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!
Humour
Alien Butt Sensors
They’re invisible, but I know they’re there.
I’m not sure how or when they were installed, but there are hidden pressure sensors under every toilet seat in the house, as well as on my office chair. It’s the only possible explanation.
I can’t count the number of times I’ve just nicely settled myself on the throne when the phone rings. In fact, it happens so frequently that it’s a standing (sorry, couldn’t resist) joke with one of my friends. She calls; I’m in the bathroom.
Every. Single. Time.
This makes it sound as though a) I have continence problems and therefore spend a considerable amount of time ensconced in the holy of holies; or b) she phones me far too often.
Neither is true. I won’t lower myself (sorry again) to discussing my bathroom habits here, other than to say: normal. And it’s rare for her to phone me more than once a week.
So I’m convinced that she somehow knows when I’m in the john.
It’s far too creepy to consider that she might actually be the culprit responsible for the butt sensors, so I prefer to believe they were installed by some advanced alien race that is capable of invisibility and possesses both the technology to broadcast telepathic signals of unlimited range, and the malevolence to torture me by broadcasting “Phone Diane” every time I shit… er, sit.
And the bastards didn’t stop with the toilet seats, either.
The sensor on my office chair is an extremely specialized model; probably some advanced prototype they’re developing exclusively for sales to telemarketers, politicians, and meddling relatives.
It doesn’t just register pressure and react the way the toilet-seat model does. No, this one is far more diabolical.
It also taps into my brainwaves.
It doesn’t react when I’m doing something boring and tedious and I’d love to be interrupted. Oh, hell no. I can spend all bloody day writing computer training workbooks with nary a peep, but within ten seconds of achieving the zen-like bliss of uninterrupted writing … I’ll be interrupted.
It’s obviously programmed with a complicated algorithm that constantly sifts through the detritus of my mind, measuring my exact degree of concentration and commitment to the task at hand. When I achieve some critical pre-determined level, the butt sensor psychically broadcasts “Interrupt Diane using any method necessary, immediately”.
Phone calls are easiest, but in a pinch they’ll induce Hubby to choose that exact moment to ask a not-very-important but time-consuming question. Or the courier will show up with delivery that needs a signature. A sudden loud noise and/or cry of distress from somewhere in the house is always a winner. Or there’s the tried-and-true method of having somebody crash into my parked
half-ton and ring the doorbell to report the accident.
That may sound far-fetched, but don’t laugh – it’s happened five times. I don’t know how anyone can fail to see a big red truck in their rear-view mirror, so the aliens must make my truck momentarily invisible, too.
I guess it could be worse. In the big picture, interruptions are only an annoyance. At least the aliens don’t seem interested in my body cavities.
Unless there’s something about those butt sensors that I really don’t want to know about…
I’ll Tell You What’s Normal…
I spend my days skating on the edge of normalcy. So far I’ve been able to avoid unwelcome attention, but that’s due more to good luck than good management. I can get away with my quirks as long as I live in a nice neighbourhood and shower frequently, but put me on a park bench after a hard workout, and somebody’s gonna call the loony-catchers.
This was brought home to me the other day when Hubby was driving and I was sitting in the passenger seat writing dialogue in my head as usual. He glanced over and said, “Writing again, aren’t you?”
I shook myself back to reality and asked, “How did you know?”
“Easy. You had that thousand-yard stare.”
I have what I prefer to call an “expressive” face. What this really means is that there’s a near-one-hundred-percent probability that if someone snaps a picture, I’ll look moronic. Sometimes when I’m absorbed in planning or writing a particularly intense scene, I can feel my face twisting into expressions of fear, anger, or whatever.
Add that to the fact that I almost never know the date and often take two tries to correctly identify the day of the week, and I’m concerned that if I ever get hospitalized and asked orientation questions, they’ll lock me up permanently.
So in the interests of retaining my freedom, I decided it might be smart to write a short primer on what constitutes normal behaviour for me. At least it’ll provide a basis for the authorities to shrug and say, “Yeah, she’s always been like that. We probably don’t need to lock her up yet.”
So here goes:
- It is normal for me not to know the day/date. If I’m travelling, I may not always get the city/province right on the first try, either.
- It is normal for me to lapse into an apparently catatonic state during which my eye movements mimic REM sleep and my face assumes various inappropriate expressions. It’s also normal for me to be irritated when summarily roused from this state.
- It is normal for me to suddenly and inexplicably groan, slap my forehead, and rush to my office to type madly for minutes or hours. This may happen at any time of the day or night, and includes bolting upright out of an apparently sound sleep and scurrying away to type in the wee hours.
With hallmarks like these, it may be difficult to determine what is abnormal behaviour for me, so here’s a handy list of danger signs.
I need professional help if:
- I turn down the opportunity to go to a nice restaurant or a blues jam or a drag race.
- I fail to fondle fabric when walking through a fabric store.
- There’s a garden available and I don’t plant something.
- I take my car in for an oil change instead of doing it myself.
- I don’t bake when it’s cloudy/raining/snowing… unless I’m reading or writing (those activities trump baking).
- I pass up an opportunity to shoot a handgun, rifle, shotgun, bow, slingshot, or any other projectile weapon.
- I walk past an unassembled jigsaw puzzle.
- I don’t dissolve into a revolting pile of sappy mush at the sight of kittens.
- I spill beer. That’s a danger sign in itself, but if I don’t show extreme remorse afterward, it’s already too late – I’m beyond help.
What are your danger signs?
The Happy Hoer
As I mentioned a couple of years ago, I’m a hoer. Very few people are willing to discuss this lifestyle openly and fewer still can comprehend enjoying it, but as you probably know by now, I’m a freak. I love being a hoer.
Last week found me sweating in the hot sun at the side of the road, waving at passing cars as usual. And I’m not ashamed to admit I’ll be doing it all summer long, as often as I can. It’s a way of life for me.
But simply waving at cars seemed a little too passive, so I added pole-dancing to my repertoire just to attract a little more attention.
It was not a pretty sight.
If you’ve been following my Facebook page, you’ll know we spread approximately 10,000 pounds of compost and peat on our big vegetable garden about a month ago. Hoeing in that beautiful, fluffy soil is pure joy. Thanks to some perfectly-timed rain, almost everything has germinated, and last week it was time to put up the trellises for my snap peas and scarlet runner beans.
Since snow is unlikely (though not unheard-of) for the next couple of months, we use our snow-fence stakes to support the trellises.
(For those in warmer climates, snow fences are flexible fencing made of slats or perforated plastic and supported by six- to eight-foot-tall iron stakes pounded into the ground. During the winter the fences control drifting snow by breaking the wind slightly, which causes snow to swirl and collect on the lee side of the fence.)
If you’ve ever tried to swing a 2½ pound hand sledge over your head hard enough to drive in a tall and heavy iron stake, you’ll see the difficulty here. So, thanks to my nice soft soil, I push the stakes in first so I can reach them more comfortably with the sledge hammer.
It takes a lot of pressure to push those stakes in. Fortunately, I’m no lightweight. Put 155 pounds behind an iron stake, and it’s going somewhere… though not necessarily where you want it.
So there I am, hanging off the top of the stake with my legs drawn up to make sure I’ve got all my weight on it.
A car drives by, catching me in the act, and I start to giggle. This does not improve my balance or coordination.
No, I didn’t fall on my ass. That would have been decorous.
Instead I flailed my legs madly to maintain my balance without letting the stake topple. And I laughed harder.
Then I realized how I must look, and I lost it completely.
Since I’m apparently quite allergic to dignity, I decided this was too funny not to share. So, I give you: The Happy Hoer. (Yes, snow-fence posts are ribbed with iron protrusions every couple of inches. I’m not sure why, but I can only surmise it’s “for greater sensation”.)
We’re All Free! And Naked!
Peer pressure is a terrible thing. I’ve been successfully resisting it for months, but my resolve has slowly eroded under the relentless burden of my readers’ expectations. So here it is; the post you’ve (apparently) all been waiting for: “We’re All Free! And Naked!”
Don’t look at me like that. Hell, I don’t know what I’m talking about, either.
“We’re all free! and naked!” has been the top search phrase that has brought people to my blog ever since I posted “We’re All Naked” back in January. (If you’ve just arrived here because you searched “We’re all free! and naked!”, I’ll apologize in advance – “We’re All Naked” does include a link to some mostly-obscured YouTube nudity, but unless you’re turned on by drunk hairy naked guys singing scatological lyrics, it’s probably not what you’re looking for.)
Back to the topic at hand: Since January, “We’re all free! and naked!” has brought people here four times more often than my next most popular search term (my name). And every week, the numbers keep going up.
I ignored the phenomenon for several months, afraid of what I might find if I delved into it too deeply. I assumed it was just a temporary aberration, but it’s still there. Still far and away the top search phrase that brings people to my blog.
When I finally gathered sufficient courage to search it myself, the search engines only returned a link to my own post, “We’re All Naked”. So what the hell is everybody looking for? I know I hold the dubious distinction of being the top search engine result for “Polar Bear Sex Club”, but at least I did actually use those words.
‘Free and naked’, not so much. But it’s gotta be something pretty specific. Even the punctuation is the same, over and over and over.
So if you got here by searching “We’re All Free! And Naked!”, I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. If you’re looking for nudie pictures, you’ll be sorely disappointed. (Though probably not as disappointed as if I’d actually posted some. Trust me, you don’t want to see that.)
My books have some hot scenes in them, but somehow I suspect that’s not what you’re looking for, either.
If you’re looking for support for a cause, I’m all for freedom and I have no particular objection to nudity, unless it’s my own nudity. In that case, I have to apply all sorts of caveats involving protection from sunshine, rain, snow, wind, bug bites, allergy-producing plants, prickly foliage, splintery wood, hot/cold/sharp objects, overly interested observers, and a plethora of other conditions that essentially limit my nudity to “indoors in privacy”.
Anyway, if you’re one of the folks who came looking for something else, and if you’re still reading, I’m sorry you didn’t find what you’re looking for. But welcome anyway. Who knows, if you look around here a bit, you might get a chuckle or two for your trouble.
And please tell me what you were really looking for. If that many people are searching for it, it must be good.
Hope you find it…
This Poop Requires Cultured Decoding
Yes, it’s that time again! I’ve mined the rich vein of entertainment that is my blog spam.
Earlier I noted that my spam seemed to be getting more hostile, but fortunately that trend has flatlined. Maybe they read my blog post and took my jibes to heart?
Nah, I know. Spammers never actually read anything, as this one admits: “I like to party, not look artilecs up online. You made it happen.” – Glad I could be of service, though it’s unclear whether I influenced his/her propensity for partying or looking up artilecs. But at least I’m good for something.
This spammer agrees: “Thank you for the auspicious writeup. It in fact was a amusement account it. Look advanced to far added agreeable from you! However, how could we communicate?” – All I can say is ‘How indeed?’
But it’s nice that they want to keep in touch. This spammer did, too: “Would you be fascinated by exchanging hyperlinks?” – Well, “fascinated” wouldn’t be my exact word…
But they’re encouraging: “If you keep up the great work I’ll visit your weblog again.” – Am I the only one who spots the logic problem here? How will they know if I’m keeping up the great work unless they visit again? What if they visit and I’m just spewing useless crap? (Well, more useless crap than usual.) Have they found a way to retroactively un-visit my blog? If they have, I hope they share, ‘cause there are a few experiences and visuals I’d love to be able to un-visit.
Like this one: “When you change the timing belt, dressed in pink with a pink Hermes leather on the playground…” – Wait, you guys have been spying on me, haven’t you? I knew I should have worn my black leather the last time I changed my timing belt. Pink shows the grease so badly.
And here’s more proof that I’m under surveillance: “You look absolutely stunning with your natural hair!” – Remind me to save my unnatural hair for Halloween and full moons.
Sometimes my spammers wax informative: “Not we are all born with a backbone but you can turn just one in”. – Good news for the spineless wimps of the world.
And speaking of good news, “The good news is, bonobos”. – Well, thank heaven! Without that knowledge, I just don’t know if I could have gone on.
But there’s more good news: “I have read so many articles or reviews on the topic of the blogger lovers…” – Wait, blogger lovers?!? We get groupies? Why haven’t I heard about this before? And where are mine? Please don’t tell me I’ve been missing out on major groupie action. I mean, seriously, we all know bloggers are the rock stars of the internet… um, the sex symbols of cyberspace… um… eh, never mind.
Some spammers look up to me as a valuable source of advice: “What Happens To A Boy If She Takes Viagra?” – Erm… I think we may have to start with the basics here. You see, there’s this thing called “gender”. Boys are “he”…
Which leads nicely into a discussion of the birds and the bees: “Your individual stuffs nice. All the time deal with it up!” – At least I think they’re referring to the birds and the bees. It certainly sounds suggestive.
But it’s hard to be sure. After all, as my latest visitor sagely observed, “This poop requires cultured decoding.”
And ain’t that the truth?
Sometimes Words Fail Me…
…and then I draw stick people.
This post is a prime example of the Little Guy With Pitchfork in action. The exchange went something like this:
Me: Time to write a blog post!
LGWP: You should draw a comic strip instead.
Me: I’m a writer, not a cartoonist.
LGWP: You can draw stick people. C’mon, it’ll be fun!
Me: Well… yeah… I can draw stick people… kinda… *yells* Little Guy With Wings! Where are you? I need you!
*distant sound of the theme song from Jeopardy*
LGWP: Ha! Don’t be such a wuss. I bet you’re too chicken to even try. (Note: The LGWP is a tricky little bastard, and he knows how to push my buttons – see Doin’ It On A Dare.)
Me: Why you little… I’ll show you! *grabs felt pen*
The trouble is, the LGWP is not only tricky, he’s frequently right. I do want cookies and popcorn. The house and the laundry do need attention. And there are only so many omelets you can eat because they’re easy to make at the last minute. (Though I did have a particularly yummy one last night, with bacon, zucchini, onions, peppers, salsa, and feta cheese…)
Anyway, it was fun drawing this strip, but it also took me about ten times as long as writing a regular blog post.
So where was my LGWW all this time? Drinking beer and watching Jeopardy, apparently. I never saw so much as a feather.
It’s so hard to get good help these days.
Does anybody else have an LGWP? Or a better LGWW than mine?
In Praise of Piss
*F-BOMB ALERT* – CONTAINS (more) COARSE LANGUAGE (than usual)
I’m a connoisseur of rude and vulgar language. I collect it, use it frequently, and occasionally dust off some of my truly one-of-a-kind pieces to lovingly share with the world.
Hey, everybody needs a hobby, right?
But I started thinking about the nature of obscenities the other day, and after considerable reflection, I just don’t get it.
Why do we designate certain words as “offensive”?
They’re just collections of syllables and sounds. I mean, normal phonetic sounds. I could understand it if there were swear words that included, say, fart sounds or something – those would be offensive. But there aren’t any words like that.
Though now I’m feeling inspired…
Back to my point: “Ay”; “ee”; “oo”; whatever; as long as you’re not including “pbphltttt” as a phonetic building block, they’re all pretty innocuous. We use them in millions of different sequences, so why should certain combinations make people blush/titter/freeze you with a look of outrage?
I know, I’m zooming past the obvious. It’s not the phonetic sound that offends, it’s the meaning behind it. I see how someone with strong religious views might have a problem with exclamations they consider blasphemous, so I’ll leave that topic aside for now.
But what about our good old Anglo-Saxon four-letter words? Shit, piss, fuck. These babies have been around for a long time. They’re short, simple words for perfectly natural body functions.
Why should “shit” be more offensive than “bowel movement”? Seriously, the words “bowel movement” make me cringe. And what about our other euphemisms? Drop a log, pinch a loaf, take a dump – they all sound pretty vulgar. By comparison, “shit” is quick and tidy.
Ditto “piss”. What’s so doggone special about the word “urine” that makes it somehow less offensive? It’s still the same stuff. And I’m sure those folks with the surname “Uren” would prefer people to use the Anglo-Saxon alternative when referring to bodily functions. I’ve never met anybody with the surname “Piss”.
Or take “pee”. (No, I didn’t say “take a pee”. Well, unless you need to. In that case, fire away. Though I’ve never really understood why we say “take” when we really mean “leave”, either.) But digressions aside, why is it cute when little kids say “pee”, but everybody gasps if they say “piss”? What’s so cute about “pee”?
Many talented folks have already outlined the versatility of “fuck” as verb, noun, adjective, adverb, interjection, and so on, so I won’t belabour that point.
But think about this: “Somebody fucked up the copier” is instantly comprehended by virtually every English-speaking person on the planet. We hear that, and we know we won’t be getting any copies of our document today.
But if we eliminate “fuck”? Look out. How about: “Somebody had sexual intercourse with the copier”?
Bystanders flee screaming, faces contorted in horror. Those with sensitive stomachs vomit into the nearest receptacle. Scrub your hands, bleach your brain, stuff yourself into a haz-mat suit and never, ever make copies EVER AGAIN.
A simple F-bomb could have averted that entire disaster.
They’re all perfectly good words: short, easy to spell, and universally understood. And we’re not supposed to use them.
I just don’t get it.
Pbphltttt.
Feeling Crabby?
Six months ago one of my blogging buddies, Carrie Rubin, wrote a post about gross things she’s found in her food. But after commenting with a list of the various disgusting things I’ve discovered on my plate, it occurred to me that perhaps I’d shared too much.
Which got me thinking about other instances of inappropriate sharing I’ve witnessed over the years. I’m not talking about inappropriate verbal sharing; I’m talking about sharing physical objects that really, really should be one-person items.
I know little kids tend to be cavalier about swapping bacteria, but I generally prefer to think adults know better.
Not so.
I was sitting at an ice cream shop one day when I spotted a prosperous-looking middle-aged lady sitting in her prosperous-looking car with her small yappy terrier. Okay, nothing surprising in that scene.
Until she licked her ice cream cone, held it out for the dog to lick, took a few more licks herself, shared it with the dog again… you get the picture.
Lady! Seriously?!? Do you know where that dog’s tongue has been? No?
Let me tell you:
(To those with weak stomachs: You’ll want to skip this paragraph.) First he licked his balls. Then he found some dead, partially-decomposed animal and nibbled that. Then a while later, he found the shit from some other dog who’d also nibbled said partially-decomposed animal, and he ate that dog’s shit. Now you’re licking the same ice cream cone.
‘Scuse me while I hurl.
Some time later, I was staggered all over again by an incident at my gym.
I pay extra to use the adults-only change room, since large groups of children fill me with an intense need to run screaming (and not in the “running for fitness” sense). One of the perks of the membership is being allowed to leave your swimsuit hanging to dry in the change room. So I went for a swim and then left my swimsuit on its peg.
When I went back a couple of days later, somebody had stolen it. I can’t imagine why, ’cause if you can afford to pay extra for the adult change room, you can probably afford a new swimsuit.
But I ask you: Would you wear a stranger’s swimsuit? Even if you were totally broke?
I was flabbergasted. Then grossed out. Then annoyed. I would’ve loved to post the following note:
To the person who stole my swimsuit, one word:
CRABS!
But maybe that’s why the gym doesn’t allow its members to post notices on the bulletin board. And besides, it would have been really embarrassing if I’d gotten caught.
Anybody else got stories of inappropriate sharing?
P.S. I wrote this six months ago, and last week I decided it would be today’s post. A few days later another blogging buddy, Murr Brewster, posted The Brazilians Killed The Lice. What are the chances that we’d both mention a tasteful topic like crabs in the same week? Obviously great minds think alike.
Crack Popcorn
As I mentioned in a previous post, I’ve been married to my husband for too long. He knows all my weak spots.
A couple of nights ago at supper, he asked if I wanted to watch an episode of Castle that evening. I almost never watch TV, but occasionally he suggests a show he thinks I’ll like, and I’ll watch a few episodes with him. I’ve seen quite a few episodes of Castle over the years, so I knew I’d be entertained.
But I was busy (as usual), and I just don’t enjoy watching TV that much. So I offered a noncommittal response and retreated to my office to commune with my computer.
A couple of hours later, he employed the most potent form of persuasion in his arsenal.
He made popcorn.
There are a few scents I’m reasonably certain would raise me from my deathbed. Popcorn is one of them. Hell, for popcorn, I’d come back from beyond the grave.
Needless to say, we watched the show.
I don’t know what it is about popcorn. I can’t resist it. Even the horrible super-salted petroleum-coated crap they sell in theatres draws me like a ball-bearing to a magnet. I know it’s so salty my mouth will feel like the Sahara Desert the next day. I know I won’t finish even the smallest bag. I know that bag contains an entire day’s allotment of calories and enough saturated, hydrogenated, and/or trans fat to harden every artery I own. But I have to buy it, and the first few mouthfuls are pure greasy heaven.
There must be pheromones in it. Or crack. Or something.
But I’m pretty sure it’s only a Pavlovian response. I love the smell of popcorn because I anticipate the enjoyment of eating it. I wouldn’t want to smell it all day long.
That got me thinking about scents I find completely irresistible, and it’s a very odd list. Here the top ten things I’d happily smell for hours, in no particular order:
- Moist garden soil
- Leather
- Lilacs
- Sun-ripened strawberries
- Gun oil and/or gunpowder
- Balsam poplar
- Vinegar
- Engine oil and warm rubber
- Fresh-cut cedar or pine
- Line-dried sheets
Any of these scents will make me halt wherever I am, inhaling until my lungs are stretched to capacity. If nobody’s looking, I’ll creep closer and closer, sniffing like a bloodhound on uppers and trying not to drool like one. If I could find perfume that smelled like any of these things, I’d roll in it.
So perhaps it’s not coincidence that Hubby likes to garden, wears a leather jacket, brings me lilacs and fresh strawberries from the back yard, enjoys shooting and fireworks and camping and tinkering with cars, douses his french fries with vinegar, and owns two chainsaws.
Now if he’d just do the laundry and hang the sheets outside, he’d be perfect…
What scents do you find irresistible?
* * *
I’m celebrating the release of A Spy For A Spy! If you happen to be in the Calgary area the evening of May 9, please stop by and see me at The Owl’s Nest Books & Gifts, 815A – 49 Avenue SW, Calgary, AB, Canada, between 5:30 and 8:00 PM. We’ll have sips and nibbles, and I’ll be doing a short reading and Q&A session at 7:00. Hope to see you there!
Author Diane Henders 