Humour

Bro Bulletin – Questions Of Doom: #3

/ Diane Henders / 24 Comments

For the month of Movember, I’m supporting my Mo’ Bros by offering a few helpful insights into the female mind.  Welcome to the third instalment of the Questions of Doom series. 

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Ah, you guys thought you were getting the hang of QODs, didn’t you?  I’ve got news for you:  we’ve only been dealing with easy yes-or-no QODs until now.  Let’s try a tougher one:  the multiple-choice QOD.

I don’t mean to support gender stereotypes here, but the truth is I don’t personally know any households where the male does the bulk of the cooking.  Guys, if you do, you’ve already got this one nailed.  See you next week.

QOD #3:  What do you want for dinner?

A seemingly innocuous question, isn’t it?  What could possibly go wrong?  Watch and learn…

Bad Answer:  “I don’t know, what do you want?” – This may seem like a safe response, but it’ll blow up in your face.  She’ll likely echo, “I don’t know, what do you want?”  Lather, rinse, repeat.

If you’re the passive-aggressive type, this may be strangely satisfying, but she’ll end up irritated, and you’ll probably end up eating something you don’t like.

Worse Answer:  “I don’t care.  Just cook something.” – Oooh.  Ouch.  If that ever heals, it’s gonna leave one hell of a mark.

Here’s what she just heard:  “I don’t care (about any of your trivial problems.  It’s your responsibility as the subordinate spouse to) just cook something.”

That’s why she’s screaming at you and/or slamming pots and pans around in the kitchen loudly enough to drown out the TV no matter how high you turn the volume.  You’re not gonna like what she cooks tonight.

In fact, if you have any sense of self-preservation at all, you’ll surreptitiously feed it to the dog (particularly if she fixes you a “special” plate but lets the kids serve themselves out of the communal dishes).

And if you’re hoping to get lucky tonight, go buy a lottery ticket.  The odds are better.

Iffy Answer:  “I love your (insert food item here).  Let’s have that.” – On the face of it, this sounds like the perfect answer.  You figure you’re golden because you just solved the problem and complimented her cooking at the same time.  You’re probably right…

Unless the food item in question is difficult and time-consuming to make and she’s exhausted, with ten minutes to get food on the table before the kids start chewing the table legs.

If she starts yelling about how inconsiderate you are, that’s why.  Just hunker down and take it.  It was a good try.

Safe Answer:  “Hmm, how about beef?  Chicken?  Pork?  Fish?  Sausages?  Omelette?  Haggis?  Fava beans…?” – Just keep guessing.  As long as you look like you’re participating, you’re safe.  It’s like soothing an angry dog – steady, calm tones and no sudden moves.  If you stop, she’ll rip you apart.

It’s not about actually solving the problem here – she may or may not accept any of your suggestions.  It’s about “contributing”.  When she thinks you’ve contributed enough, she’ll give you that little smile and headshake that says, “Poor foolish man, you’re just so helpless without me.”  Then she’ll go into the kitchen and make a nice meal.  You’ll enjoy it.

No, let me be really clear about that:  You WILL enjoy it.

Better Answer:  “Forget cooking tonight.  I’ll take you out to dinner/order in.” – Very smooth.  Very smart.  Hubby uses this one so frequently, I call him “The Plastic Chef”.  With a credit card in his hand, the man can cook anything.  This is one of the reasons why he has so many brownie points built up, I couldn’t yell at him even if I wanted to.

Best Answer EVER:  “You work so hard – you deserve a break.  Here, put your feet up.  Here’s a nice glass of wine.  You just relax while I cook you a gourmet meal and clean it all up afterward.” – Yeah, I know.  It’s okay, I couldn’t keep a straight face for that one, either.  But a woman can dream…

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Movember Moment:  Jeez, no wonder guys get freaked out about prostate exams – I can’t believe how much bullshit I found on the internet.  It’s not that big a deal.  Here’s what to expect.

P.S. Thanks to Le Clown for starting Bloggers for Movember. In support of the cause, I’ll donate half the November royalties from my paperback and e-book sales from all channels to the Cancer Society. Please spread the word!

Bro Bulletin – Questions Of Doom: #2

/ Diane Henders / 14 Comments

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

* * *

(Note:  Ladies, this strategy can work for you, too.  Change the pronouns, substitute “tool” for “jewellery”, and you’re away to the races.)

QOD #2:  Did you just buy yourself a new fill-in-the-blank (FITB)?  *Scowls, hands on hips*

Oh, bro.  Buddy.  You screwed up big.  You got busted holding a new FITB and she’s mad, for one of two reasons:

  1. Money’s tight and now you won’t be able to afford groceries/coats for the kids/a family trip; or
  2. You bought something nice for yourself and nothing for her.

If it’s #1, well, don’t be a shithead.  Return the FITB and go buy coats for your kids.

But it’s probably #2.  So here we go:

Bad Answer:  “Yes” – Depending on her temperament, you’ll get:

  1. No nookie for the foreseeable future; AND
  2. Icy silence; or
  3. Increasingly hostile questions like “How much did it cost?” and “Why do you need a new FITB when you’ve already got a perfectly good one?” etc., followed by icy silence; or
  4. Increasingly hostile questions followed by berserk yelling and/or tears and/or flying objects, followed by icy silence.

Worse Answer:  “No” – I don’t mean to be critical, but “no” is a really dumb choice.  You’re standing there with a brand new FITB in your hand.  The tags are still hanging off it.  You know you’re lying.  Worse still, she knows you’re lying, and now you’re insulting her intelligence, too.  See consequences of “yes” above.  Times ten.

So how do you save yourself?  Okay, guys, I want to make it clear that I don’t support lying to your significant other.  In the first place, it’s slimy, and in the second place, it’ll come back to bite you in the ass sooner or later.

But in the spirit of Movember, I’m going to cut you some slack, ‘cause what I’m about to suggest isn’t the blackest of lies.  It’s more like a retroactive truth, if you do it right.

The following solution can make you look like a hero, but it’s complex, dangerous, expensive, and requires some acting skill.  It’s probably easier to just return the FITB, or else let her chew your nuts off and get it over with.

You still want to know?  Okay…

Best Answer:

Step 1:  “Oh, I was hoping you wouldn’t see this until (tonight/tomorrow/whenever the stores are open next).” 

You already look guilty as hell, but try to add a bit of disappointment to your expression.  She knows the first part of that statement is absolutely true, but she’s slightly confused by the second part.  This moment of uncertainty buys you time for:

Step 2:  “I know (occasion) is coming up, so I picked out the perfect gift for you, but I didn’t want to buy it until I knew it was exactly what you wanted.  And I bought this FITB for myself because you’re always saying I’m hard to buy for.”

This is the dangerous part.  She’s pretty damn sure you’re lying, but the lure of “the perfect gift” is slowing her reflexes.  This also assumes you’re within a month or so of some mutual gift-giving occasion.

Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and an anniversary are possibilities for the “occasion”, but if you’re desperate and imaginative, you could whip out something plausible but unverifiable.  Try an obscurity like “the seventh anniversary of the first day I realized I was in love with you”.

Just remember, if you mention it once, it’s forever graven in her memory.  Now you’re on the hook for another gift-giving occasion every year.  How much do you really want that FITB, anyway?

That much?  Seriously?  Okay, then…

Step 3:  Rush her to the jewellery store* and point randomly at something.

Any jewellery will do.  Feign as much enthusiasm as possible, but do not utter the words ‘It’s you’.  It’s not.  No matter what you choose, she’ll want something different.  This is just a decoy.

Step 4:  “I picked this one, but I want it to be perfect, so if you’d rather have something else…”

Suck it up, buddy, ‘cause this is where it gets expensive.  Grit your teeth, smile, and buy whatever she chooses.  I warned you it’d probably be easier to just take your punishment.

Step 5:  Buy her another gift when the actual gift-giving occasion rolls around.

This is a crucial step.  It covers your ass in case she knew you were full of shit earlier but she was willing to play along because she got a nice piece of jewellery out of it.

However, if she actually bought your act earlier, this makes you a hero.  When she says “I thought we exchanged FITBs earlier”, tell her, “I know, but I couldn’t resist buying you this”.

Kiss. Cuddle.  Get laid.  Nicely done, bro.

And next time, hide the damn FITB until you can honestly answer, “No, I’ve had it for months.”

*Note to Hubby:  Don’t try this on me.  Jewellery doesn’t cut it.  I want tools.  What, that shiny set in my trunk?  No, I’ve had that for months.

Movember Moment:  Okay, let’s start with the basics:  What is the prostate gland and how does it work?

P.S. Thanks to Le Clown for starting Bloggers for Movember, and thanks to everyone who weighed in with support for me on the weekend.  I’m feeling much better now about donating half the November royalties from my paperback and e-book sales from all channels to the Cancer Society.

Bro Bulletin – Questions Of Doom: #1

/ Diane Henders / 12 Comments

For the month of Movember, I’m supporting my Mo’ Bros by offering a few helpful insights into the female mind.  Welcome to the Questions of Doom series.

A QOD is an unanswerable and highly dangerous question posed by your wife/significant other.  I’m going to teach you how to escape some common QODs (more or less) unscathed.

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Note:  There are many reasons why I’ve never asked this question myself (not the least of which is that I wear a dress approximately once every five years).  But trust me, guys, I can help you.

QOD #1:  Does this dress make me look fat?

If you’ve ever been hit with this question, you understand the devastating consequences of the wrong answer.  Hint:  Both “yes” and “no” are the wrong answer.

Let’s review:

“Yes” – So, so wrong.  Expect tears, anger, and possibly flying objects.  Don’t expect to get laid any time in the foreseeable future.  And maybe you should wear a cup.  This ain’t pretty, but if you just want to get the whole thing over with, it’s definitely quick.

“No” – This is also the wrong answer.  She doesn’t believe you.  She argues: “Yes, it does.  You’re just saying that.”

It doesn’t matter what you say at this point.  Keep insisting “no”, and she still won’t believe you, you’ll get annoyed, and then she’ll call you an insensitive jerk.   But switch to “yes” and you’re totally doomed.  See consequences above, plus now she thinks you’re a weaselly liar into the bargain.

Best Answer:  “You look hot in everything.  Grrr.” – Accompany this with a kiss, and you might get away scot-free.  But remember, you’re going for distraction here.  A peck on the cheek isn’t gonna cut it.  Just like pulling a punch, a quick lip bump is only going to piss off its recipient.

Go for the gusto.  Kiss her as if you haven’t seen a woman in ten years.

In the beyond-your-wildest-dreams scenario, she says, “Grrr yourself, big fella.”  Nature takes its course, and you end up too busy mattress dancing to go to the stupid event you were dressing for the in the first place.  But don’t get your hopes (or anything else) up for that.

In the best case scenario, she finishes getting dressed with a smile on her face.  (You didn’t really expect to get lucky at this stage, did you?  She’s focused on getting dressed.  But your chances are looking pretty good for some action later if you play your cards right.)

Worst case scenario, she relents and changes the question to, “But do you like the blue one or the black one better?”

Danger, Will Robinson!  This is a trick question.

You probably already know that “I don’t care, just put on something and let’s go” is the wrong answer.  But do not, under any circumstances, breathe a sigh of relief and choose a dress.  That will start the whole process all over again.

The only correct answer is, “The (pick a dress randomly) one makes your boobs/ass/legs look amazing.  Grrr.”

Repeat as needed.

You can thank me later.  (But if you score, I don’t want details.)

Movember Moment:  Depression is one of the most common mental health issues men face. Guys, if you think you may be depressed, see your doctor – don’t wait. The sooner you start working on it, the sooner you’ll start to feel better. Here’s a description of symptoms, risk factors, triggers, and treatments for depression in men.

P.S. Thanks to Le Clown for starting Bloggers for Movember. In support of the cause, I’ll donate half the November royalties from my paperback and e-book sales from all channels to the Cancer Society. Please spread the word!

Boom. Splat.

/ Diane Henders / 30 Comments

That’s the sound of my brain exploding.

You may recall my computer died a couple of weeks ago.  The reload went pretty well, until… *cue ominous music* …I loaded a new(er) version of my accounting software.

It crashed.  Even my geek skills couldn’t persuade it to work, so I phoned and waded through the usual labyrinth.  Why do companies choose automated telephone systems?

“Hey, let’s take customers who are already frustrated by our product and irritate the shit out of them by making them respond to ten minutes of increasingly obscure menu choices before putting them on hold.”

“Ooh, good idea!  And let’s set it up so if they press the wrong number they have to hang up and start again.”

“Right on.  Should we play music specifically designed to promote speechless rage?”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea, but I think we should intersperse it with monotone assurances of how important their call is to us.”

“All in favour?”

“AYE!”  *roars of demonic laughter*

I finally got through to a human being.  In India.  Obviously I missed a point in the decision-making process:

“Let’s route the call to someone with a tenuous grasp of English, an unintelligible accent, and absolutely no hands-on experience with the product.  Both the now-frothing customer and the poor underpaid bastard in India should suffer as much as possible.”

“Support” refused to help me unless I a) paid for the call; or b) bought the 2013 software.  After reflection, I bought the new software, comforting myself that it was probably good to get the latest version anyway.

I installed it… and discovered it’s impossible to update contact names.  Call me crazy, but wouldn’t it be a good idea to direct invoices to the person who’ll actually approve them?

I called India again.  When I finally vanquished the automated menu, the support guy put me on hold for several minutes while he searched for my customer ID.

He couldn’t find it despite the three numbers I supplied from my receipt.

He told me I’d have to pay for the call.  After a terse conversation and some deep breathing on my part, he finally unearthed evidence of my purchase(!) and agreed to help me.

Apparently the definition of ‘help’ was lost in translation.

I explained the problem.  He put me on hold for several minutes while he consulted his helpdesk database before coming back with a completely unrelated answer.

I explained again.  Hold.  Another unrelated answer.

Repeat six times until he grasps the problem.

Then he put me on hold for several more minutes before trying to get me to change the invoice template.  That would solve the problem for the one invoice I’d called about… but completely mess up the umpty-thousand other invoices in the system.

I (not-so-)patiently explained to him how his product works.

Hold.

Repeat until I bleed from the eyes.

An hour later, I gave up and requested a case number so I could try another day.

Hold for ten minutes.  Then he came back with another useless attempt at a solution.

Slow, distinct enunciation:  “Just.  Give.  Me.  A.  Case.  Number.”

Hold for five more minutes.  He finally spouted a (probably random) number, and I hung up.

I got a survey from the company.  The first question was ‘Were you satisfied with your recent technical support call?’  When I chose ‘No’, their next question was ‘Please explain why your issue was not resolved.’

Boom.  Splat.

Uh… I dunno… maybe because your support system sucks?

I never did complete the survey.  I just couldn’t get past that question.  Can anybody help me out with an appropriate answer?

P.S. I can’t believe I forgot to mention this last week: Curmudgeon-at-Large wrote a fabulous Fallen Arches post, “Corned Beef on Spy“.  It’s hilarious in its own right, but if you’ve read my books, you’ll get the satire (Updated: Oops! That should’ve been “parody” – I just looked it up) immediately.  I laughed my ass off.  Go.  Enjoy!  (C-a-L, I’m sorry for my brain fart – thanks again for honouring me with your wit.)

Don’t Even Think Of Snatching My Ass

/ Diane Henders / 35 Comments

In a previous post, I speculated that my tendency to misread words and phrases might be merely a matter of needing reading glasses.  I was wrong.

I got the reading glasses.  Now it has become embarrassingly obvious that the problem exists in the central processor, not the input devices.

Back in the summer when the Olympics were on, I glanced at a headline and read “Art Irritating Life at London’s Olympics”.  My interest piqued, I clicked over to the headline, only to discover that instead of a controversial article on modern art, it was a rather bland discourse about “Art Imitating Life”.  Quite disappointing.

A few days later, I roared with laughter when I discovered what I thought was the ultimate truth in advertising:  the disclaimer “Errors and Omissions Expected” on a law firm website.  Sadly, it was just the standard cover-your-ass statement “Errors and Omissions Excepted”.  I still think it’d be more truthful the other way around, but perhaps I’m cynical.

I was pumped when I saw “Vulgarity – The Difference Between the Amateur and the Professional”.  I thought, “At last, someone is recognizing the value of my most pronounced personality trait!”

But no, it was merely a product of my childish hope.  When I looked at it more closely, it actually read “Maturity”, not “Vulgarity”.

Well, shit.  As this whole example illustrates, there’s no danger of anyone ever identifying maturity as one of my principal qualities.

Speaking of childishness, I also misread a local business name as “Dopey Repro” instead of Copy Repro.  And if you have any OPA restaurants in your area, you may be interested to know that their tagline (according to my twisted brain) is “Fat Cheek”, not “Eat Greek”.

But honestly, I don’t think that one was really my fault.  I only glanced at it, and at this angle the font is hard to read, don’t you think?

OPA! FAT CHEEK (You know I’m right)

I’m pretty sure my next slip-up was one of those Freudian things.  I almost never watch TV, but I’d just been forced to watch some of what I sincerely hope was a particularly sub-standard talk show.  I survived, but I was thoroughly traumatized by the prodigious and willful stupidity of the moderator.  I won’t even get started on the apparent intellectual capacity of the participants.

Shortly thereafter, I read “Psychological Vomit” in a headline.  It didn’t surprise me in the least.  In fact, I was pretty sure that was what I’d just witnessed.

Closer inspection revealed that the headline actually read “Psychological Portrait”.  But I’m sticking with my original reading.  What I saw on that talk show was either psychological vomit or psychological explosive diarrhea.  In either case, I needed a shower afterward.  You don’t want to get any of that stuff on you.

All this was crowned by the blog spam I got today.  It promised, “I’ll immediately snatch your ass”.

Oh, yeah?  Well, go ahead and try, buddy, but you’d better get your insurance paid up first.

The spammer escaped my misguided wrath when I re-read the sentence and realized the comment actually read “snatch your rss”.

Which still seems a little off-colour, but it’s probably just because I tend to avoid using the word “snatch”, in an attempt to avoid awkward misunderstandings.

So… have you read anything interesting lately?

Thanks, Technology… I Think…

/ Diane Henders / 26 Comments

Fortunately, it was Thanksgiving here in Canada this past weekend.  If I hadn’t been reminded of how thankful I am for all the good things in my life, I’d be seriously cranky.

The night before I left for another 1,600-mile road trip a couple of weeks ago, my computer’s USB ports died, leaving my mouse and keyboard to uselessly mourn their passing.

It’s kinda hard to use a computer when you have no input devices, but hell, no problem.  It’s not like I really needed to finish my last-minute work and pack and get a million other things done before I left.  Technology, you’re a real sonuvabitch sometimes.

But on the up side, I use my laptop to work remotely on my home computer when I’m travelling.  It was as if nothing was wrong the whole time I was away.  Thanks, technology.

When I got home, I spent the better part of a day trying to fix the ports.  No luck.  Sonuvabitch.

But I could still work through my laptop.  Thanks, technology.

But my laptop couldn’t connect to the program I need for my invoicing.  Sonuvabitch.

But that was okay.  Since my motherboard was toast anyway, I decided to replace my aging computer.  I could take my time building my new machine and make a graceful transition using my laptop in the mean time.  Thanks, technology.

Which was a great idea… until I woke up the very next morning to discover my old computer had committed seppuku in the night and was completely dead.  Not even a beep or a blinky light.  Where it got that sword, I’ll never know.  Sonuvabitch.

Computer seppuku. Try not to look at the bloody entrails.

But I had backups, and I had my new hardware.  I could start rebuilding right away.  And it was the long weekend, so I had three whole days free.  Thanks, technology.

Well, sorta free.  Except for the bazillion other things I’d hoped to accomplish after being away for a week.  Oh, and maybe have a day or two off?  Nah.  Not allowed.  Sonuvabitch.

Amazingly, all the Microsoft products installed beautifully and worked first try.  Thanks, technology.

Unfortunately, all the other hardware and applications seemed childishly determined to assert their independence.  One after the other, they:

  1. refused to install; then
  2. installed grudgingly after I spent hours pissing around finding solutions; after which they
  3. promptly broke the parts of the installation that had actually been working before, so I had to go back and fix them.  Again.

I spent three solid days glued to my desk, swearing until the windows melted.  Sonuvabitch.

But I’m thankful beyond words that this is the only thing in my life that’s complaint-worthy.  My saintly husband tolerated my savage mood with his usual graciousness and helped me buy and assemble my components.  I ate Thanksgiving dinners on two different days and didn’t have to cook for either of them.  I was warm and safe and well-fed and surrounded by family and friends.

Now I’m happy in my home office, doing work I (mostly) enjoy on a zippy new computer that’s (mostly) loaded.  It’s all good.

Thanks, but, um, technology…?  You’re still a sonuvabitch sometimes.

It looks like an angel when it’s sleeping…

P.S. I’m still reloading my RSS feeds and digging out from under my backlog, so I haven’t been by to visit my blogging buddies lately.  I’ve missed you – looking forward to visiting you again soon!

Creepy Stalker Here

/ Diane Henders / 26 Comments

As I’ve mentioned here and here, there’s convincing evidence that I’m a sociopath.  But a few days ago, an unsettling thought bobbed to the scummy surface of the cesspit that is my mind:  Maybe I’m also a creepy stalker.

I mean, really, what’s the difference between a close friend and a stalker?

Close friends know your likes and dislikes, have a pretty good idea of your schedules and habits, call you frequently, and show up regularly to spend time with you.

So do creepy stalkers.

The more I think about it, the more I wonder.  Social skills aren’t really my best thing.  I fake them well enough for short periods, but then I scuttle back to my hidey-hole and hunker down behind my computer to converse with (at best) people I know only through a few typed words on my screen and (at worst) imaginary characters in my books.

I do this for days and weeks on end.  I go out to the pub once a week for a beer and some conversation with real human beings, but that’s about it.  If I wasn’t married, I’d probably go for days without human interaction, so it’s not like I’m really socially aware.

How many times can I call somebody before I’m officially being creepy?  If they don’t call back, does it mean they’re just busy or forgetful?  Or does it mean they’re screening their calls and thinking, “Oh, God, it’s Diane again.  She’s so creepy.  I’m going to pretend I’m dead.”

Problem is, most people are too polite to tell me to buzz off.  I tend to take people at face value and I’m disinclined to obsess over the emotional temperature of everyone I meet, so I don’t really know whether they’re genuinely glad to see me or if they give a whole-body shudder and take six showers after I leave.

I think it’s probably a good sign if they return my calls, unless they’re calling to decline my last ten invitations and tell me they’re going to be busy until the year 2045.  But that only happened with the last three people I called, so it’s not really statistically significant, right?

Maybe the restraining order is a clue, though.  More analysis is required.

Last week I was at an all-you-can-eat restaurant where each table had a little cylinder that was green on one end and red on the other.  As long as you wanted more, you left the green end up, and they kept bringing food.  Red-end-up stopped the whole thing.

That’s what I need:  a signalling system.  Green means “it’s all good”, yellow means “you’re starting to creep me out”, and red means “stay away from me, you nutball freak”.

That system probably wouldn’t catch on, though.  It seems most people actually prefer a little ambiguity in their relationships.

I guess the upside of all this is that sociopaths generally disregard the feelings of others.  Maybe this isn’t such a burning question for me after all.

So… wanna go for a beer tonight?

How about tomorrow?

Friday’s good for me, too…

Fifty Shades Of Leverage

/ Diane Henders / 29 Comments

My fifth book, How Spy I Am, is finally out (phew), so of course I immediately thought of Fifty Shades of Grey.

What, you don’t see the connection?  Bear with me…

First, a disclaimer:  I am one of the (apparently) tiny minority that hasn’t read Fifty Shades.  I likely won’t, for several reasons:

1)     I read the first pages on Amazon and didn’t get swept away by it.

2)     I’ve read some well-written BDSM erotic romance novels by authors whose blogs I follow, but reading was more an act of loyalty than anything else.  BDSM just isn’t my flavour.

3)     I almost never read any type of romance, though I make an exception for Fallen Arches – Novellas of Broken Romance over at Curmudgeon-At-Large.  They make me swoon.  (It’s probably because I can’t breathe between paroxysms of laughter).

So, Fifty Shades?  Probably not for me.

But.

I’m impressed by the number of people who are leveraging Fifty Shades.  Suddenly there are flocks of books titled “Fifty Shades of (fill in the blank)”.  There’s even a website titled “What to Read After Fifty Shades”.

Love it or hate it, Fifty Shades has made a shitload of money, and everybody wants a piece (if you’ll excuse a cheap but irresistible double entendre).

So that’s it; I’m getting in on the act.  After consulting Wikipedia to verify my accuracy, I’m going to tell you how my books are just like Fifty Shades of Grey:

  • I have male and female characters.  Sometimes their relationships are complicated and fraught with sexual tension.  See, just like Fifty Shades.
  • My protagonist is a confident middle-aged no-bullshit woman instead of an insecure college girl, but what the hell.  Details.  They’re both female.
  • My protagonist gets tied up every now and then.  She never enjoys it, but hey, bondage, right?
  • The male character in Fifty Shades is an entrepreneur.  I have a grandmother/granddaughter team who own a sex shop in a small town.  Voila:  entrepreneurs and sex.  Double whammy.
  • Sex.  Got that covered.  My characters don’t intentionally hurt each other during the act, but that’s just a technicality.
  • A virgin.  Hmmm.  That could be a problem.  Never mind, I wouldn’t want to be accused of being an exact copy.
  • Oho, here’s a good one:  The characters in Fifty Shades communicate using a laptop.  So do my characters.  Score another point.
  • You may be thinking this is a little thin so far, but here’s the kicker:  My main male character has grey eyes.  Grey.  And in Book 2, he ties my protagonist up and restrains her.  Ha!  Spike it in the end zone!

I’m sure there are many more striking similarities but I could only get so much from the wiki and I was too lazy to look up any more synopses.  Nevertheless, I’m convinced my claim of sycophantic imitation is just as valid as everyone else’s.

So there you go.  My books are just like Fifty Shades.  And repeating “Fifty Shades” fifty times in a blog post works wonderfully for search engine optimization, too.

I anticipate that within days, book reviewers and avid readers will be calling my novels “the next Fifty Shades of Grey”.  My book sales will skyrocket.  The news media will grovel for interviews with me.  Hollywood will call and beg to pay gazillions of dollars for the movie rights to my books.

Because I’m leveraging the power of “Fifty Shades of Grey” just like everybody else.

Or not.

Okay, I was just kidding around with the whole “Fifty Shades” schtick, but I actually have a serious request this week:  I’m doing a survey on how readers like authors to sign books, and I’d really appreciate your opinion.  There are only three quick questions over at http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/K3LQS9D, and I’m giving away a signed copy of the updated version of Book 1: Never Say Spy.  Thanks for your help!

I Can Type With A Banana In My Hand

/ Diane Henders / 28 Comments

That isn’t a euphemism, though it might be fun if it was.  In case you’re wondering, I can also type with a banana in my mouth, and you can just get your mind out of the gutter right now.

I know I shouldn’t type with a banana in my hand. I’m well aware of the effects of mashed banana on the usefulness and mean-time-to-failure of keyboards.

And I learned years ago about the deleterious effects of multi-tasking when someone (no, neither Hubby nor I) cremated a chicken while watching television in the basement.  Until then, I didn’t know it was possible to start with a dead chicken immersed in boiling water and end up with a half-melted pot containing a crispy black cinder.

We first detected the stench from more than a quarter-mile away.  When we arrived, a thick pall of reeking smoke obscured the main floor of the house.  It took days to air the place out.  Nobody was happy by the end of that episode, though I’m pretty sure the chicken was past caring.

I blame the internet for my current multi-tasking disorder.  Before we had internet (yes, I am that old), I had to make a concerted effort to be distracted.  I had to get out of my chair, look out the window, drift down to the kitchen to graze on whatever snacks might be handy, whatever.

Now my ass takes root in my desk chair while I write, email, text, tweet, phone, check RSS feeds and surf the web.  I’ve gotten so used to doing umpteen things at once, I caught myself bouncing up from the table several times during lunch to rush off and do something else.  I actually had to force myself to sit in the chair and eat an uninterrupted meal.  That may be a way of life for people with families, but I don’t even have kids (unless you count my puerile brain).

Some people are good at multi-tasking.  I’m not.  I can’t even listen to music while I’m writing.

That doesn’t stop me from trying.

The other day, I found myself in the kitchen slicing zucchini and loading it into the dehydrator.  Jars were sterilizing in my canner, a big pot of jam boiled on the stove, and my laptop was open on the couch so I could work in between kitchen tasks.  When the phone rang, I fired up the hands-free and carried on canning jam while occasionally zipping over to reference my laptop.

Disaster didn’t strike that time, but I could easily have poured the jam into the dehydrator, stuck zucchini slices in the laptop, and dumped the phone into boiling water.  Try explaining that to the caller at the other end of the line.

I’d like to say I plan to turn over a new leaf, but it’d be a lie.

‘Scuse me, gotta go – my chicken’s overheating.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

P.S.  Hell, who am I kidding?  One of the great joys of life is creating filthy innuendos whenever possible.  Go for it.  You know you want to.  And you know I’ll laugh.

Letting It All Hang Out

/ Diane Henders / 32 Comments

The worst things in life sneak up on you from behind.  Let me tell you a story:

Once upon a time, there was no spandex.

If you’re younger than dirt, don’t panic – those dark ages are long gone.  Many regret their passing (particularly when forced to view Walmart shoppers), but you, my children, will likely never be required to live without spandex.

This story takes place very long ago, back in a primitive era when there were no cell phones, computers took up entire buildings, and people listened to things called “record albums”, which contained only about ten songs and required playback equipment approximately the size of an Austin Mini.

But the glorious light of progress dawned, and spandex was invented in 1959.  Shortly thereafter, bathing suits became much safer to wear in the presence of water since, unlike the previous archaic materials, spandex didn’t sag and bag when wet.

I grew up on a farm near a backwater town in rural Manitoba, where dubious fads such as flush toilets were regarded with suspicion and adopted slowly, if at all.  Clothing fashions filtered down to us approximately ten years after they were fashionable everywhere else, so I still remember the days of swimsuits without spandex.  Fortunately, we did most of our swimming in the dugout on our farm, so wardrobe malfunctions resulting from saggy swimsuits were limited in the scope of their humiliation.

But when I was in my early teens, I got my first Speedo.  For those of you permanently scarred by itty-bitty Speedos for men, I assure you my Speedo was a one-piece suit that covered more than most blouses and shorts cover today.  It was fabulous.  It fit even when it was wet.

Sadly, I didn’t get to wear it for long because I grew out of it (vertically, not horizontally as I tend to grow out of garments these days).  But after I achieved my more-or-less-final adult dimensions, I bought another spandex-enriched bathing suit.

I’d also like to mention that while we weren’t exactly poor, we didn’t waste money.  So that bathing suit had to last.  And last.  And last.

And it did.  Until the fateful day when I put it on in bright light instead of a dingy change room.  And when I held it up, I discovered that the network of spandex was still there… but every other fibre in the entire butt-end of the swimsuit was worn away.

I’d never noticed it before.  I had no idea how many times I had paraded around at pools and beaches with my ass completely visible through spandex mesh.

After careful consideration, I decided it was better not to know.

These days, I’m much more careful.  I own a new bathing suit and I wear stretchy workout shorts, but I check my rear view in the mirror frequently, if not obsessively.  It’s not a particularly gratifying pastime, and it’s becoming steadily less rewarding as gravity lowers my common denominator.  But at least I won’t be ambushed by anything that’s happening back there.

And I subscribe wholeheartedly to the philosophy of “cover your ass”.