Humour

I’m Older Than I Thought

/ Diane Henders / 35 Comments

I’m finally back in the blogosphere again! My summer was… interesting. I intended to post quite a while ago, and then shit happened. Literally: My FIT came back positive.

FIT stands for Fecal Immunochemical Test, that highly enjoyable exercise in which you have to collect a (euphemistically-named) “stool sample” and have it analyzed for possible cancer markers. I don’t know why they bother using FIT for the acronym. SHIT would be far more appropriate: It describes both the process and the patient’s reaction to salvaging a turd and attempting to “sample” it using the tiny plastic stick provided.

Fortunately, I don’t have cancer. But even though this story has a happy ending, my “end” was downright disgruntled. Because: colonoscopy.

The prep was as usual, and that’s all I’m going to say. If you’ve never done a colonoscopy prep, you don’t want to know; and if you have, you probably don’t want to remember. (But if you really want details, comedian Billy Connolly describes it best: https://vimeo.com/24340828).

Last time I had a colonoscopy it was in combination with an upper GI scope, and conscious sedation was mandatory. As I mentioned back then, the sedation experience creeped me out because I had no idea what my unfiltered mouth might have said during the procedure. This time sedation was optional, so I opted out.

It was a slightly unpleasant and very weird experience. The unpleasantness didn’t surprise me – I wasn’t expecting to enjoy having nearly five feet of colonoscope shoved up where the sun don’t shine.

(Side note: Did you know that colonoscopes have depth gauges on them? I cracked up when I saw it marked off in feet and inches. I kept expecting the doctor to growl, “Aaarr, matey, sound me the depth of this asshole!”)

Anyhow, what I hadn’t expected was the weirdness (other than my own). While the doctor was snaking my drain, several people wandered in and out of the room for no apparent reason, which seemed very odd. Each time, one of the nurses hurriedly remarked, “She’s doing this without sedation.” Subtext: “She’s going to remember this, so don’t say anything inappropriate.” In each case, their response was to glance over at me and say, “Oh, hi.”

Since we were all being so friendly, I attempted a joke while my belly bulged and rippled as the scope navigated loops of intestine: “I feel like a character in Alien.”

*sound of crickets*

They were all too young to get the reference. Apparently there are now entire generations who haven’t been traumatized by chest-busting aliens.

Damn, I’m older than I thought.

Book 18 progress: Sadly, very little. We were bracketed by two different wildfires during the summer so I had the car packed and keys at hand in case we had to evacuate; my back has decided to add leg spasms to its delightful repertoire; and fighting for my disability benefits has been even more fun than wildfires, muscle spasms, and a colonoscopy combined. But I’m not giving up on poor jinxed Book 18! It WILL get done. (Just not this month.)

TMI, Autocorrect; TMI!

/ Diane Henders / 52 Comments

This spring has been a bit… hectic.  I haven’t really had that many things on the go; it’s just that I haven’t had the time / energy / physical ability to do All The Things.  (Which is intensely annoying and stressful to a compulsive DIY-er like me.)  But it is what it is; and I’m trying my best to deal. Mostly I do okay, but…

On one of “those days”, I was running late. So I fired up a text to friends who were expecting me around 1:15:  “I’ll be there by 1:30 – I’m running a bit late.”

(Yes, I realize that texting complete sentences with correct spelling and punctuation makes me a Ridiculously Uptight Old Person.  So be it.)

Anyhow, I have a deep mistrust of technology and a near-pathological hatred of typos; so I re-read the message as my finger approached the Send button. And there it was:  “I’ll be there around 1:30 – I’m rubbing a boy.”

TMI, autocorrect; TMI! (For the record, “rubbing a boy” is not a phrase I’ve ever intentionally typed on my phone, so it was totally making that shit up.) Needless to say, I corrected the autocorrect before I sent the message. 

In this case, the consequences of sending the unaltered message wouldn’t have amounted to anything worse than lots of laughter and unmerciful ribbing, but it was a good reminder to check before I send.  (Unlike the time I emailed an interior design client reminding them of our upcoming inspection of their pubic areas.  Fortunately they saw the humour of the omitted ‘L’ in ‘public’.)

And in other news… I don’t find much humour in the media these days, but here’s a story from our local newspaper that made me laugh:  https://www.pqbnews.com/news/squawk-of-the-town-euro-seagull-screeching-contest-migrates-to-victoria-7987317.  What could be more fun than watching 60 people dressed as seagulls, squawking madly?

And here’s another joyful thing:  Despite my enforced neglect of the garden for the past couple of years, the miracle of spring blooms still happens!

What’s funny or beautiful in your world today?

Book 18 update: I’m on Chapter 25, and Aydan’s new partner just exhibited five completely different personas in under 90 minutes. That’s doing nothing for Aydan’s trust issues!

Baking With Flying Colours

/ Diane Henders / 14 Comments

When I look back at my earlier blog posts, a lot of them describe various ways I’ve embarrassed myself in public:  Butt sweat in plastic chairs, disintegrating shoes, food dangling from my hair, phantom glasses, shenanigans in the dentist’s chair… and the list goes on.

But not recently.  In fact, when I looked back at my blog archives, I discovered that it’s been nearly three whole years since I humiliated myself with a public striptease.

“Aha!” thought I.  “Maybe  I’m finally growing up.  Becoming suave and sophisticated and socially competen-” *record scratch*

Nope.  Apparently the only reason I haven’t embarrassed myself lately is that I haven’t gone out much.

A few weeks ago we were invited over to our friends’ place for dinner, and (congratulating myself on my grasp of social graces) I offered to bring dessert.  I was fairly sure I couldn’t screw it up – I’ve been successfully making chocolate cake since I was ten.

And I didn’t screw it up.  The cake was fine.  But…

I have never been a tidy cook.  And when rotating equipment is involved, things tend to get *ahem* a little sticky.  The blast radius for this cake was nothing out of the ordinary, though.   I assembled the cake, cleaned the kitchen, and then concluded the process with a personal wipe-down.  I was particularly proud of myself for noticing and removing a perfectly round chocolate “beauty spot” that actually looked quite natural on my cheek.

So later in the day we went out, had a delicious meal (including the raspberry chocolate cake) and a lovely evening; and I came home quietly patting myself on the back for not spilling anything or otherwise embarrassing myself.

Until I glanced in the mirror while I was brushing my teeth before bed.  (Wearing a different pair of glasses this time.)  And there it was:  A brilliant red dot of raspberry filling, centred between my brows like an edible bindi.

It must have been concealed by my glasses during my earlier cleanup.  And then I’d taken off the glasses and sallied forth, proudly wearing fruit filling on my forehead.

Nobody mentioned it all evening.  In fact, when I pointed it out to Hubby, he said he hadn’t even noticed it.  So either our friends are tactful people with iron self-control; or we’re all just getting too old to see properly without our glasses.  Either way, I’m calling it a win.

Has anybody else worn food as a fashion statement lately?  Please tell me I’m not the only one…

Book 18 update:  I’m on Chapter 25, and Aydan’s trying hard not to throttle her annoying new partner.  But he might know something critical about her past, so she’ll have to keep her irritation under control… at least for now.

Still Alive

/ Diane Henders / 22 Comments

I’m ba-a-a-ck!

Many thanks to everyone who checked in via comments and email to see if I’m still alive. I am. In fact, I finally feel as though I’m (dare I whisper the words?) *making progress*. It hasn’t been smooth, though.

I’ve always figured household appliances and electronics are not only sentient, but also conspiring to torment humans. So I wasn’t overly surprised when, not long after my laptop caught fire, my desktop computer ground to an error-ridden halt.

Since there was no actual threat to our lives this time, the desktop’s demise merely made me shrug. I spewed a few quiet profanities; but my heart wasn’t really in it. I only had to reload the operating system. I had a bare-metal system backup. No problem.

I fired up the restore program with confidence, and the computer cooperatively ran through the process. Then it popped up a message: “I restored everything just like you asked. Well, everything except the stuff I chewed into a garbled mess just for shits and giggles. Suck on that, meatbag! Hahahaha!!!” (Okay, I might be paraphrasing that message.)

The resulting blue screen offered a few options; but it was only taunting me. Every option pretended to do something just long enough to raise my hopes and waste my time, then it crashed back to the original BSOD. (That’s a geek acronym that stands for ‘Blue Screen of Death’; but if you were thinking it was an abbreviation for BASTARD SOD, well, close enough.)

Fortunately I had more backups. (Yes, I’m completely anal-retentive.)

So I got the desktop computer running again without losing data; but I lost a lot of time. And then it was my corporate yearend, and the black hole of bookkeeping and taxes sucked me down. I clawed my way free only a few weeks ago with my brain wrung out and twitching… just in time for all the last-minute Christmas baking and shopping and New Year’s socializing.

But I sneaked in a few precious hours between crises, so I did get some work done on the (hopefully not cursed) Book 18.

And here we are in a brand-new year. I’m not going to make any foolishly optimistic predictions, but I’m hoping for lots more productive writing time!

Happy New Year!

Book 18 update: I’m at the mid-point of the book, woohoo! Aydan has been demoted twice (in one day) and assigned to a new partner-in-charge who’s completely squirrelly; and she has less than 24 hours to find and save two innocent people from dismemberment and death… all while avoiding an assassin. Plus, Kane is hiding something and refuses to talk about it. Pretty much par for the course for Aydan, but suddenly my own life looks remarkably simple and trouble-free! 😉

Verbal Diarrhea

/ Diane Henders / 29 Comments

The other day I witnessed what was either one of the more inconsiderate behaviours I’ve seen in a while; or possibly a diabolically brilliant business strategy. I’m still not sure which it was, but either way I had to struggle to hold in my inappropriate laughter. (Because if I had let out the full-on-snorting belly-laugh the situation deserved, it would have made me just as rude as the original perpetrators. Life is complicated. But funny!)

Anyway:

Hubby and I had decided to try one of the local Chinese restaurants, and they offered a buffet. Buffets are my kryptonite, because they’re so expensive I feel as though I should eat enough to get my money’s worth. (Which is probably why they’re so expensive, but chicken/egg; whatever.) Anyhow, I resigned myself to the inevitable pain of an overfull belly, and threw myself at the food.

As I returned to our table with my first dish (a cup of yummy hot-and-sour soup), I tuned into the conversation at the table next to us. I’m not normally an eavesdropper; but even though I didn’t want to listen, I had to. And so did everybody else in our part of the restaurant. This couple didn’t seem to grasp the concept of volume control.

And what was the focus of their animated discussion, you ask? Well, what else: Their dog’s diarrhea. Thank you ever-so-much for that detailed description of mucus, blood, and shit.

I’ve been blessed with an ultra-high squeamishness threshold, so my appetite was unaffected. In fact, I had to clamp my lips together to prevent myself from snickering. (Which was a noble sacrifice: Hot-and-sour soup is hostile to sinuses.)

After stifling my initial snort of hilarity, I did my best to ignore the clueless pair. I figured that, like the unfortunate dog’s affliction, this too would pass.

But I was so wrong.

For the whole hour we were in the restaurant, their too-loud conversation never varied. It was funny initially, but then it just got weird. And as the weirdness registered with me, I started wondering why two people would discuss doggy diarrhea for an hour, ever; but especially while eating in public.

That’s when the giggles returned with a vengeance, because the only reason I could imagine was that they’d been hired by the restaurant owners to make buffet patrons lose their appetites. (I told you it was diabolical.)

I guess we’ll never know, but I’m tempted to go back on another Saturday night to see whether the poop-obsessed pair are there again.

But I’d better not. If they were performing again, I’d probably abandon what little maturity I possess and try to out-gross them. I’m pretty sure I could. At a long-ago party, I once recited a limerick so vile that grown men fled, leaving the beer keg behind. (I probably shouldn’t be proud of that.)

Anybody else overheard any *ahem* interesting conversations lately?

Book 18 update: So, you know how my laptop caught fire and I speculated that Book 18 was jinxed? Long story short: Yep, it’s jinxed. I’m still trying to get a new laptop set up.

Short story long:

After wasting an annoying amount of time shopping and deliberating, I bought a new laptop. I had it nearly set up and customized when I noticed heat building up in the case, right below where I rest my left hand when typing. A lot of heat. Too much heat to comfortably rest my hand there for more than a few minutes. Uh-oh. But I cautiously persisted… until the display started to vibrate and flash. DONE! Returned.

More shopping / deciding / ordering / unpacking / setting up the next candidate…

At which point Microsoft informed me that my MS Office had been activated too many times. Of course it had: The first laptop burned without giving me a chance to deactivate the software; and I was so annoyed with the overheating laptop that I didn’t think of deactivating the MS Office license before I wiped the machine and sent it back.

So now I have to decide whether to wrangle with Microsoft over license activations for ancient MS Office 2010 (a fool’s errand at best), risk file corruption by using a newer version of Office on my laptop while keeping the antique version on my PC, or spend an obscene amount of money for two licenses of the latest MS Office.

Or I could switch to LibreOffice, which is free but causes file corruption when saved repeatedly between MS Word and LO. (Sadly, I know this from personal experience.) So then I’d have to load LO on my PC, too; but I’d still need MS Office because I need Outlook to sync its calendar and contacts with my iPhone…

Argh!

Smarter Than A Cervid… Not.

/ Diane Henders / 25 Comments

Every now and then Mother Nature sticks a pin in my ego just to hear it pop.  Apparently this spring she decided I was getting too big for my britches, and her rebuke was swift and humiliating. So the story begins…

Here on Vancouver Island, deer are smug. They don’t even bother to stop grazing on your prized perennials until you get within 20 yards or so.  Then they look you square in the eye with an expression that clearly says, “Get lost.  You’re interrupting my meal.”  They’ll only move on (grudgingly) if you run at them, waving your arms and yelling.  Dumb deer. 

(I’m pretty sure Mother Nature snickered with evil anticipation when I uttered those words.)

We have an 8’ high pagewire fence to keep the deer out of our garden.  It works fine, unless a tree falls on it. So when I glanced out the window and spotted a deer chowing down on my tulips, I didn’t need three guesses to figure out what had happened.

That’s when I made my first mistake:  I charged outdoors yelling and waving my arms. And instead of fleeing via the open gate, the deer strolled away and vanished into the forest behind our house.  Hubby and I checked the fence line, and discovered where a giant tree had fallen and smashed the fence flat.

Then we made our second mistake:  We repaired the fence, assuming that the deer had departed via the same route it had arrived.  (They usually do.)

But no; this time we discovered we’d trapped the deer inside. 

That kicked off a gong show of ever-escalating attempts to evict the deer:  Purchasing a motion-activated trail camera; floundering through dense woods looking for deer shit and tracks; crashing around in said woods with air horns and whistles; getting the neighbours to bring over their dogs; installing a high-wattage yard light; and constructing an elaborate corn-baited trap against the gate, so we could open the gate and release the trapped deer outside the perimeter.

Each time I came up with a new ‘foolproof’ plan, I patted myself on the back for being smarter than a cervid. 

But each time, the deer outsmarted me.

At last, Mother Nature must have decided I was suitably chastened.  One morning I spotted hoofprints and disturbed ground near a low point in the fence (right beside our brilliant trap).  Apparently the deer had simply gotten bored and left.  In fact, there’s a pretty good chance that for a few days the deer was jumping the fence both ways: Coming in to snack on the corn bait and then departing without triggering the trap. Embarrassing.

But despite the revelation that I’m dumber than a deer, I’m still calling the episode a win: The deer is gone and hasn’t returned.

Kinda like my pride, actually…

Book 18 update: I’m on Chapter 22, and Aydan’s former enemy is suspiciously friendly. Aydan’s not buying it, but she has to play along… for now.

Twit-ish Bitch

/ Diane Henders / 33 Comments

After months of unusually mild weather, winter finally decided to kick our soft wimpy West-Coast rumps last week. The rest of Canada plunged into deep-freeze temperatures of -30°C to -50°C (-22°F to -58°F), and here on temperate Vancouver Island, we went down to -10°C (14°F).

But I really like to sit outside every morning and drink my tea. Most people would consider subzero temperatures a good reason to change that tradition, but I’m pig-headed dedicated.

Before I start this story, I should note that we live out in the boonies. Gunfire isn’t exactly usual but it happens, especially during hunting season. So it’s comforting to be able to identify firearms by the sound of the shot. The flat ‘bang’ of a distant shotgun doesn’t concern me much, but the ringing report of a rifle never fails to make me hurriedly estimate range and direction. 

Next point: Our nearest neighbours have dogs. One is a good watchdog that only barks when a potential intruder approaches. The other is a brainless twit that barks just because she likes to hear herself. 

(I’m probably judging the dog too harshly. She doesn’t bark all the time. The owners are good neighbours, responsible pet owners, and all-round nice people. They say the female barks whenever she can smell a bear. There are a LOT of bears around here and they don’t always hibernate, so it’s certainly possible.)

But regardless of whether the bitch is a twit or I’m just a crabby old bag (or both), the end result is the same: The barking sprees get annoying to the point where even I, who love animals and would never harm one, start harbouring dark fantasies about making the damn dog shut up.

So.

I was sitting out on my porch, wrapped in a blanket and sipping tea; and the idiot dog was barking her fool head off. After twenty minutes of steady barking, a sour thought flitted through my mind: “There’s nothing wrong with that dog that a bullet to the brain wouldn’t fix.”

A shot rang out. The dog fell abruptly silent. My subconscious snapped “.22 rifle, damn close!” 

Some silly part of me thought, “OMG, did I just do that with the awesome power of my mind?”

An instant later my smarter self realized, “Holy shit! Somebody just shot the neighbours’ dog!”

I scurried indoors and texted the neighbour, whilst keeping an eagle eye on the road just in case the continuing shots were coming my way.

The neighbour texted back with reassuring rapidity: Nothing to worry about; he’d just gotten a new .22 and was sighting it in. It hadn’t occurred to him that we’d even hear it at our place, since nobody in their right mind would be sitting outside in the cold. (He politely omitted the last part of that sentence.)

I drew a deep breath of relief and got on with my day. 

But… I haven’t heard the dog bark since then. Hmmm. Remind me to stay on good terms with that neighbour. Just in case.

*

P.S. Could you please answer three quick one-click questions? (Anonymously, of course.) Click here to go to the poll. Thanks for your help! 🙂

Book 18 update: I’m on Chapter 14, and Aydan and her co-workers are locking horns with their new boss after less than a day on the job. Even John is keeping his head down!

Wardrobe Dysfunction

/ Diane Henders / 31 Comments

I was tempted to title this post “Wardrobe Malfunction”, but my compulsive desire for accuracy prevented me: I haven’t (recently, anyway) flashed any inappropriate body parts to an unsuspecting audience. But my wardrobe is definitely function-impaired.

I’ve mentioned before that I hate dressing up, and my wardrobe reflects that. Fortunately, I don’t really care; except on the rare occasions (like last week) when I’m forced into it. Then I scurry into the time capsule that is my closet, and flip through its contents hoping that at least one of my ancient outfits will roughly correspond to the current fashions. This quest would be considerably less stressful if I were actually familiar with the current fashions; but that knowledge always eludes me.

For nearly any other ‘how-to’ instructions, YouTube is my first and last destination. But for fashion? Oh hell no.

You’d think that videos titled “Fall Fashion Trends for 2023” would be a slam-dunk, but as I studied the incomprehensible mishmash of tight / baggy / long / short / wide / narrow / unadorned / blingy / classic / holyshitwhat-is-she-wearing garments, the only conclusion I could draw was that “the current style” is “any style of clothing I’ve worn anytime within the past five decades, and then some”.

But I’ve lived long enough to know that can’t be true. In fact, the “current fashion” is “any clothing that looks like any style I’ve worn in the past five decades, but in fact has been bought within the past ten minutes at an outrageously inflated price”.

So I did what I always do: Grabbed one of my old standbys, and went out and had a good time anyway.

And to my shock, all my clothing performed faultlessly, and so did I. No embarrassing exposures. No sticky disintegrating shoes. No errant vegetables swinging in my hair. No food-flinging. No awkward hair-related twitching or squirming. Good Lord, could I finally be developing some social graces, or at least a minimal level of social competence?!? (Don’t answer that. I prefer to cling to my illusions.)

Anybody else want to join my fashion rebellion?

Book 18 progress: I’m on Chapter 12 and Aydan is having one of those days. She managed to escape charges for assault and breaking and entering; but indecent exposure and public intoxication are still a possibility…

Stand and Deliver

/ Diane Henders / 26 Comments

Hi everyone – Something weird is going on with WordPress this morning, and all my site settings are messed up. Please excuse the oddball appearance – WordPress is working on it!

*

Last year my doctor recommended that I get an Apple watch so I could track my heart rate while they investigated me for atrial fibrillation. It turned out that my cardiac issues were only temporary and my heart is just fine, which pleased me to no end. So the Apple watch had served its purpose after only a few months; and I had an expensive watch that I didn’t particularly want or need.

I’m a cheapskate, so my choices were a) sell the watch on Facebook marketplace at a ridiculous discount; or b) use the watch. I chose (b), because I’m so cheap that the idea of losing money on a sale was more repugnant than learning to use a watch with more features than every other device in my household combined.

At least some of those features are handy. Back in the good old days before I hurt my back, I would often spend 14-hour days at the computer. I got up for brief meal-and-bathroom breaks, but otherwise I was utterly absorbed by my screen. These days I still get absorbed by my screen, but only until my back or legs demand a new position. The watch’s regular reminders are a convenient way to make sure I stand up and move around before I get to the point where I can’t stand up and move around.

Sometimes, though, the watch’s smarmy little motivational messages annoy me, and its reminders baffle me. This watch has a GPS that knows where and how fast I walk, plus its sensors are supposed to be smart enough to detect if I’ve fallen or been in a car accident. So why does it remind me to stand up when I’m already using my standing desk? And why does it award me exercise points when I’m driving in my car? Does it really think I’m capable of sprinting at 100 km/hr for twenty minutes?

Best of all was the time I was perched on the throne in the bathroom and my watch sounded its happy little chime: “It’s time to stand up!”

I burst out laughing. Trust me, it was really not the time to stand up.

But I guess I’d have gotten a major butt-pucker if my watch actually knew what I was doing at that moment. Or worse, if it made a perky motivational comment about my *ahem* activities.

Hmmm, now I’m envisioning a whole new set of motivational messages for the Apple watch:

  • “Good job!”
  • “Just a little longer, and you’ll break your personal record!”
  • “Congratulations! You just achieved a perfect streak!”

Ew. Or maybe not.

What’s motivating you this week?

Book 18 update: I’m halfway through Chapter 9, and Aydan has just been reminded again of why she never wanted a career as a public servant.

More Kitchen Capers

/ Diane Henders / 31 Comments

I’m generally a competent cook and baker, but lately the culinary cockups have come thick and fast. As I noted in my previous post, it’s unclear whether my gastronomic gaffes are most frequently caused by:

  1. Following directions exactly;
  2. Not following directions exactly; or
  3. Completely ignoring the need for directions.

Example 1: Mozzarella cheese. I’ve never made cheese before, so I used my digital thermometer to keep the solution at precisely the correct temperature for exactly the times the recipe specified. And after several hours of hovering and stirring, submerging and manipulating as directed, my so-called “mozzarella” fell apart into little rubbery curds instead of stretching into the lovely elastic ball shown by the recipe. Clearly, the Cheese Gods weren’t smiling that day. (So I chucked the curds into a cheese mold and squished them together into a block. They tasted fine, but the texture was definitely not as advertised.)

Example 2: Soy Nuts. The recipe said to soak the soybeans overnight and then bake them at 350°F for twenty to forty minutes. At the forty-minute mark, I had a pan of hot squishy soybeans, not the crunchy brown goodies I wanted. After another hour in the oven, I had a weird mixture of crunchy brown goodies and pale leathery nuggets. They turned out okay after a stint in the dehydrator; but the recipe needed quite a bit of *ahem* adaptation.

Example 3: Raspberry Cream Cake. I admit it: There was no recipe. But it shouldn’t have been complicated: White cake, raspberry purée, buttercream frosting, whipped cream, and fresh raspberries. All I had to do was assemble it.

But my purée was a bit too thin, and the confectioner’s sugar that the internet recommended as a stabilizer actually liquified the whipped cream.

Hubby passed through the kitchen halfway through the doomed assembly process and recoiled at what was apparently the scene of a particularly messy murder. Crimson droplets seeped from the pale flesh of the decapitated cake-victim. Dismembered cake layers lay beside it, oozing raspberry blood. Globs of buttercream and splatters of runny whipped cream covered everything in the vicinity, including the floor and me.

Hubby hesitated. Then, diplomatic as always, he inquired, “Should I go out and buy more whipping cream?”

Ego-bruised but not beaten, I replied, “Nope. I have a plan!”

He shook his head with what I prefer to think of as respect (ha, ha) and wisely retreated.

Somewhat to my surprise, my plan actually worked. The cake turned out both pretty and delicious, although it was nothing like I had originally envisioned.

The final product. No crime-scene tape required.

And hey, despite my recent struggles, I have proof that the culinary gods do occasionally shower us with their grace. Remember my whining about Army-Surplus Smarties®? Well, either it’s sheer coincidence, or somebody was listening. I bought another batch of Smarties® and guess what?

They’ve fixed the colours! No more dismal army-surplus green, woohoo!

So I’m going to conveniently avoid the question of whether my latest escapades have been successes (they were tasty, after all) or failures (because nothing went as planned). Instead, I’ll simply classify the whole shebang as “miraculous”.

Any miracles in your world lately?

P.S. Sorry if the photos are gigantic. I set them to be medium-sized and WordPress complied. Then, about five minutes before I was ready to publish, it suddenly started displaying both photos full-sized, while still insisting they’re “medium”. *throws up hands*

Book 18 update: I’m on Chapter 8 and Aydan is chasing ghosts: One from the present and one from her past.