Beware The Sock Imps

June 3, 2015 / Diane Henders / 42 Comments

I’ve just realized socks are the handiwork of evil. Not big bad eat-your-soul-for-breakfast evil; but something smaller and more mischievous, like imps. Think about it: No other garment causes as much annoyance.

Okay, I know you’re shaking your head and mumbling, “Nuh-uh. There are worse things than socks.”

That’s very true. For example, most women and a large percentage of men believe female undergarments are the contrivances of Satan himself. Women know this because we have to wear them, and any man who’s tried to manipulate the devilish little hooks and clasps one-handed while simultaneously maintaining a suave distraction will surely agree.

But never mind that; we all know women’s underwear is Big Evil. I’m talking about little evil.

Sock evil.

It’s gotta be imps. Why else could you put an even number of socks into the wash but find an odd number after the cycle is complete? Either the imps steal socks out of washer/dryers or else they’re employed in the manufacturing process, knitting every second sock out of some water-soluble substance that looks identical to cotton. Then they weave in a time-delay spell so that only one sock will dissolve per load… each and every time.

That would also explain why, when I’ve bought twenty identical pairs of socks so I can match them up effortlessly, after several washings they don’t match anymore. Some are still white with their elastic crisp and intact while others are as gray and baggy as socks twice their age.

Or maybe imps sneak into my laundry basket and randomly snatch a sock to polish their impmobiles*. Then when the sock is thoroughly grubby they stretch its elastic out of shape and return it to the basket with spiteful little giggles.

And what about the fact that within ten minutes of buying new socks, at least half develop holes in the toes? While I am willing to consider the possibility that I either have freakish sabre-toes or a talent for selecting defective socks (or both), I’d swear that sometimes the holes appear before I’ve even worn the socks. So I can’t rule out the possibility of sock-nibbling imps in my drawers. (Yikes, that sounds both alarming and painful. I meant my dresser drawers.)

Or maybe the socks develop holes because the special dissolving fibres got clumped together in one place instead of being evenly distributed. A defective manufacturing defect, if you will. Imps probably aren’t great at quality control.

I’m pretty sure a misery-inducing spell is woven in during the manufacturing process, too. If you’ve ever worn socks inside winter boots, you know what I mean. Your socks can have elastic tops that rival tourniquets for tightness, but within ten steps the socks begin to creep down. And down. A block later, they’re bunched into a painful wad around your instep.

So you stop and take off the boot, which pulls off the sock, too, so you’re left balancing precariously with your bare-naked foot waving around in the 30-below air. Now you must retrieve the sock from inside the boot, pull on the sock, and reinsert your newly-clad foot in the boot; all without falling into a snowbank.

And regardless of whether you fail or succeed, you know you’ll have to do it again in another block.

Malicious sock imps. They’re the only logical answer.

*Yes, imps own vehicles. How else can you explain the AMC Gremlin?

I’m Such A Snotty Princess

May 20, 2015May 20, 2015 / Diane Henders / 42 Comments

Hubby brought home a cold last week. As I mentioned several years ago, we generally don’t share viruses because I’m probably a Neanderthal, but this one seems to have targeted the weaker homo sapiens part of my genetic makeup.

Right now I’m at the stage where my throat and lungs are on fire but I’m not coughing yet. I’m still clinging to the idiot hope that maybe the Rhinovirus Fairy will pass me by instead of scooping out my brain and replacing it with snot.

But I think she (or ‘he’, to be fair) has already begun the process, because in the last few days I’ve developed a disturbing tendency to shuffle to a halt and stand staring into space for several seconds before saying, “Come on, brain, you can do this!” aloud. It seems to work – I usually remember what I was trying to do, but it tends to draw wary looks if I do it outside the privacy of my home.

Meanwhile, I’m sucking on zinc/echinacea/Vitamin C lozenges and drinking hot lime juice with honey. (I prefer lime instead of the traditional lemon because then I can pretend I’m drinking a hot margarita instead of a medicinal beverage.) I don’t expect this to cure or in any way improve my cold, but at least it gives me something to do while I wait.

When I sat down to write this post I racked my virus-laden brain for something funny to say about the common cold, but you know what? I got nothin’. Colds suck. Or rather, blow. Great soggy snot-balls.

So instead, here are a few things that made me laugh this week:

My blogging buddy Carl D’Agostino’s cartoon: https://carldagostino.wordpress.com/2015/05/18/compulsive-behavior-by-carl-dagostino/

My nephew’s comment about men’s locker rooms: “Yep, no matter which way you turn, you’re gonna see something you really didn’t want to see.” That reminded us both of this comic from The Oatmeal and made us laugh uproariously. (Scroll down to the bottom of The Oatmeal’s page for the one about the locker room.)

Then there’s this picture sent to me by one of my readers, Sue W., because she saw it on Facebook and knew it would make me laugh. (The misspelling of ‘potato’ is neither hers nor mine.)

That’ll make you think twice about digging in the garden…

I’m hoping the person who wrote the caption meant ‘love this’ in the philosophical sense, not the physical. But probably only my mind would ever latch onto that critical distinction.

This Twitter message was laughable because it was such a lame attempt at marketing from somebody who clearly knows me… wait for it… NOT AT ALL:

Totally me. Not.

Let me count the ways this made me laugh:

They clearly put so much time and effort into crafting their marketing message. Ten seconds with Google Translate might have helped.
It’s pink. Anybody who knows me (even slightly) knows that I’ve never in my life worn or even owned anything pink.
It has a princess crown on it. Is there anything about me that could in any way be construed as princess-like?
It has a cutesy heart on it. I’m totally gonna wear this with my biking leathers and flaming-skull helmet.
And hell yeah, I’m going to click on a random link sent by some spammer just because the T-shirt has my first name on it. Nice try, guys. But thanks for the laughs.

What made you chuckle this week? And/or what’s your favourite cold remedy?

A Super Pickle Tickle

May 13, 2015 / Diane Henders / 25 Comments

Last week I asked if anybody else was harbouring unusual mementos in their home. My blogging buddy Carrie Rubin stepped up to the plate (pun intended) with her Super Pickle, and kindly offered to let me use him in a blog post:

Super Pickle in all his glory.

That reminded me of yet another oddball item in my house: a leering wooden zucchini.

Quite a bit more disturbing than Super Pickle.

Needless to say, the comic possibilities were endless for a woman of my twisted imagination. So many phallic vegetables, so few words allotted to a single blog post…

I considered writing a flash-fiction zucchini-on-pickle romance. After all, Super Pickle wears his rainbow tights with such pride and panache. But he’s so innocently goofy and endearing, I couldn’t bring myself to roll out any hide-the-pickle jokes.

If I was only writing about my freaky double-jointed zucchini I’d go for it without hesitation, because let’s face it: that deranged smile that could mean anything from an invitation for acts better left undescribed to an offer of cake made with his own pulverised progeny. (Mmm, and now I’m hungry for zucchini cake.)

In any case, I’d never tweak a pickle without knowing its background, so more research was required. I vaguely remember Super Pickle from decades ago, but I guess I was living under a rock in the 70s and 80s because I had to go and look him up on the internet to see what he was all about.

I did that with much trepidation, cringing at the thought of finding photos that might defile my virginal eyeballs when I searched for “super pickle”. Much to my disappointment surprise, everything came up absolutely clean. Either somebody has sneakily installed a content filter on my computer, or Super Pickle is beyond reproach.

And he’s still popular. I even came across a fan forum where people described their attachments to Super Pickle and their ongoing search for Super Pickle toys: http://www.inthe80s.com/toys/superpickle.shtml. Carrie, there’s a retail opportunity for you!

Anyway, in the end I discovered that Super Pickle had his beginnings as the star of a 1972 children’s pop-up book so, considering his G-rated origins, any off-colour references on my part would be totally inappropriate. Which, by an amazing coincidence, is the title of my last blog compilation; but still. Out of respect for Super Pickle, I’m going to defy the almost-irresistible compulsion to make a crack about pop-up pickles.

Instead, I’ll leave you with a pickle-related joke:

Chatting over the fence with her neighbour one day, a woman remarks on the tomatoes in his garden. “They’re so ripe already,” she marvels. “How do you always get the first red tomatoes on the block?”

He leans closer to whisper, “I have a secret. Every night after everybody else is in bed I sneak out to the garden wearing a trench coat and nothing else. I flash the tomatoes and they blush red! You should try it with your garden.”

Inspired, the woman follows his advice. A week later they’re chatting over the fence again and her neighbour inquires, “So how are your tomatoes?”

“Well, they’re still nothing special. But you should see the size of the cucumbers!”

See you in the produce department! (I’ll be the one eyeing the cucumbers and snickering.)

It’s The Cat’s Ass!

May 6, 2015 / Diane Henders / 45 Comments

Last year I mentioned that my home is a repository for creepy and disturbing items. But I also have a number of things that aren’t exactly creepy, but nevertheless indicate to the world that the inhabitants of this house are just not quite… normal.

For instance, there’s this:

Yes, that is a cat’s-ass fridge magnet.

There is, of course, a story behind (pun intended) this.

Our family has always loved cats. I had cats for a couple of decades; my step-mom has a cat; and after being feline-free for quite a while, my sister got an adorable little orange tabby christened Phoebe several years ago.

Phoebe is lovely, but, like all cats, she’s fond of mooning. Especially as a kitten she loved to get her butt right up in my brother-in-law’s face, much to his vociferous disapproval. So when I discovered a package of fridge magnets shaped like cats’ asses, I had to buy them for him as a gag gift for Christmas that year. He duly gagged when he opened them, there was much hilarity, and then I got distracted by cooking and visiting and thought no more about it.

Until everybody left and I discovered the Siamese ass, the rudest one of the bunch, stuck to my fridge.

I laughed (yes, I have to say it) my ass off.

The cat’s-ass magnet subsequently became a family joke, and at one point my then-teenage niece got creative with my one of my other fridge magnets:

Is that modesty or lasciviousness?

Anyway, years passed and I had pretty much stopped noticing the cat’s ass, until my nephew and his wife visited with their kids last Christmas. Aged seven and four, the kids investigated the house and then joined us in the kitchen. I was yakking with the adults and didn’t notice what was going on until a little voice spoke up.

“Excuse me.” (These kids are polite.) “What’s that?” A little finger points up at the fateful magnet. Two wide-eyed stares fix on my face.

“What do you think it is?”

Nothing but silence and round eyes. They know damn well what it is, but there’s no way they’re going to say it to a strange adult (and I’m as strange as they come).

I can’t help cracking (sorry) a smile. “It’s a cat bum.”

Squeals of delight. “A bum! It’s a cat bum!” Giggle-giggle-giggle!

But after they left I stopped paying attention to the magnet again, except to glance at it occasionally and grin at the memories.

Until last night.

Phone rings. It’s my sister. Laughing her ass off.

Her: “Guess what I just got! 3D cat butts!”

Me: “Wha…?”

Her: “3D cat butts!”

And she sent me a picture:

Yes. Yes, those are 3D cat butts.

Apparently a co-worker had found this package of fridge magnets and bought them for her, without even knowing the family folklore.

And so another round of tradition begins. Some families treasure special china or heirloom jewellery. We bond over cat asses.

Any oddball heirlooms or traditions in your family?

Beetle Chips And Other Stories

April 22, 2015 / Diane Henders / 40 Comments

I was probably too young to remember when my mother admonished me not to eat bugs, but I’m sure she must have. I really would have preferred to follow her advice.

I realize there are some parts of the world where bugs are, if not delicacies, at least a dietary staple. Even here in Canada I’ve seen cricket lollipops and chocolate-covered grasshoppers, but I’ve never tried them. Hell, I grew up on the prairies. Once you’ve smelled the stomach-churning scent of grasshopper guts slowly barbequing on a hot engine and seen a 12” worm squeeze out of a cricket’s butt, you’re pretty much over the idea of eating grasshoppers and crickets.

Which makes the accidental ingestion of bugs that much more revolting to me. I’ve never experienced the clichéd ‘bite into an apple and find half a worm’, thank goodness. But I’ve come perilously close to devouring a couple of giant shiny black beetles.

Okay, they weren’t exactly ‘giant’ – they were probably only about an inch long. But still. That’s pretty-damn-big when we’re talking about bugs in food.

Once I was absently munching chips while reading. I don’t know what made me look into the bag at precisely the right instant, but there it was: a big black beetle lying belly-up and tastily coated in sour-cream-and-onion powder. My next mouthful would’ve had a very odd taste indeed.

Then I remembered I’d taken that bag of chips on a camping trip the week before, and apparently I’d picked up a hitchhiker. At least he died happy, surrounded by more food than he could ever eat. But I carefully avoided thinking about what he might have left behind on the chips.

Another time I was startled by exactly the same type of black beetle scuttling out of a peach pit as I cut the peach open. Fortunately I hadn’t bitten into the peach, or I’d have gotten a squirmy mouthful.

And I’m an authority on squirmy mouthfuls, after the time I drank from a garden hose and ended up with a large spider crawling across my tongue. That cured me of drinking from the garden hose without letting it run for a while first.

I’m sure I’ve eaten my fair share of carrot maggots – they’re exactly the same colour as carrots, and I’d eaten quite a few carrots before I realized what was causing those itty-bitty tunnels. And I’ve definitely had my fill of gnats or whatever those bugs are that hover in giant clouds over the road. If you’re on a bike or even walking fast, there’s just no way to avoid them short of suicidal evasive action.

All this was brought to my mind a few weeks ago when I bolted awake in the middle of the night. As I’ve mentioned before, it doesn’t take much to make me do that, but this time it wasn’t a false alarm. Something was definitely wrong.

Then I realized there was a funny taste in my mouth. And there had been a lot of fruit flies around…

Anybody else got bug stories? Have you ever intentionally eaten bugs?

Random Thoughts From A Fried Brain

April 15, 2015 / Diane Henders / 20 Comments

I’ve been completely immersed in changing over all my domains to a new hosting provider this week. It was an immensely complicated and time-consuming affair, fraught with stress over recreating four websites and about 50 email accounts without losing any connections or having any website downtime. Somewhat to my own surprise I emerged victorious yesterday, and I still even have most of my hair. Enough to hide the places where I yanked chunks out, anyway.

Unfortunately, I don’t have enough remaining brainpower to create any kind of intelligible blog post. So instead of failing in the attempt, I’m going to offer a few random thoughts from this week and tack a cartoon on the end.

Here goes:

The only thing that differentiates me from a garden-variety nutjob is the fact that instead of following orders from the voices in my head, I write them down and call them fiction.
You know how in the movies the tough guys always say, “Awright, you wanna do this the easy way or the hard way?” Does anybody ever say, “Ooh, ooh, let’s do it the hard way!”
Ever notice how, with computers, the “easy way” is indistinguishable from the “hard way”? And if you cynically attempt a harder way because you already know the easy way is a disaster… well, that way lies madness.
Computers contain advanced sensors capable of determining the exact amount of stress hormones in your system. When a preset level is attained, the computer will automatically crash. If your stress levels continue to escalate, it will develop a catastrophic problem that requires a minimum of a full day’s pissing around to fix.
The above also applies to smartphones.
Regardless of the amount of work to be done, the work always expands to fill the time available… plus an hour.
The fastest way to get attentive customer service is to tell them to cancel your account.
Two lies don’t make a truth, but three or more lies make a sales brochure.

And I’ll leave you with this:

Automotive Heaven Can Wait

April 8, 2015 / Diane Henders / 39 Comments

Last week I was in automotive heaven… and it turned out to be more of a pain in the butt than I’d anticipated.

Rick and Sandy (of Hand Crafted Images) and I were doing the photographs for Book 2’s updated cover. Car buffs may recall that Aydan drooled over an Audi R8 in THE SPY IS CAST, and wonder of wonders, I got up-close-and-personal with a real R8 this week thanks to the generosity of Doug S. and the staff at Glenmore Audi.

As with most undertakings that involve me, there was inappropriate laughter.

The dealership is a pristine building featuring bright white ceilings and sleek grey floors. Other cars were scattered throughout the showroom, but two Quattros crouched protectively beside the R8, their feral headlight configurations watching us like predatory beasts.

Yes, I was slightly intimidated.

At first we trod reverently around the R8, not approaching it too closely so our heated and unsteady breathing wouldn’t fog its gleaming paint.

We were completely freaked out at the thought of being close enough to damage an automobile that costs more than twice what I paid for my first house. We checked and re-checked the tripods that held the backdrop, cringing at visions of the metal poles toppling onto the car.

At last we had the backdrops in place and the moment of truth arrived: It was time to unlock the car.

Then I would strip down to my ignominious outfit of stiletto heels and gym shorts (because I didn’t want to wear a skirt and accidentally emulate the Basic Instinct leg-crossing scene) and… yes… I would actually sit in the driver’s seat.

That’s where the giggles started. In the first place, a woman wearing makeup, gym shorts, and stiletto heels just looks ridiculous.

Also, this woman wearing stiletto heels looks slightly ridiculous anyway. The R8 tops out at four feet. In heels, I’m 6’-2”. I towered over the car (and everybody else in the dealership).

The next issue was that the stilettos give me a 38” inseam. Try stuffing those long legs into a car while holding your breath in case a lethal heel scratches something that costs more than your entire car. But I managed.

In short order, the next issue surfaced. The R8’s seats are set in quite far from the exterior body panels. If I sat in the driver’s seat, my legs barely made it out of the car. To get the shot we wanted, I’d have to perch on the rocker panel.

For the record, the R8’s rocker panels are not designed to comfortably accommodate a human ass. (Nor a human posterior, for that matter.)

It got worse. On the original cover, the model’s lips are parted. It looks as though she’s pronouncing the letter ‘D’, and it’s supposed to look pouty or sensuous or something.

My pout looked more like ‘Duh’. I stared vacantly into space, slack-lipped and clutching a cardboard cutout of a Glock. I only managed a few minutes of that before dissolving into helpless laughter. Thank you, Sandy and Rick, for your infinite patience!

But at last we packed up the equipment and vacated the premises with relief, leaving the fabulous car unscathed. (Which was more than I could say for my aching ass.)

It was only afterward I realized that my butt was the only part of me that ever touched the car. I never even put my hands on the steering wheel.

I guess I’m just not cut out for automotive heaven.

* * *

P.S. Unedited proofs are always good for a chuckle. Note my alter-ego in the reflection beside me:

My inner werewolf sneaks out when I least expect it…

Dental Daftness

April 1, 2015April 1, 2015 / Diane Henders / 24 Comments

So I went to the dentist this week…

Wait, don’t run away! If you get the willies just thinking about dental procedures, I promise I’m not going to describe any scary stuff. But I did manage to look foolish and give myself the giggles.

You’d think the scope for embarrassment would be relatively limited at a dentist’s office. You walk in, sit down, let them do whatever needs to be done, pay, and leave. Short of performing a spectacular pratfall on the way to the chair (and I didn’t), it’s a pretty predictable experience.

Going to the dentist isn’t a big deal for me. My teeth are good, and my dentist is excellent and super-nice to boot. But it turned out that my favourite dental hygienist had moved away so I was assigned a new one.

I don’t know whether I was adjusting to his unfamiliar technique or just having a particularly brain-dead day, but the way I carried on you’d think I’d never had my teeth cleaned before.

First there was the obligatory round of small talk with his fingers jammed in my mouth. I’m pretty sure both restaurant waitstaff and dental hygienists attend secret training courses so they can pinpoint the exact moment their mark’s client’s mouth is stuffed as full as possible. Then it becomes a sporting event to ask a question and watch, completely straight-faced, while the mark client struggles to respond intelligibly.

This guy was good. He didn’t even crack a smile while I mumbled stuff even I couldn’t decipher. Then he started the cleaning, with its usual routine of rinse-and-suction.

And I damn near drowned myself.

I drooled, sputtered, and almost sucked the side of my own face off with the suction tube. My bib was soaked, and fortunately he’d given me a tissue because I tipped my head a little too far and water ran out the corner of my mouth and into my right ear. Then I coughed up a gout of water that sprinkled my goggles and dampened the back of my collar before I could catch the waterfall with my tissue.

That made me giggle and try to say, “Geez, I didn’t think I needed another shower today”, but since I still had a small amount of water plus a couple of his fingers in my mouth, it came out as rhythmic gurgling and eruptions that made me look as though I was trying to emulate the fountains at Bellagio. (Though I’m pretty sure my version of fountain choreography will never succeed as a tourist attraction.)

But if there was a video camera hidden in the ceiling and if I’m right about the secret sporting society, my hygienist will be taking a bow at their awards dinner this year.

Well played, my friend. Well played.

* * *

P.S. Any time I think of dentists, I have a giggle at the old joke about the guy who’s at the dentist. The dentist gets out the drill and the guy reaches over, grabs the dentist by the balls, and says, “We wouldn’t want to hurt each other, would we, Doc?”

I Fear The Eagle

March 25, 2015March 25, 2015 / Diane Henders / 37 Comments

I don’t know why, but the Internal Revenue Service strikes fear into my heart. It’s weird. I mean, hell, I’m Canadian. I have a justifiable wariness toward the Canada Revenue Agency, but the IRS shouldn’t even be on my radar, right?

Wrong.

Maybe it’s because of my innate problem with authority figures. Maybe it’s just from watching too much U.S. television during my misspent youth, or maybe it’s the fact that the eagle in their logo issues a subliminal promise to cheerfully rip out my entrails and snack on them. For whatever reason, the IRS scares me worse than the CRA.

This wouldn’t be a problem if, like most Canadians, I never had to deal with the IRS. But when I published my books, I began to receive royalties from none other than the U. S. of A. Which meant I had to creep out of my comfort zone and confront The Eagle.

Navigating the government forms didn’t bother me – after years of dealing with legal contracts and business documents, the red tape felt comfortingly familiar. But then, completed forms in hand, I had to actually phone the dreaded IRS.

Knees knocking, mouth dry, I dialled with a trembling hand.

When the agent answered I nearly hung up in a funk. Unlike CRA agents who answer with their first names, IRS agents identify themselves with intimidating formality as ‘Ms./Mr. LastNameOnly’, and then they spew out a big scary-sounding number.

When I managed to summon my voice and explain what I needed, Miss Weebles turned out to be efficient, friendly, and helpful despite her long scary number. My questions were answered, my account was quickly set up, and I hung up thinking, “It can’t be that easy.”

But apparently it was. Several years passed without incident and I gradually overcame the fear that the IRS was lurking around the corner waiting to swoop down and gut me.

Then last week I had a terrifying thought: I’ve never filed a US tax return. I don’t owe anything since I pay income tax on my royalties to the Canadian government, but here in Canada you still have to file a return every year even if you don’t owe anything. What if the IRS required that, too?

Ohmigod. The IRS was finally going to get me.

Cue up the telephone scene again, with me looking even more scared than before.

I got a male agent this time, which somehow seemed more ominous. Mr. Hartman snapped out his name and his long scary number and I nearly fainted before managing to stammer out my question.

And everything was fine. Miss Weebles had done a bang-up job, everything was in order, and I don’t need to file US tax returns. Mr. Hartman was pleasant and friendly. He even joked a bit and was kind enough to ask about my books.

I hung up the phone with a feeling of unreality. Has my fear been completely unwarranted all these years? Or is the IRS just lulling me into a false sense of security before they unleash The Eagle?

Or am I just a paranoid freak? (Never mind; don’t answer that.)

* * *

P.S. The new cover art is ready for Book 1! At first glance it looks the same, which is what I wanted… but it’s all in the details. Now it’s a middle-aged woman, the gun is actually a Glock (though not the correct Glock 26 because it’s prohibited in Canada), and I own the images. No more stock photos, woohoo! It’s a slow process, but I hope the cover art will be updated for all the books within the next couple of months. Here’s the new Never Say Spy cover:

Rude Awakenings

March 11, 2015 / Diane Henders / 25 Comments

My husband deserves a medal. Not just for putting up with me on a daily basis (which in itself is medal-worthy), but for daring to sleep in the same bed as me. That’s an undertaking for none but a brave man.

I sleep well, but lightly. Some little corner of my subconscious always has an ear open, and my entire body is ready to leap awake at the slightest provocation. This is a problem, because there are lots of slight provocations during the night.

Dreams, for example. Depending on their content, it’s entirely possible that I might kick, punch, scream, or laugh myself awake. The laughing dreams are the best – I dream of something so hilarious that I’m laughing my ass off in my dream, only to wake with a guffaw. The kicking and punching dreams are another matter. I haven’t made contact with Hubby yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

I’ve farted myself awake, too. There’s nothing worse than bolting up in bed in the middle of the night thinking, “Ohmigod, something just came out of my ass! Did I just shit the bed?” (BTW, I never have. Just sayin’.)

Back when I had cats, I frequently woke up already on my feet and halfway out the bedroom door, dashing toward a location pinpointed in my ever-alert brain by the sound of a cat horking up a hairball.

I wake at the slightest noise from our back alley, which is annoying because there’s a green space near us and people, especially teenagers coming back from parties in the wee hours, tend to walk and talk boisterously there. I’d swear those voices are coming from just beyond the foot of the bed.

But the most dangerous situation for Hubby is this: sometimes I snore. That puts him in the unenviable position of trying to rouse me enough to make me stop snoring without actually waking me. It’s a losing battle.

The other night I lurched up in bed with a yell, eyes wide and fists clenched. Hubby recoiled. “I just barely whispered your name,” he explained. “I only wanted you to stop snoring.”

Clutching my chest over my hammering heart, I snapped, “Well, it worked!”

But the rudest awakening I’ve ever had was years ago when I was living alone. I owned a little two-storey crackerbox of a house with no air conditioning. There was a giant poplar tree in the back yard, which was great because I could leave the second-floor bedroom window and curtains open at night to get a breeze without worrying about privacy.

I was blissfully asleep one night when a hellish racket and a glare of brilliant light rocketed me out of bed to find the police helicopter hovering with its spotlight trained on my back yard.

That was seriously disturbing because it meant they were looking for a criminal and s/he was too close to my house for comfort; but equally disturbing was the fact that they were looking in my bedroom window with a spotlight bright enough to reveal every detail of my birthday suit.

I think that was around the time I started keeping a set of clothes within reach of the bed…

What was your rudest awakening?