Why Orange Plastic Palm Trees?

December 28, 2011October 2, 2018 / Diane Henders / 25 Comments

Okay, I just have to say it. What is it with brightly coloured plastic palm trees? Up until a few years ago, I’d never seen one. Then one day I noticed a pair of them in front of a Chinese food restaurant in Cochrane, Alberta. I tried to be polite. I averted my eyes from the garish spectacle and pretended I hadn’t seen them.

But, like dog balls, they were lamentably conspicuous. And that comparison is actually quite apropos, when you take the plastic coconuts into account. Unlike dog balls, however, one was bright yellow, and the other was bright orange. And they lit up at night. The trees, not the testicles.

Ooh. Now I’m having a really disturbing mental image. ‘Scuse me while I swill brain bleach through my ears.

Anyway, I thought these misplaced, misguided items were pretty much one of a kind. Because really, who’d want twenty-foot-high psychedelic illuminated plastic palm trees? In Alberta?

I got over my antipathy, because the food was (and is) excellent there. The décor of the whole restaurant is slightly schizophrenic anyway. The floor is constructed of dark-stained rough-hewn wooden planks that would be appropriate in a western saloon. The windows stretch from floor to ceiling, twenty feet high, clad in sweeping, formal peach-coloured brocade draperies sashed with heavy burgundy satin tasselled ropes. The walls are decorated with bright-red Chinese weavings, and there’s a blue-and-white porcelain fountain and a temporary tattoo dispenser in the lobby. When you think about it, the palm trees fit right in.

But really, one of a kind, right?

Fast forward to yesterday. I’m heading out to Manitoba again for the next couple of weeks, and I was somewhere between Medicine Hat, Alberta and Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan when my horrified gaze was captured by… you guessed it.

A plastic palm tree. Mounted on a campground sign beside the TransCanada highway, in the middle of Saskatchewan.

I would have pulled over to snap a picture, but I was doing 110 km/hr, and, frankly, I thought I might be seeing things. It’s a long drive, after all. But it was still there when I looked in the rearview mirror, so I’m pretty sure I didn’t hallucinate it. And I’m pretty sure the green flecks in those brownies were zucchini.

When I searched “orange plastic palm tree” on the internet, I discovered these trees are apparently much more common than I thought. There were a startling number of photos. In fact, I ran across one photo of one with a multi-coloured trunk, striped in blue, brown, yellow and white.

Which leads me back to my original question: WHY?

Yes, it can get pretty depressing living in a country where it’s winter eight months of the year. Yes, I know what it’s like to be so desperate for the sight of something not-white that you watch the golf channel just for the sake of seeing green grass and water that isn’t frozen.

But if that’s the motivation, then why not buy a fake palm tree that looks like a palm tree? Green. With a brown trunk.

I guess it’s just one of the great mysteries of life. So the only logical answer to “Why?” is “42”.

Cooking With Spam

December 21, 2011 / Diane Henders / 15 Comments

I have a sneaking sympathy for the manufacturers of SPAM, that “is-it-really-meat” product my mother usually fried with a crunchy coating of cracker crumbs. It must be tough on their self-image to be associated with worthless, annoying email. Maybe that’s why I keep an open mind to the humorous potential of the spam I get on this blog.

Most of it is the garden-variety “buy our product” crap, but every now and then, a true gem lodges in my spam filters to tickle my funny-bone.

For instance: “Excellently constructed report, if all people offered a similar posts just like you, the net would be a more desirable destination.” I’ve seen that particular comment umpteen times, but in this case the context made me laugh when it appeared on my post “Gettin’ Down At A Piss-Up”. Soooo… piss-ups are a desirable destination… yeah, okay, I’ll give you that one.

Or how about this one: “…you still take care of to keep it wise.” …Except for the fact that my post was titled “Brainless”…

And then there was the warmly complimentary, “Excellent facts many thanks for posting about it.” I might have let that one slide under other circumstances, but my post was “Barbie, Celebrity Affairs, and Altering Reality” – a post entirely devoted to the rambling fantasies of my deranged mind.

Then there are the ones I suspect are secret communications in a clever code. Maybe they think since I write spy fiction, I’ll be able to decipher their messages. For example: “I’m gonna watch out for brussels.” Oooookay, then. Good to know. I’ll watch out for brussels, too. Are we talkin’ sprouts, European cities, or what?

This cryptic comment really made me wonder: “tiger blood?” That was it. No other information. Just the question mark, which was obviously intended to be a clue. As in, “Do we have a go for our covert op that’s so badass we code-named it ‘tiger blood’?” Or maybe it’s an honest question: “Is that tiger blood? Or just ketchup?” Or wait a minute, maybe it’s a comment on my savage beauty, my untamed… aah, never mind. Probably not.

But, hell, maybe there is some irresistible attraction at work here. I just got this comment: “I got what you think, thanks for swing up. Woh I am glad to gestate this website”. Well, if you’re swinging, I think you probably got the clap. I haven’t heard the euphemism “swing up” before, but it seems to me a swing-up would be better than a swing-down. I think a swing-down would make it much more difficult to gestate. Besides, a swing-down just seems so… dejected. Deflated. Flaccid. (Yeah, I used that word).

But, like gonorrhea, my visitor’s enthusiasm is infectious. “Woh I am glad to gestate this website!”

Hey, I’m easy. Flattery will get you everywhere. Gestate away to your heart’s content. Just wash your hands before you come to the table.

‘Scuse me while I go fry some of these up with cracker crumbs.

Making Up Is Hard To Blue

December 14, 2011 / Diane Henders / 17 Comments

Ah, the festive season. A time when most women look forward to getting dolled up with glamorous makeup and swanky little cocktail dresses. (I said swanky, not skanky. Don’t put words in my mouth.)

I, on the other hand, try to attend only events where I can wear jeans and swill beer in my usual bare-faced comfort.

Once upon a time, I wore makeup. And by “once upon a time”, I don’t mean, literally, “once”. I mean there was a time in my life, decades ago, when I actually wore it frequently. There are many good reasons why I stopped wearing it. Here’s one of them.

Blue eyeshadow was fashionable when I was in junior high school. I was a geeky kid. The eyeshadow package had instructions. What could possibly go wrong?

My younger sister was involved in a school Christmas concert. Mom had to be there early to help out, and Dad was to bring me along later, in time for the actual performance.

Feeling very grown-up, I decided to wear my new eyeshadow. The package contained two shades of vivid blue. I read the instructions carefully. They said something like, “Apply darker shade on eyelid and blend lighter shade up to brow bone”.

This confused me. I thought eyeshadow was supposed to go on the eyelids. My brow bone seemed a helluva long way up there.

I spent a short time puzzling over the exact definition of “brow bone”, but I didn’t think there was a hidden meaning. I seem to recall actually looking it up in the encyclopedia to make sure I’d gotten it right (I told you I was a geek). No alternate definitions for “brow bone”.

Little did I know that researching “brow bone” was the wrong approach. I should have researched the word “blend”. Or maybe looked in a fashion magazine to see how the real makeup artists did it, though that’s an iffy proposition at best.

Cheerfully oblivious to better judgement, I smeared blue eyeshadow all the way up to my eyebrows.

Dad made no comment, and off we went.

We arrived in the already dimmed auditorium and found seats. Just before the show began, my mother arrived to join us. I distinctly remember the look of horror on her face, but I can’t remember exactly what she said. The gist of her reaction was, “You let her go out looking like that?!?”

To which Dad replied with his usual honesty, “It all looks awful to me. I couldn’t tell the difference.”

I’d like to say I learned my lesson that night and always applied my makeup tastefully from then on. Sadly, however, photographic evidence suggests otherwise. I respectfully submit that I may have been the main reason behind blue eyeshadow’s subsequent decline in popularity. Don’t say I never did anything for you.

These days, I only wear makeup when I’m having pictures taken, which mercifully only happens once every few years. I wear the makeup for exactly long enough to have the picture taken, and then I immediately go home and scrub it all off.

Earth tones only. Never, ever blue eyeshadow.

A Dave By Any Other Name

December 7, 2011 / Diane Henders / 19 Comments

I’ve been called a lot of different names in my lifetime, sometimes by people sincerely trying to get my name right; other times not so much. Like a dog, I focus on the intonation, not the actual words. “Sweetheart” can sound really hostile, and “Hey, Buttbrain” can warm my heart.

Not that anybody’s ever called me Buttbrain. This week.

Some people seem to accumulate nicknames more easily than others, but I suspect there are a couple of factors that influence the process. The truly cool nicknames usually get applied to people who’ve either done something truly cool, or truly dumb. Besides that (dubious) qualification, it seems to me the quality of one’s nickname says more about the creativity of one’s friends than anything else.

I wasn’t overly popular in school.

Wait, gotta run. Minions of the Society for the Eradication of Ridiculous Understatement are breaking down my door to drag me away…

Okay, I’m back. Phew. Lucky I learned those ninja skills while the cool kids were attending all their cool parties.

I didn’t do anything particularly dumb in school, and I missed “truly cool” by an embarrassingly wide margin. My nickname in school was “Fender Bender”, which sounds kinda cool now, but in fact had nothing to do with my driving skills and everything to do with the fact that those are the first two words in alphabetical order that rhyme with “Henders”.

Those who knew me in university might consider “Fender Bender” appropriate, but that wasn’t related to my driving, either. Suffice it to say that you don’t want to narrowly miss running over me in a crosswalk. I get irate when I’m scared shitless.

Later, I acquired some more predictable nicknames: “Di”, and, while Charles and Diana were an item, “Lady Di”, which caused considerable amusement to those who knew me well. Ain’t no ladies here.

Oh, and I was briefly nicknamed “Garbage Gut”, “Mongo”, and “Anklebiter” in university, but those were just passing phases.

My all-time favourite nickname was “Dave”. Back when I was a geek… Oh, never mind.

Back when I was being paid to be a geek, the vendors apparently decided a mere woman couldn’t possibly deal with the intricacies of building computers and networks, so they christened me “Dave”. For the last several years I held that job, most of my outside correspondence arrived addressed to “Dave Henders”.

I didn’t really mind. I figured Dave was probably a pretty cool guy. In fact, I developed a fondness for Dave, so I named a character in my fourth book after him.

The rest of my handles were either insults or endearments, none of them particularly interesting or creative. Though Hubby does call me Gorgeous on occasion, which is just one of the many reasons why I love him.

So, to quote the old chestnut: Call me anything you like; just don’t call me late for dinner.

Or you can call me Dave. That works, too.

What are (were) your nicknames?

Barbie, Celebrity Affairs, and Altering Reality

November 30, 2011 / Diane Henders / 23 Comments

Every now and then, my mind wanders. All right, fine, my mind wanders quite a bit. But sometimes it wanders farther afield than usual, into the realm of the truly ridiculous.

I’ve already mentioned I sometimes wonder whether electronic devices are actually sentient, but here’s another thought that intrigues me: wouldn’t it be cool if you could alter reality with your mind? There are lots of experts out there who say reality is subjective, and we create our own reality through our perceptions. I like that idea.

I usually think of it around the time hail is pummelling my garden. I send psychic waves up into the sky, imagining tents of steel mesh diverting the hailstones away from my slowly liquefying tomatoes and zucchini. It never works, but it gives me something to do besides ripping my hair out.

And I can hardly wait until I figure out how to teleport. Imagine how wonderful vacations would be. You could go anywhere in the world in the blink of an eye, see whatever you want, and then pop home and sleep in your own bed. You’d never have to worry about forgetting something. You could teleport home and water the plants, put the cat out/in, grab your toothbrush, whatever. I really, really want to be able to teleport.

When I was a kid, I wondered if my teddy bears and Barbie dolls came alive at night when I was sleeping. I imagined the teddy bears getting up and walking around, doing teddy-bear things, though I wasn’t quite sure what those might be. Come to think of it, I’m still not sure what those might be. What would a teddy bear actually do if it was alive?

And I imagined the fights and explanations between Barbie, Ken, and Stacey:

“Ken! What were you doing lying on top of Stacey? How dare you?”

“Barbie, I swear, that little kid just crammed us together. I couldn’t help it!”

“Well, you sure took your time getting off her, didn’t you? And where are your pants!?!”

“Honey, you know I can’t move while the kid’s looking! And the pants weren’t my fault…”

While I’m on that topic, I always wondered about poor Ken’s lack of, er, “features”. Was it a tragic industrial accident? A vengeful Barbie? A manufacturing defect?

I also imagined that pictures of people could actually see. It made getting undressed for bed an interesting, if somewhat self-conscious process, what with all those posters of movie-star men hanging on my wall. To this day, I don’t keep a picture of my parents in my bedroom.

Come to think of it, though, that might explain a lot about all the celebrity hook-ups and divorces. When they spend all that time with their faces and bodies crammed against each other inside the pages of People magazine and the tabloids, you’ve got to expect nature to take its course at least some of the time.

What do you think?

Gettin’ Down At A Piss-Up

November 23, 2011 / Diane Henders / 9 Comments

This weekend, we attended the Grape Escape, a showcase of food, wine, and liquor. As usual, there was a mind-boggling and delicious array of food and booze. As usual, we poured ourselves into a cab afterward and managed to maintain a semi-vertical orientation while we staggered into our house.

Many of the other attendees didn’t manage to stay even semi-vertical. By the end of the four-hour event, bodies were propped against the walls, and I was saved from being crushed only because a garbage can intercepted the fall of the very tall man stumbling determinedly in my direction.

Considering that 2,500 shit-faced strangers are confined in one large hall for four hours, it’s a remarkably orderly event, probably due to the pairs of police officers sprinkled strategically throughout the venue. We go every year, so none of this surprised me.

What did surprise me was the sheer number of seductively-dressed women in attendance. I obviously failed to realize the hook-up potential of the show. It was -20 outside. I saw more exposed flesh there than at a Calgary beach in the middle of summer. Not to mention 4”+ stiletto heels, which are truly entertaining when their wearer couldn’t walk a straight line if she was barefoot and holding two handrails.

The crowd was cheerful and all-embracing. Literally. I wore jeans, a T-shirt, hiking boots, and a wedding ring. By the end of the event, guys even started coming onto me. I’m not sure whether they couldn’t see straight enough to realize they weren’t talking to the cute young thing beside/behind me, or whether they just didn’t care that much anymore. Gotta love beer goggles: improving middle-aged women’s self-esteem since the invention of beer.

I felt sorry for the long-suffering vendors by the end of the night, though. I’m pretty sure there were only a handful of us who were still capable of focusing both eyes on the label while they extolled the virtues of their Sauvignon Blanc.

Some of that was their own fault, though. They were generous with their samples, and there were a couple hundred different kinds of beer, wine, liqueurs, and hard liquor. Take even a mouthful of each, and you won’t make it around all the displays. I speak from happy experience here. Very happy.

I was delighted to discover some new favourite beers and wines, but I guess I missed the main point of the event, which was apparently to get pissed and get down.

I didn’t quite achieve “pissed”, but I was close. Next year, I’ll try harder. And maybe I’ll get myself some 4” stilettos, too. It’s cheap amusement to see a guy’s expression when I peer down at him from a 6’2” height. Fortunately, Hubby’s secure in his manhood, and at 5’7”, he doesn’t mind being eye-level with a couple of my more outstanding features.

And, hey, when you’re wearing heels that high, getting down at the end of the evening is a sure thing. Who says four inches can’t be satisfying?

More Beaver!

November 9, 2011September 14, 2012 / Diane Henders / 14 Comments

A couple of weeks ago, one of our senators caused a kerfuffle when she took verbal potshots at our national animal, the beaver. Calling it a “dentally defective rat” and a “toothy tyrant”, she suggested that we should change our national animal to the “noble” and much more photogenic polar bear. Righteous indignation and off-colour jokes abounded.

According to the online poll at CBC, 78.54% of respondents thought the beaver should stay. Comments sections were overwhelmed by thousands of responses. Most of the male writers stated a particular fondness for beavers, though many accidentally omitted the ‘s’. A mere oversight, I’m sure. Female respondents in general tended to exhort the good senator to leave their beavers alone.

In keeping with the typical ugliness of celebrity confrontations, the love lives of the contenders were brought into question, too. Many observed that polar bears will pretty much screw anything that moves, while beavers mate for life, thereby cementing the beaver’s reputation as a morally superior mammal. (No word on the senator’s love life at this time.)

To add to the mud-flinging, photos worthy of the most sordid tabloids were posted, showing a frowsy beaver with a deranged expression, contrasted with a soft-focus photo of a snowy-white, perfectly-groomed polar bear. In retaliation, the polar bear’s weight problem was identified and cruelly ridiculed.

Almost as cruelly ridiculed was the senator herself. The general consensus was that we should keep the beaver and ditch the senate.

In other news, I noticed an article about farmers hunting beavers to save their land from the destructive flooding caused by dams. No eyebrows were raised over this article, though. It’s not exactly news that much time, energy, and money is expended in the hunt for beaver. Or, um… beavers.

P.S. I’m still with my step-mom while she undergoes chemo this week, so I may be slow in responding to comments, and I might not make it around to comment on my favourite blogs. I’m still thinking of you, though. Thanks for visiting!

Ooooo, Scary!

November 2, 2011 / Diane Henders / 8 Comments

Since Halloween was this week, “scary” has been on my mind. It was definitely on my mind when I looked in the mirror this morning, but that’s another story.

“Scary” is such a versatile word. Halloween costumes are good-scary. Haunted houses and ghost stories are creepy-good-scary. Politicians are scary in a stomach-churning, “eeeuw-I-don’t-want-to-think-about-it” way.

There’s exciting-scary, when you’re hurtling down a black-diamond ski run and you catch an edge and almost lose it but you don’t, and the adrenaline slams into your veins and you let out a whoop and haul ass to the bottom grinning like a maniac.

There’s the detached sort of scary you get when you’re airborne immediately after parting company with your dirt bike or slipping on the stairs. It’s that short moment that takes approximately forever to experience, and your brain has exactly enough time to say in calm and reasonable tones, “Oh, shit, this is really going to hurt!”

And then there’s scary-scary. The kind of scary that makes your heart pound and your hands sweat. The kind of scary that makes you drop your shoulder like a defensive tackle and fling little old ladies in all directions as you bull your way through the lineup to get to the toilet before you shit your pants.

Well, maybe not really. And anyway, that only happened once. Don’t bug me.

My point is, even though “scary” is technically defined as a bad thing, we search it out in so many ways. When I was a kid, I always wanted to be something scary for Halloween. Some people would argue that I achieved “scary” on a regular basis, but they may be exaggerating. Though I do have a vivid memory of my mother saying, “Try not to be so… ferocious.” It wasn’t even Halloween.

But I never wanted to be a clown or a princess or a ballerina. I wanted to be a pirate, a headless person, or some other horrifying apparition. I wanted to make people shiver in abject terror. Note the clenched fist and fearsome grimace. I was seven at the time, and my sword was tinfoil-covered cardboard. I wanted a bigger, scarier sword, but cardboard wasn’t to be wasted and tinfoil was expensive.

When I got old enough to understand real fear, “scary” lost some of its attraction. But still, in fiction and movies, we have to have a dose of scary, or the storyline just seems flat. It makes me wonder if cave men sat around telling scary stories, too, or whether they had enough “scary” in their lives without making any up.

What is it about that burst of adrenaline? Maybe it’s the relief afterward. Maybe it’s the bragging rights when you’re sitting in the pub telling the story with a cold one in your hand, and your friends shiver and exclaim and laugh in all the right places.

I don’t know. All I know is, it’s my corporate yearend, and I have to wade through my financial records again. That’s a whole different kind of scary. And that story isn’t going to hold anybody enthralled at the pub, either.

P.S. I’ll be with my step-mom for the next week or two while she starts her chemo treatments, so I may be slow in responding to comments, and I might not make it around to comment on my favourite blogs. I’m still thinking of you, though. Thanks for visiting!

PANIC!! …Nah.

October 26, 2011 / Diane Henders / 19 Comments

It’s funny how the bloggers I follow seem to read each other’s minds. This past week, there have been all kinds of posts about stress, panic, and overwhelm. So what the hell, I’ll get in on it, too.

Panic is an interesting critter. It starts out as, “Oh, crap, I forgot the candles for hubby’s birthday cake”, and instantly morphs into, “Oh-my-God-I’m-such-a-loser-my-husband-will-divorce-me-my-friends-will-hate-me-I’ll-end-up-dying-broken-and-alone-in-a-rat-infested-cardboard-box-under-a-bridge”.

Whoa, say what? That’s good stuff. If I could pour that into an engine, I could blow the doors off some top-fuel dragsters. Zero to insanity in under a second.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not joking about real panic attacks*. But our everyday “panic situations”? Yeah, I’m joking about them. They’re an overrated pastime.

This was inspired by the “Everybody PANIC!” post over at Visiting Reality. Thanks, Linda!

And since Charles Gulotta over at Mostly Bright Ideas reminded me he wants another flow chart (and he just did a stressed-out post, too)… voilà: here’s another scary glimpse into the inner workings of my brain.

Charles, this one’s for you.

Is It Time To Panic Yet?

*If you’ve ever had a real panic attack, you know that on a 0 – 10 Funny Scale, panic attacks are about a -50. A word of advice from someone who’s been there: If you have panic attacks, find yourself a medical professional who specializes in cognitive therapy. You’re not crazy, you’re not a coward, and you’re not weak. Your brain just took a wrong turn down the logic-path and ended up in the “Oh-shit-I’m-about-to-be-eaten-by-something-big-with-sharp-teeth” parking lot. Trouble is, it gets in the habit of taking that shortcut, and the longer you let it do that, the longer it takes to break the habit. And yes, it is possible to stop having panic attacks, it just takes a while. Go take care of it. Soonest. Not kidding. Okay, I’m getting off my soapbox now.

Delusions Of Competence

October 19, 2011October 19, 2011 / Diane Henders / 13 Comments

When I was a kid, I was an obnoxious little know-it-all. This probably explains why I was slightly less popular than herpes.

After a few years, I figured out that nobody likes obnoxious little know-it-alls, but by then it was too late. When you go to school in a small town, your position in the clique hierarchy is established at an early age. It’s probably just as well. I never did get over being a know-it-all; now I just try not to be obnoxious about it. Sometimes I even succeed.

My main problem is that I’m blessed with an overabundance of what I prefer to call “optimism”. This characteristic leads me to believe I can tackle just about anything, and that I can probably have it done before lunch.

It doesn’t seem to matter if I’ve never done it before. I research it a bit and then decide, “Ah, how hard can it be?” The internet has only made things worse. “How-to” videos are my evil enabler.

This has led to a few spectacular successes, a surprising number of acceptable results, and an occasional disaster. Fortunately, I’ve never decided to try brain surgery or air traffic control.

But with age comes wisdom. Back in the old days, I’d jump right in, secure in the knowledge that “I can do it”. Now, I’m much more mature and measured in my approach. Now I jump in hoping I can do it.

Maybe I’m solving the wrong problem here.

I’m not incapable of learning from my mistakes, though. One of my more valuable life lessons arrived as an epiphany in the dressing room at the clothing store: Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should. Sometimes I even remember to apply this wisdom before enthusiastically plunging into another ill-conceived scheme. (Another lesson from the dressing room: spandex should be issued only to those in possession of a current and valid Fashion Police Spandex Permit. But I digress.)

Lately, I’ve been thinking about this “optimism” trait more than usual. My first book hit Amazon.com last week. Three more will be up within the next five weeks. I’d like to point out that, unlike my usual reckless approach, I did actually spend a lot of time learning to write before inflicting my books on the unsuspecting public. But there’s still some little part of me that wonders if this is one of those projects that’s doomed to ignominious failure.

Telling people I’ve written novels makes me feel the same kind of defiant discomfort as if I was admitting I wore adult diapers. (I don’t, by the way. Just sayin’.) There’s the certain knowledge that it’s not a shameful thing, but it’s also slightly embarrassing to admit I spend a great deal of my time interacting with imaginary people. It tarnishes my know-it-all image when people realize I’m spewing pure, unadulterated bullshit.

On the upside, my “optimism” shows me a happy world in which people actually buy my books and enjoy them. Guess I’ll have to wait and see.

I’m hoping for spectacular success. Before lunch, if possible.

P.S. October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. Since my step-mom is dealing with breast cancer right now, I thought I’d share this video with its delightfully, um, solid message. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VsyE2rCW71o&feature=youtu.be (Sorry, guys, this one only has eye candy for the ladies. I’ll let you know if I find a counterpart for prostate cancer awareness.)