Sometimes I like to get out and do some new things and meet new people (bear with me; I’ll establish the relevance of this momentarily). So I belong to a couple of Meetup groups. They send me updates on upcoming events.
Here’s what I found in my Inbox this morning:
What the hell are the chances of that?
My idea of getting a Beatles album was completely off-the-cuff. I went to Amazon and clicked on the first Beatles album in the list without any conscious selection process; I’d never even heard of this song before yesterday; and I arbitrarily chose to listen to its preview instead of any of several other songs that were unfamiliar to me.
And within 18 hours, I get an invitation with the very same title?!?
And what are the chances of two different Meetup group organizers emailing me on the same day about gun-related activities? I just joined this group. They shouldn’t have any way of knowing I like to shoot.
I thought the alien butt sensors and the NSA were bad, but now I’m totally creeped out.
Who else is watching me? I don’t know, but I’m suspicious of the jackrabbit that’s been living under the spruce tree in our front yard. He has a shifty expression…
I’m Amused
In the vagaries of the English language, I’m “amused”. I’m also amused by the vagaries of the English language, but that’s not actually what I mean.
No; if “amoral” means “lacking morals”, and “atonal” means “toneless”, and “achromatic” means “without colour”, then I’m “amused”. As in “lacking muse”.
Which is a fancy way to say I don’t know what to write about today.
So I shall resort to poking fun at the English language. If the prefix “a-” indicates absence or lack, then why doesn’t “acute” mean “ugly”? Why doesn’t “along” mean “short” and “alike” mean “hate”? And if I amend an item, am I actually ripping it apart?
After coming up with a few other examples, I just couldn’t resist messing around with some flash fiction:
Flash Fiction: Afoul Play (On Words)
Setting my torch alight, I stood blinking, blinded by the sudden blackness. When the vague outlines of the hallway emerged from the dark, I crept forward. The groan of a loose floorboard underfoot made me flinch, my heart drumming against my ribs.
Glad to be alone, I turned to Jim. “Man, why did we let Rick talk us into this? And why are we still doing it when he didn’t even bother to show up?”
Jim replied with his usual unintelligible mumble before pressing his lips tightly agape, but I didn’t let it bother me. He always spoke aloud.
Behind me, Lucy whispered, “Light the torch. This is too creepy. Maybe we heard Rick aright. After all, it was two weeks ago. Maybe he meant twelve noon, not midnight.”
“No, I’m sure he meant midnight,” I argued. “He said we had to sneak in when it was dark, and he teased me that I’d probably arouse at eleven and sleep through the whole thing.”
A few minutes of stealthy tiptoeing later, Lucy hissed, “Oh, gross! Do you smell that? There’s something alive here. It smells like it’s been rotting for weeks!”
“Probably just a dead mouse or something,” I said with more confidence than I felt.
“It can’t be. It’s too strong. It smells like something…” Her voice trembled. “Something big.” Her nails dug into my shoulder. “What’s that aloft? On the floor under that big table?”
I swallowed hard and peered through the dimness.
“Light it! Light the torch!”
Jim’s shout startled me so much I nearly dropped the torch. It bobbled dangerously and Lucy’s shaking hands clamped over mine, pulling the torch atilt to prevent the oil from spilling out.
My lighter clicked. Flames flared high, revealing the reason why Rick hadn’t joined us tonight.
“Rick! Ohmigod, Rick!”
Lucy’s screams echoed in my ears as my stomach lurched. My knees gave way and I arose to the ground, the impact jarring me asleep…
Which means awake… but “awake” actually means asleep.
Which would mean I was awake to start with…
Which means I was sleeping…
So did this really happen, or was it a dream?
Well dang, it looks as though I’ve written a blog post after all. Maybe I wasn’t as “amused” as I thought. But I still think English is a very funny language!
* * *
Addendum: It seems WordPress has been having difficulties lately, and sometimes when you try to leave a comment you get a page that says “This comment could not be posted” or some other error message. If that happens to you here, I’m sorry, and thanks for trying. If you want to try again, here’s what has worked for me on other blogs:
- Type your comment as usual, but before clicking Post Comment, highlight the comment and press Ctrl-C on your keyboard to copy it.
- Then click the Post Comment button.
- If a page comes up saying “This comment could not be posted”, click the Back button to return to the page
- Then press the F5 button on your keyboard to refresh the page.
- Paste your comment back into the comment box by pressing Ctrl-V.
- Click Post Comment again.
Usually the second time’s the trick, but sometimes it wants a couple of tries. It’s a huge pain in the butt and I hope they have it resolved soon, but in the mean time, thank you for trying.
I’m Not A Cunning Linguist
By now you’re probably all familiar with my tendency to misread words. But if you’re relatively new to my blog, you may not have read about the fact that I also tend to misspeak – often with embarrassing results.
A while ago I was getting ready to buy groceries in preparation for houseguests, and I called to ask what type of milk I should buy. When informed that 1% was the concentration of choice, I blurted out, “Oh, that’s new. Phill and Michael were always the homo guys.”
For the record, they’re both confirmed heterosexuals. And I think I’ll say ‘whole homogenized milk’ instead of ‘homo’ from now on.
Some time later, I was enthusing to my friends about the Calgary International Blues Festival. I go just about every year to soak up the sunshine, beer, and blues music. It’s a long day outdoors and if one remains properly hydrated (or beer-drated, as the case may be), nature calls frequently.
If you attend by yourself, you have to decide whether to temporarily abandon your stuff while you sneak off to pee, or else haul everything with you into the cramped and increasingly icky porta-potties. In music-festival euphoria, most people choose to trust their neighbours.
Last year, a photographer sat near me. When he asked, I cheerfully agreed to watch over his camera gear while he did what needed to be done. After a long day and multiple trips, he charmingly bought me a CD in thanks for my onerous duties.
Expounding to my audience at the pub later, I summed up the preceding paragraphs as follows: “He asked me to watch his equipment while he peed”.
After a couple of beats of silence followed by uproarious laughter, one of my smartass friends asked, “Did you hold it for him, too? No wonder he bought you a CD.”
I’m not the only one in the family with linguistic (or lingual) issues. A couple of days ago, my sister and I were talking about her upcoming budget presentation at the Christian radio station where she works. And this came out of her mouth: “…that may vary depending on what the fucktuations…”
We both burst out laughing.
And I told her, “If you try to discuss income fluctuations in your meeting, you’re either going to say ‘what the fucktuations’ or you’re going to start giggling uncontrollably. Either way you’re doomed.”
My sister also coined one of my favourite non-words: ‘depissitate’. She was describing miserable rainy weather that was starting to clear, and her tongue got tangled between ‘precipitate’ and ‘dissipate’. And the phrase ‘It’s starting to depissitate’ was born: The perfect way to describe a sleety rain shower.
It’s nice to know that she and I share the same language difficulties. Or, as she once accidentally said when describing a different trait that runs in the family (I can’t even remember what the trait was now)… “It’s a genital thing.”
To this day, the word ‘congenital’ makes me snicker. And I never use it. ‘Cause I know if I do, it’ll come out as ‘genital’.
I’m just not a cunning linguist.
* * *
Many thanks to my good-natured sister and the radio station where she works for giving me permission to publish this. As she said herself, ‘what the fucktuations’ was just too good not to share.
Short And Silly
Y’know what? We’ve all been working too hard lately. I’m on vacation this week, so I’m going to give you a break, too – not much reading required.
Happy Summer!
Author Diane Henders 