I Like Young Guys

January 30, 2013 / Diane Henders / 46 Comments

Fortunately, my husband is extremely tolerant and secure. I had just gotten back from an appointment with my young male massage therapist when I announced, “I like young guys!”

Hubby grinned, said, “Yeah, and…?”, and waited for the explanation I hastened to supply.

I mean, I do like young guys; what’s not to like? But I didn’t exactly mean it the way it came out. What I meant was, as an old(er) woman with a brain that refuses to accept that I’m not twenty anymore, it’s really nice to work with my young male martial arts trainer, my young male massage therapist, and (when necessary) my young male physiotherapist.

Because they don’t give me any bullshit about how I shouldn’t be kickboxing, or I shouldn’t be shooting, or I should back off on my weights, or whatever.

My middle-aged GP was horrified when I told her I was kickboxing. She issued me a prescription for a topical anti-inflammatory along with a severe admonition to quit. While she was at it, she suggested I go a little easier on my weightlifting, too.

The surgeon who fixed the torn ligaments in my wrist a few years ago eyed me cynically and told me if I was going to kickbox, he’d see me in his office begging him to fuse my wrist in another few years.

I know they’re probably right; I just don’t want to hear it.

What the hell, I could get hit by a bus next week. Then I’d be lying there dying in the road, all pissed off because I didn’t need those joints after all and I could’ve been kickboxing all along.

So instead of going to the doctor this time, I went to my massage therapist. He listened to my description of my various aches and pains and said, “But do you like kickboxing?” And when I said ‘Oh hell yeah’, he said, “Okay, you’re getting pain because your muscles are imbalanced here, here, and here. Here’s how to fix that…”

He gave me exercises, stretches, a massage that made me writhe in agony but feel better afterward, and most importantly, encouragement.

My martial arts trainer does the same. “Okay, you can’t bend your wrists. That’s all right, you can do this on your knuckles. Okay, you can’t kick today, so instead you’re going to learn two ways to break a guy’s arm and three ways to choke him. And here are a couple of submission holds.”

I love these guys!

No, they aren’t irresponsible. They’re professionals. They make sure I understand the potential consequences of my actions… and when they realize I’m going for it, they cheer me on and find ways to make it happen. They totally understand the ‘Go hard or go home’ mentality.

In a few years, I might look back on this and say “What the hell was I thinking? I’m in constant pain now because I was a moron who didn’t have the brains to quit while she was ahead.”

But maybe not. Maybe I’ll just grin.

Anybody else doing things you’ll regret later?

Not Dressed Up And No Place To Go

January 23, 2013 / Diane Henders / 46 Comments

This week, I did the annual dusting of my dress-up clothes.

I may have mentioned in an earlier post that I hate dressing up. Thanks to benevolent fortune and my own avoidance tactics, these days I work from home and employ other people to represent my computer training company much more professionally than I. So I have a closet full of business clothes I never wear. Dust gradually accumulates on them, and every now and then I go in and vacuum it off.

I like it that way. It’s a good system.

I’ve always hated dressing up. When I began Grade One, my mother thought it was proper for little girls to wear dresses to school. She crammed me into cute little outfits and sent me off clutching my tartan-patterned tin lunchbox and my utter disregard for propriety.

The “dress” phase lasted until the teachers gently informed her that I spent most of recess hanging upside-down by my knees from the monkey-bars.

After that came the phase of “dress with matching bloomers underneath”, which rapidly morphed into “fine, slacks it is”.

But it was still slacks. I didn’t get my first pair of jeans until Grade 5, by which time I had already been labelled hopelessly uncool. That was probably due more to my personality than to my clothes, but I prefer to cling to my illusions.

I made it through my remaining school years in blissful slobbishness, but when I went to university to take my interior design degree, I decided it was time to grow up and make an effort. I wore slacks and blazers and sometimes (gasp) skirts and pantyhose.

That lasted about six months, and then it was back to jeans and T-shirts. Styles changed, and I got rid of the outdated clothes.

The same pattern repeated when I entered the workforce: I bought sleek business clothes and high heels, which I wore for several months, followed by increasingly casual slacks and flat shoes.

At last I quit interior design (which was a relief to all concerned) and switched over to IT where my frumpy slacks and flats made me look like a fashionplate. So I got rid of the dress clothes entirely and started wearing jeans and sneakers to work.

When I started my own business, it was back to the stores for more damn dress-up clothes. Then came the inevitable decline, at which point I decided it was a much better idea to hire somebody else to represent my company. At least my staff wouldn’t be mistaken for vagrants who’d wandered in off the street to cadge goodies from the networking events.

Which brings me to the present, slouched happily in my home office. My only human contact occurs at a weekly staff meeting (I wear jeans), the gym, and Friday pub night with friends. No need to dress up at all.

I’m happy.

But I’m afraid to get rid of the dress-up clothes. As long as they’re gathering dust and quietly going out of style in my closet, I’m safe. The instant I get rid of them, I just know the cycle will start all over again.

Anybody else keep out-of-style clothing as insurance?

I Love A Guy With A Big Deck

January 16, 2013 / Diane Henders / 40 Comments

As you may know, I’m a toolaholic. Most men are eager to show me their tools, and in fact, they frequently invite me to play with their tools whenever I want.

I’m old-fashioned, though. As much as I love tools of all shapes and sizes, I really prefer not to handle any but my Hubby’s. After all, when I’ve got a top-quality tool at home, why would I go out looking for anything else? You just don’t know where other men’s tools have been.

The other day the conversation turned (again) to tools, and Hubby showed me his deck. You’d think after nearly fourteen years of marriage it would be old news to me, but what a surprise!

He had gotten one of those deck enlargement kits.

I know, I know. I used to be a sceptic, too, but now I’ve seen the proof. This kit really worked. He used to have a much smaller deck. It was nice and rigid and it worked well, but everybody knows size does matter. So he paid the money and got the kit… and now his deck is huge!

When he showed it to me for the first time, I couldn’t keep my hands off it. After I’d fondled it for a while, he asked if I had any ideas about mounting it.

Boy, did I.

But we were worried we might not be able to use his new deck safely because it’s so big.

We were right. We had some difficulties with the fit. And stability was an issue. Even though it was big and stiff, it tended to shift sideways without warning, particularly if any significant force was applied. And it was positively dangerous under vigorous use. Slow and smooth was the only workable option.

We agreed that even though the big deck was impressive, it really wasn’t working as well as his original small deck. But we both liked the idea of the bigger deck.

So we got creative. A minor surgical procedure reshaped it to make the tool fit snugly but comfortably in the aperture. Then we added some extra supports so the deck wouldn’t collapse even if I got careless about how and where I placed my piece. And he could push as hard and fast as he wanted.

It took a bit of extra effort to get everything working the way we wanted it, but in the end we were glowing with satisfaction. Now Hubby’s got the biggest deck of any guy I know. I can use it as often as I want, and it never fails to stand up to even the most enthusiastic use.

I’m so excited, I just have to share the before and after pictures of Hubby’s deck:

Original tiny deck

New huge deck

Yeah, it’s a bandsaw deck. Jeez, what did you think I was talking about?

If, like me, you can’t get enough big decks, here’s one of my favourite comedy routines: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QQ7Ue5emo6I

Anybody else like big decks?

And Then It Got Ugly

January 9, 2013 / Diane Henders / 45 Comments

I used to be able to count on spammers to tell me what a marvelous writer I am. Every day I’d get dozens of compliments about my wonderful colour schemes, my mastery of writing, and my expertise in the subject area. To the spammers, I was a demigod.

In fact, I was so good I even got compliments from beyond the grave: “You are an excellent wrteir even if I have thought your writing seems sad sometimes! I am so glad you are honest! The truth will set you free, is true! I love you and I am so blessed to be your Mom!”

Wow, thanks, Mom. I’m amazed at your mastery of the keyboard even after you’ve been dead for thirty years. Does this mean you’re coming for Sunday dinner?

Okay, so I was pretty sure that last one was from a spammer, but still. It’s flattery, right? It’s all good.

Only lately I’ve noticed a subtle and disturbing change. I mean, I still get “an amazing article dude” and “This really designed my day” and “Wow, fantastic blog fmroat!”. That’s all fine and dandy. But some of the comments are veering into ambiguity: “This blog is just as well cool to become missed”.

Um, thanks… I think…

Or how about this one: “A hilariously complex write-up”. Is “hilariously complex” a good thing or a bad thing?

But a couple of weeks ago, the comments took a turn for the worse: “My brother suggested I might like this website. He used to be entirely right.”

So what are you trying to say? He was always right before, but this time he was wrong and you hated my website?

And then it got ugly:

“I have to say that Im really unpisresmed with this. I mean, sure, youve got some very interesting points. But this blog is just really lacking in something. Maybe its content, maybe its just the design. I dont know. But its almost like you wrote this because everybodys doing it. No passion at all.”

And

“Hello, you used to write magnificent, but the last few posts have been kinda boring”

And

“of course like your website however you have to test the spelling on several of your posts. Many of them are rife with spelling problems and I to find it very troublesome”

And

“why throw away your intelligence on just posting videos to your weblog when you could be giving us something informative to read?”

Wow, what a tumble from my previous exalted position. I guess that’s just the price of fame. Sooner or later, your fans turn on you.

Spammers never fail to make me laugh. It’s fine if commenters respectfully disagree with me, but I can’t believe these idiots think I’d leave gratuitous insults posted, or (even more improbable) that I’d click on a link attached to an insult.

Isn’t spamming all about getting people to click on your links?

Repeat after me: S-T-U-P-I-D; stupid.

But despite the chuckles, I must say I’m unpisresmed with the trend. Someday it’ll be “Click on this link or we’ll send Guido and Luigi over with the baseball bats”.

The day I get that comment, I’m outta here.

Is anybody else still getting spam love? Or are the spammers turning on you, too?

Sometimes I Wonder…

January 2, 2013 / Diane Henders / 34 Comments

According to Science Illustrated, “Letting the mind wonder fosters creativity”. Maybe, but letting my mind wonder fosters thoughts that range from daft to disturbing. For example:

Sometimes when I’m talking to somebody, I wonder if behind that expression of polite interest, they’re psychically screaming “Shut up! Shut UP!”

I’ve done that lots of times, for various reasons. Sometimes it’s because I’m on a deadline and the other person simply won’t acknowledge that their detailed description of the pickle they ate at lunch may in fact be less important than the document the client needs in ten minutes.

Sometimes it’s because the person flapping their gums is expressing ideas so colossally stupid, I can’t believe they haven’t already choked on their own idiocy.

Sometimes it’s because the speaker is brilliant but my poor brain is full to the brim, and trying to pour more information into it is a complete waste of everyone’s time.

And sometimes it’s a “too much information” conversation where psychic screaming is my last, desperate attempt to prevent the images from penetrating my brain and leaving it perforated and deformed by a nasty case of BSE (Bozo Spongiform Encephalopathy).

So if I’ve been the psychic screamer that frequently, it stands to reason that sometimes I’m the cause of psychic screams. The scream-ee.

It’s a humbling thought, and not a little disturbing. But it does tend to make me strive for brevity in my conversations.

* * *

Here’s another thing I wonder about: Can anybody tell me why the white hairs always pop up as stiff as wires, while the red hairs lie flat and behave themselves? That white hair used to be red. It’s coming from the same place on my head. You’d think if the colour went out of it, it should be thinner and wimpier.

But no. As soon as the colour is gone, the hair follicle kicks into high gear like some freakishly pumped-up mutant superhero with ‘roid rage: “Aha, the kryptonite is gone! My super-powers are restored! Bam! Pow! Zap!”

I don’t know why it happens, but it does explain Albert Einstein’s ‘do. In a few more years, I’ll look just like him.

* * *

The other day I was out walking in the park behind our house when I came upon a used condom frozen into the snow, right in the middle of the path. It had snowed only a couple of days before, so I knew it was fresh (if such a term can be correctly applied, given the object in question). It had also been -25 degrees Celsius for the past week.

Which made me wonder: What quirk of intellect allows a person to have sufficient maturity, restraint, and judgement to practice safe sex under even the most rigorous (and I apply that word within the full range of its meanings) conditions… and still remain dumb enough to a) whip it out in the middle of a public park; and b) risk ending up with a cocksicle at -25?

Is there some sort of Polar Bear Sex Club or something? You know, like those hardy folks who jump into ice water for no apparent reason?

And could somebody please look that up and let me know? ‘Cause there’s no way I’m gonna google “Polar Bear Sex Club”.

What do you wonder about?

End Of The World

December 21, 2012 / Diane Henders / 35 Comments

Well, dang. I’m still here. Guess I’ll have to pay those Christmas bills after all.

It’s the official day of the end of the world and so far there’s no big bang or big flush or big pffftttt or whatever. I’m a little unclear about whether the world was supposed to end last night at the stroke of midnight or tonight at the stroke of midnight, though, so maybe there’s still time.

And anyway, the Mayans weren’t specific about what time zone they were using. Maybe the end of the world will creep around the globe following the time zones. Just in case, I’m going to keep an eye on my blogging buddy AquaTom over in the UK. He’s having an End of the World blog party today, so if he goes dark, I’ll know what’s coming.

You, too, can receive this special advance warning… or just pop over and to say hi. Tom asked his readers to spread the word, so please consider this your invitation to the End of the World Party:

Come join the End Of The World party over at AquaTom Mansion

Tom suggested a few writing challenges to bring to the party, namely “The fun side to a bad hair day”, “Dashing through the snow”, and/or “The passing of time”, so here goes:

Bad Hair Day…

For me, a “bad hair day” is virtually indistinguishable from a “good hair day”. I wash it and let it dry, and it always looks more or less the same. I’m not sure whether that’s “good” or “bad”, but I’m trying to imagine what a truly “bad hair day” would be like.

I think Medusa must’ve had some seriously bad hair days. I’ve never tried to wash a snake, but I suspect they wouldn’t be cooperative. They probably wouldn’t take kindly to curlers, either. And imagine the disasters on date night. Even if she could find a guy who was smart enough not to look her in the face and turn to stone, even a simple kiss would be an exercise in frustration: “No, no! Bad, bad hair! Stop biting the nice man! Wait, come back, honey; they didn’t mean it!”

No wonder she was cranky.

* * *

Dashing Through The Snow…

When I was a teenager, I strapped on my cross-country skis one cold, clear night and dashed out across the pristine whiteness surrounding our farm. Skiing was easy across the smooth, flat fields. The moon was full and so brilliant that my shadow undulated along beside me. The squeak of snow under my skis was the only sound. It was breathtaking.

It was also stupid.

It was minus 30 degrees Celsius, and even though I’d put on my warm down jacket, I was only wearing blue jeans on my legs. You may have heard the expression “freezing one’s ass”. I did. Along with my thighs.

To this day, if the temperature dips below minus 10, I have to wear ski pants because of the damaged circulation in those areas. Not quite the delightful experience most people envision when singing “dashing through the snow”. But…

With The Passing Of Time…

I’ve forgiven my teenage stupidity, and I still enjoy the lovely memory of that bright, silent night. And hey, at the end of the world, that’s what counts, right?

Happy Apocalypse!

Blood Pressure And ShrinkyDinks

December 19, 2012December 19, 2012 / Diane Henders / 22 Comments

Every now and then I see things that tickle my funnybone. Here are a few of the latest winners:

I found this sign beside a supermarket pharmacy.

Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve got more than enough blood pressure of my own after waiting in the interminable lineup.

* * *

I think somebody needed to look at this a little more closely before they approved the decal.

Is it just me, or does that say “Stop quality driving”? I think their cause has been widely adopted in Calgary. Ain’t no quality driving here.

* * *

Saw this at the mall: “Elevator temporally out of order”

I guess it kept arriving before it left. Or wait, is there a Tardis in there? Ha, I knew Dr. Who would have to update his look eventually!

* * *

This next photo confronted me on a news page. (I added the discreet black box just for your sakes, my dear readers. If you prefer the full monty, I’ll send you the unaltered version in a plain brown wrapper… for a price. That’s called “monetizing your blog”.)

Just like the Sesame Street song, “One of these things is not like the others…”

There was just so much about the first glance that made me laugh:

It’s a staid and proper news site (note the seriousness of the other four items). Business and finance, world politics. And it had a gratuitous dick on it. *snickers like a ten-year-old*
When you look at it closely… (No, look at the background. Stop trying to peek under the black box.) …there are several women standing around in dresses¹. How often do you see a guy hanging his junk out full spread-eagle in a public place? Without getting arrested, I mean.
It’s “Most Popular” and “Recommended”. Guys, imagine the prestige of having your manhood voted “Most Popular”. I don’t seem to recall that particular honour being bestowed in our graduating class – I think we just had a plain old valedictorian. But ours was a little backwater school, so what did we know?
And… just in case you didn’t realize what you were looking at, they labelled it. In big red letters: “The penis”. Dang, I never would’ve figured that out on my own. But then again, maybe they felt clarification was necessary. Having seen the unaltered photo, I can only conclude that it must have been chilly that day.

* * *

Or maybe their model had been using this product (which I found in the Michaels craft store, in case you’re looking for last-minute gift ideas):

I couldn’t even hold the camera still, I was laughing so hard.

* * *

Would you buy ShrinkyDinks? Who/what was voted “Most Popular” in your graduating class? Am I the only one who snickered childishly at the misplaced dick pic?

________________

¹The women were my first clue, triggering a vague recollection from my years of studying art history. I didn’t recognize it at first glance but it’s actually a photo of a statue, which changes everything. As we all know, marble dicks (regardless of inappropriate camera angles and cropping) are Art, and therefore Not To Be Sniggered At. If I had known, I would’ve treated the subject with due respect. Probably.

But it was still pretty funny that it popped up (*snicker*) on the news site after I’d snapped the ShrinkyDinks only days before.

It’s Like Fishing, But Without The Beer

December 12, 2012 / Diane Henders / 33 Comments

The Christmas shopping frenzy is upon us, and I’m observing the usual gender division. The women are out in the malls snagging the perfect gift for everyone. The men are at home watching TV and telling themselves they have lots of time.

On Christmas Eve the tables will turn, and throngs of empty-eyed men will wander the mall ten minutes before closing, reeking of desperation and despair.

And at midnight outside a convenience store, two men will wrestle over the last pine-scented air freshener because it’s Christmas-tree-shaped and therefore vaguely appropriate as a Christmas gift, and they will ask themselves, “Why do women do this?”

Well, it’s like fishing.

If you’re starving and you have to catch a fish in order to survive, it’s not fun; it’s work.

But if you’re fishing for the fun of it, there’s no greater joy than being out on the lake just tossing in your line. You might not catch anything; you might catch and release; you might catch a tasty fish you’ll enjoy for supper that evening; or you might catch the biggest Holy-Shit-Look-At-The-Size-Of-That-Mother trophy fish of all time.

It doesn’t really matter. It’s all about the process. And the bragging rights. And your buddies. And the beer.

Some guys would happily go fishing every day, even though their freezer is full and they’ll probably end up throwing away some of the fish. Some women would happily go shopping every day, even though their closet is full and the clothes will probably be out of style before they get around to wearing them.

Recreational shopping is extremely similar to the actual process of fishing. We cruise the mall, dipping into the places where our quarry is most likely to lurk. But sometimes the shopping gods turn their backs, and there’s nothing worth buying despite our skill and patience (no catch).

Other times, we reel in lovely things that are perfect in every way, but we don’t buy (catch and release).

Sometimes, we choose to take that tasty item home.

And every now and then, we score the most amazing deeply-discounted, absolutely perfect article that will be discussed with awe among our peers forever more. The great grandmammy of bargains. The holy grail.

Like fishing, there’s much discussion of the one that got away. Right size, right price, wrong colour. Screaming deal, sublime colour, wrong size. The almost-perfection of the item increases with each telling, inspiring heartfelt commiseration from our buddies.

Here’s where the comparison begins to break down for me, though. Most women are just as happy in a crowded mall as most guys are out on the lake. I’m not. The act of shopping simply isn’t rewarding enough for me to put up with a crowd. I’ll pay for an item or I’ll engage in a fistfight for the item, but I refuse to do both. I suspect most guys feel the same.

But that problem could be easily solved.

What malls really need is beer. A mall-wide liquor permit, so you could wander around with a cold one in your hand. They could set up beer-and-snack kiosks here and there, and put nice little stands next to the changing rooms so you could put your beer down without fear of spillage when you went in to try on clothes.

With a reward like that, I bet even the guys would shop early and often.

Am I right?

It’s Complicated…

December 5, 2012December 5, 2012 / Diane Henders / 33 Comments

Last week, I couldn’t decide what to eat for lunch until I looked at the weather forecast. It wasn’t even as simple as needing to know what the current weather conditions were. No, I needed a forecast.

On the weekend, we had discussed going to a swanky restaurant near our place on Tuesday night. But on Monday, the weatherman forecasted a nice, warm, sunny Tuesday. Prime opportunity to put up the Christmas lights when Hubby got home from work.

No, not so he could put up the Christmas lights; so he could hold the ladder while I put up the lights. I’m taller than he is, and he’s afraid of heights. I’m okay with heights, but I’m afraid of ladders unless he’s holding them. We’re a team.

So I decided to cook a pot of stew Tuesday night so we wouldn’t have to run around trying to get the lights up before rushing off to our dinner reservation. We agreed to go out Wednesday night instead.

But Tuesday’s forecast was wrong. The temperature dropped steadily, a bone-cutting wind blew in from the east, and snow sifted down. We lost interest in putting up the lights, but we ate at home and stuck with our plans for Wednesday.

Until evening, when we discovered it was supposed to dump snow overnight. So we decided to wait and see what Wednesday morning was like before making the final decision on dinner. Neither of us has any particular fear of driving in the snow; after all, we’re Canadian. We’d have to confine our outings to ten minutes in August if we were afraid of driving in the snow.

But it’s annoying to fight the idiot drivers, so we tend not to actively seek out snow-driving.

Fast-forward (or, in the case of this blog post, “drag agonizingly toward an obscure but hopefully imminent conclusion”) to Wednesday noon.

I went downstairs for lunch, opened the fridge door, and realized that the only thing worth eating was the leftover stew. Fine… except that there was enough stew for two.

So if we weren’t going out, it would make more sense for me to make something else and save the leftover stew for supper. But if we were going out, I could eat the stew for lunch, go out for dinner¹, and then eat stew again for Thursday’s lunch.

Only one catch: It was snowing lightly. If it was going to dump snow, we’d probably want to stay home. If it was going to hold off until after supper, we’d probably go. Time to check the weather forecast.

Heavy snowfall warning.

Guess I’ll make something for lunch…

Phone rings.

Hubby says, “Let’s go out tonight. It’s going to snow, so the restaurant won’t be too busy.”

*facepalm*

———————-

¹Note: I grew up in the country. ‘Breakfast’ was in the morning, ‘dinner’ was at noon, ‘lunch’ was at four o’clock, and ‘supper’ was at six. Then I got out into the big world and discovered that urbanites referred to the noon meal as ‘lunch’, the six o’clock meal as ‘dinner’, and there was no four o’clock meal! City dwellers are sick bastards. So now I usually call ‘dinner’ ‘lunch’, and ‘supper’ ‘supper’, unless I’m going out for ‘dinner’…

Have I confused you yet? What do you call your meals? (And why are you trying to slap me?)

Bro Bulletin – Questions Of Doom: #4

November 28, 2012 / Diane Henders / 27 Comments

For the month of Movember, I’ve been supporting my Mo’ Bros by offering a few helpful insights into the female mind. This is the last of the Movember Questions of Doom series.

* * *

QOD #4: Do you like this casserole?

Getting this one wrong probably won’t kill you, but there’s still a pretty high potential for long-term misery. Possible answers:

“Yes” – I hope you really do like it, ‘cause you’re gonna get it every second week from now until doomsday.

“It’s okay, but I wouldn’t want it every year.” – This one never fails to get a laugh at our house, but don’t try it unless you’re really sure about her sense of humour. (Note: Her sense of humour may vary considerably from day to day. Better not chance it.)

“No” – You know the drill. Icy silence and/or tears and/or wild accusations of “You don’t appreciate anything I do”. And you aren’t going to be getting any for a good long time. You know I’m not talking about casserole.

Best Answer: “Wow, this is really different. Where did you get the recipe?” – Try not to gag while you say this. Pretend avid interest in the answer and immediately guide the conversation in another direction. Examples:

If she says it’s her Aunt Mary’s recipe: “How is Aunt Mary, anyway?” (Note: If the answer is “dead”, you’re in deep shit, but at least the casserole conversation is probably over.)

If she says she found it in a cookbook/magazine/online: Make sure you sound enthusiastic: “Really. Wow, you should try some of their other recipes, too. Hey, did I tell you about…”

Good luck, bro. You’re gonna need it.

And because this is the last Bro Bulletin in the Movember series, here’s a bonus QOD:

Bonus QOD: Did you make that doctor’s appointment yet?

Sorry, guys, there’s only one correct answer to this: “Yes, dear.”

* * *

Movember Moment: Guys, if you haven’t done it already, go and get your prostate checked. A few moments of discomfort are well worth the relief of knowing you’re fine; or, worst-case scenario, the sooner they find a problem, the more easily it can be dealt with.

And if you’re feeling despairing or anxious; if you’re self-destructive or you can’t control your temper, please talk to your doctor.

There’s no shame in asking for help. If you had computer problems, you wouldn’t just put up with it and hope it’d get better, and you wouldn’t feel inadequate if you couldn’t fix it yourself (and you know how badly it can turn out if you try).

Please treat yourself at least as well as you treat your computer. We Mo’ Sistas want to keep you around, happy and healthy, for a long time.

So go make that appointment.

Please? For me? *bats big brown eyes*

P.S. Thanks to Le Clown for starting Bloggers for Movember. In support of the cause, I’m donating half the November royalties from my paperback and e-book sales from all channels to the Cancer Society. Only two days left – please spread the word!