Life

I’m Older Than I Thought

/ Diane Henders / 33 Comments

I’m finally back in the blogosphere again! My summer was… interesting. I intended to post quite a while ago, and then shit happened. Literally: My FIT came back positive.

FIT stands for Fecal Immunochemical Test, that highly enjoyable exercise in which you have to collect a (euphemistically-named) “stool sample” and have it analyzed for possible cancer markers. I don’t know why they bother using FIT for the acronym. SHIT would be far more appropriate: It describes both the process and the patient’s reaction to salvaging a turd and attempting to “sample” it using the tiny plastic stick provided.

Fortunately, I don’t have cancer. But even though this story has a happy ending, my “end” was downright disgruntled. Because: colonoscopy.

The prep was as usual, and that’s all I’m going to say. If you’ve never done a colonoscopy prep, you don’t want to know; and if you have, you probably don’t want to remember. (But if you really want details, comedian Billy Connolly describes it best: https://vimeo.com/24340828).

Last time I had a colonoscopy it was in combination with an upper GI scope, and conscious sedation was mandatory. As I mentioned back then, the sedation experience creeped me out because I had no idea what my unfiltered mouth might have said during the procedure. This time sedation was optional, so I opted out.

It was a slightly unpleasant and very weird experience. The unpleasantness didn’t surprise me – I wasn’t expecting to enjoy having nearly five feet of colonoscope shoved up where the sun don’t shine.

(Side note: Did you know that colonoscopes have depth gauges on them? I cracked up when I saw it marked off in feet and inches. I kept expecting the doctor to growl, “Aaarr, matey, sound me the depth of this asshole!”)

Anyhow, what I hadn’t expected was the weirdness (other than my own). While the doctor was snaking my drain, several people wandered in and out of the room for no apparent reason, which seemed very odd. Each time, one of the nurses hurriedly remarked, “She’s doing this without sedation.” Subtext: “She’s going to remember this, so don’t say anything inappropriate.” In each case, their response was to glance over at me and say, “Oh, hi.”

Since we were all being so friendly, I attempted a joke while my belly bulged and rippled as the scope navigated loops of intestine: “I feel like a character in Alien.”

*sound of crickets*

They were all too young to get the reference. Apparently there are now entire generations who haven’t been traumatized by chest-busting aliens.

Damn, I’m older than I thought.

Book 18 progress: Sadly, very little. We were bracketed by two different wildfires during the summer so I had the car packed and keys at hand in case we had to evacuate; my back has decided to add leg spasms to its delightful repertoire; and fighting for my disability benefits has been even more fun than wildfires, muscle spasms, and a colonoscopy combined. But I’m not giving up on poor jinxed Book 18! It WILL get done. (Just not this month.)

TMI, Autocorrect; TMI!

/ Diane Henders / 52 Comments

This spring has been a bit… hectic.  I haven’t really had that many things on the go; it’s just that I haven’t had the time / energy / physical ability to do All The Things.  (Which is intensely annoying and stressful to a compulsive DIY-er like me.)  But it is what it is; and I’m trying my best to deal. Mostly I do okay, but…

On one of “those days”, I was running late. So I fired up a text to friends who were expecting me around 1:15:  “I’ll be there by 1:30 – I’m running a bit late.”

(Yes, I realize that texting complete sentences with correct spelling and punctuation makes me a Ridiculously Uptight Old Person.  So be it.)

Anyhow, I have a deep mistrust of technology and a near-pathological hatred of typos; so I re-read the message as my finger approached the Send button. And there it was:  “I’ll be there around 1:30 – I’m rubbing a boy.”

TMI, autocorrect; TMI! (For the record, “rubbing a boy” is not a phrase I’ve ever intentionally typed on my phone, so it was totally making that shit up.) Needless to say, I corrected the autocorrect before I sent the message. 

In this case, the consequences of sending the unaltered message wouldn’t have amounted to anything worse than lots of laughter and unmerciful ribbing, but it was a good reminder to check before I send.  (Unlike the time I emailed an interior design client reminding them of our upcoming inspection of their pubic areas.  Fortunately they saw the humour of the omitted ‘L’ in ‘public’.)

And in other news… I don’t find much humour in the media these days, but here’s a story from our local newspaper that made me laugh:  https://www.pqbnews.com/news/squawk-of-the-town-euro-seagull-screeching-contest-migrates-to-victoria-7987317.  What could be more fun than watching 60 people dressed as seagulls, squawking madly?

And here’s another joyful thing:  Despite my enforced neglect of the garden for the past couple of years, the miracle of spring blooms still happens!

What’s funny or beautiful in your world today?

Book 18 update: I’m on Chapter 25, and Aydan’s new partner just exhibited five completely different personas in under 90 minutes. That’s doing nothing for Aydan’s trust issues!

Baking With Flying Colours

/ Diane Henders / 14 Comments

When I look back at my earlier blog posts, a lot of them describe various ways I’ve embarrassed myself in public:  Butt sweat in plastic chairs, disintegrating shoes, food dangling from my hair, phantom glasses, shenanigans in the dentist’s chair… and the list goes on.

But not recently.  In fact, when I looked back at my blog archives, I discovered that it’s been nearly three whole years since I humiliated myself with a public striptease.

“Aha!” thought I.  “Maybe  I’m finally growing up.  Becoming suave and sophisticated and socially competen-” *record scratch*

Nope.  Apparently the only reason I haven’t embarrassed myself lately is that I haven’t gone out much.

A few weeks ago we were invited over to our friends’ place for dinner, and (congratulating myself on my grasp of social graces) I offered to bring dessert.  I was fairly sure I couldn’t screw it up – I’ve been successfully making chocolate cake since I was ten.

And I didn’t screw it up.  The cake was fine.  But…

I have never been a tidy cook.  And when rotating equipment is involved, things tend to get *ahem* a little sticky.  The blast radius for this cake was nothing out of the ordinary, though.   I assembled the cake, cleaned the kitchen, and then concluded the process with a personal wipe-down.  I was particularly proud of myself for noticing and removing a perfectly round chocolate “beauty spot” that actually looked quite natural on my cheek.

So later in the day we went out, had a delicious meal (including the raspberry chocolate cake) and a lovely evening; and I came home quietly patting myself on the back for not spilling anything or otherwise embarrassing myself.

Until I glanced in the mirror while I was brushing my teeth before bed.  (Wearing a different pair of glasses this time.)  And there it was:  A brilliant red dot of raspberry filling, centred between my brows like an edible bindi.

It must have been concealed by my glasses during my earlier cleanup.  And then I’d taken off the glasses and sallied forth, proudly wearing fruit filling on my forehead.

Nobody mentioned it all evening.  In fact, when I pointed it out to Hubby, he said he hadn’t even noticed it.  So either our friends are tactful people with iron self-control; or we’re all just getting too old to see properly without our glasses.  Either way, I’m calling it a win.

Has anybody else worn food as a fashion statement lately?  Please tell me I’m not the only one…

Book 18 update:  I’m on Chapter 25, and Aydan’s trying hard not to throttle her annoying new partner.  But he might know something critical about her past, so she’ll have to keep her irritation under control… at least for now.

Still Alive

/ Diane Henders / 22 Comments

I’m ba-a-a-ck!

Many thanks to everyone who checked in via comments and email to see if I’m still alive. I am. In fact, I finally feel as though I’m (dare I whisper the words?) *making progress*. It hasn’t been smooth, though.

I’ve always figured household appliances and electronics are not only sentient, but also conspiring to torment humans. So I wasn’t overly surprised when, not long after my laptop caught fire, my desktop computer ground to an error-ridden halt.

Since there was no actual threat to our lives this time, the desktop’s demise merely made me shrug. I spewed a few quiet profanities; but my heart wasn’t really in it. I only had to reload the operating system. I had a bare-metal system backup. No problem.

I fired up the restore program with confidence, and the computer cooperatively ran through the process. Then it popped up a message: “I restored everything just like you asked. Well, everything except the stuff I chewed into a garbled mess just for shits and giggles. Suck on that, meatbag! Hahahaha!!!” (Okay, I might be paraphrasing that message.)

The resulting blue screen offered a few options; but it was only taunting me. Every option pretended to do something just long enough to raise my hopes and waste my time, then it crashed back to the original BSOD. (That’s a geek acronym that stands for ‘Blue Screen of Death’; but if you were thinking it was an abbreviation for BASTARD SOD, well, close enough.)

Fortunately I had more backups. (Yes, I’m completely anal-retentive.)

So I got the desktop computer running again without losing data; but I lost a lot of time. And then it was my corporate yearend, and the black hole of bookkeeping and taxes sucked me down. I clawed my way free only a few weeks ago with my brain wrung out and twitching… just in time for all the last-minute Christmas baking and shopping and New Year’s socializing.

But I sneaked in a few precious hours between crises, so I did get some work done on the (hopefully not cursed) Book 18.

And here we are in a brand-new year. I’m not going to make any foolishly optimistic predictions, but I’m hoping for lots more productive writing time!

Happy New Year!

Book 18 update: I’m at the mid-point of the book, woohoo! Aydan has been demoted twice (in one day) and assigned to a new partner-in-charge who’s completely squirrelly; and she has less than 24 hours to find and save two innocent people from dismemberment and death… all while avoiding an assassin. Plus, Kane is hiding something and refuses to talk about it. Pretty much par for the course for Aydan, but suddenly my own life looks remarkably simple and trouble-free! 😉

Verbal Diarrhea

/ Diane Henders / 29 Comments

The other day I witnessed what was either one of the more inconsiderate behaviours I’ve seen in a while; or possibly a diabolically brilliant business strategy. I’m still not sure which it was, but either way I had to struggle to hold in my inappropriate laughter. (Because if I had let out the full-on-snorting belly-laugh the situation deserved, it would have made me just as rude as the original perpetrators. Life is complicated. But funny!)

Anyway:

Hubby and I had decided to try one of the local Chinese restaurants, and they offered a buffet. Buffets are my kryptonite, because they’re so expensive I feel as though I should eat enough to get my money’s worth. (Which is probably why they’re so expensive, but chicken/egg; whatever.) Anyhow, I resigned myself to the inevitable pain of an overfull belly, and threw myself at the food.

As I returned to our table with my first dish (a cup of yummy hot-and-sour soup), I tuned into the conversation at the table next to us. I’m not normally an eavesdropper; but even though I didn’t want to listen, I had to. And so did everybody else in our part of the restaurant. This couple didn’t seem to grasp the concept of volume control.

And what was the focus of their animated discussion, you ask? Well, what else: Their dog’s diarrhea. Thank you ever-so-much for that detailed description of mucus, blood, and shit.

I’ve been blessed with an ultra-high squeamishness threshold, so my appetite was unaffected. In fact, I had to clamp my lips together to prevent myself from snickering. (Which was a noble sacrifice: Hot-and-sour soup is hostile to sinuses.)

After stifling my initial snort of hilarity, I did my best to ignore the clueless pair. I figured that, like the unfortunate dog’s affliction, this too would pass.

But I was so wrong.

For the whole hour we were in the restaurant, their too-loud conversation never varied. It was funny initially, but then it just got weird. And as the weirdness registered with me, I started wondering why two people would discuss doggy diarrhea for an hour, ever; but especially while eating in public.

That’s when the giggles returned with a vengeance, because the only reason I could imagine was that they’d been hired by the restaurant owners to make buffet patrons lose their appetites. (I told you it was diabolical.)

I guess we’ll never know, but I’m tempted to go back on another Saturday night to see whether the poop-obsessed pair are there again.

But I’d better not. If they were performing again, I’d probably abandon what little maturity I possess and try to out-gross them. I’m pretty sure I could. At a long-ago party, I once recited a limerick so vile that grown men fled, leaving the beer keg behind. (I probably shouldn’t be proud of that.)

Anybody else overheard any *ahem* interesting conversations lately?

Book 18 update: So, you know how my laptop caught fire and I speculated that Book 18 was jinxed? Long story short: Yep, it’s jinxed. I’m still trying to get a new laptop set up.

Short story long:

After wasting an annoying amount of time shopping and deliberating, I bought a new laptop. I had it nearly set up and customized when I noticed heat building up in the case, right below where I rest my left hand when typing. A lot of heat. Too much heat to comfortably rest my hand there for more than a few minutes. Uh-oh. But I cautiously persisted… until the display started to vibrate and flash. DONE! Returned.

More shopping / deciding / ordering / unpacking / setting up the next candidate…

At which point Microsoft informed me that my MS Office had been activated too many times. Of course it had: The first laptop burned without giving me a chance to deactivate the software; and I was so annoyed with the overheating laptop that I didn’t think of deactivating the MS Office license before I wiped the machine and sent it back.

So now I have to decide whether to wrangle with Microsoft over license activations for ancient MS Office 2010 (a fool’s errand at best), risk file corruption by using a newer version of Office on my laptop while keeping the antique version on my PC, or spend an obscene amount of money for two licenses of the latest MS Office.

Or I could switch to LibreOffice, which is free but causes file corruption when saved repeatedly between MS Word and LO. (Sadly, I know this from personal experience.) So then I’d have to load LO on my PC, too; but I’d still need MS Office because I need Outlook to sync its calendar and contacts with my iPhone…

Argh!

Jinxed… And Incredibly Lucky

/ Diane Henders / 43 Comments

So, remember how I speculated that Book 18 might be cursed?

Well, here’s what happened this morning:

Yep, that is one seriously fried laptop.

I was in the shower, but fortunately Hubby was just down the hall when he heard a loud hissing noise. It took about 20 seconds for him to think “What the…?” and run to living room. By then, my laptop was belching out enough toxic smoke to fill the entire house.

Luckily it didn’t actually catch fire, and Hubby (my hero) grabbed the smoking corpse and chucked it outside. We’ve been airing out the house ever since.

Another stroke of good fortune (which I prefer to call ‘good planning’) is that I back up my files daily, so I didn’t lose anything except peace of mind and a whole bunch of adrenaline.

But since my back is still too cranky for me to work steadily at my desktop computer, this means another delay while I get a new laptop and set it up so I can work in other positions besides seated at my desk.

Poor Book 18. I promise, I haven’t given up!

But overall I’m incredibly grateful. It’s a whole lot easier to replace a fried laptop than a fried house. So, ’scuse me while I take a few deep breaths (outside, where it isn’t stinky) and give thanks for my staggeringly good luck!

STILL Not Smarter Than A Cervid

/ Diane Henders / 14 Comments

Remember how I heaved a sigh of relief when the deer finally left our yard?  And remember how I speculated that Mother Nature must have finally decided I’d been punished enough?

Ha.

I’ve always suspected Ma Nature has a sadistic streak, so it was with a sense of inevitability that I discovered more damage in my garden last month.  Only this time it was serious. 

Every morning I trudged miserably out to catalogue the newly-denuded stumps of cherished fruit trees, veggies, rose bushes, and other ornamentals… despite the 8-foot-tall fence around our yard.  Every afternoon I added more fortifications, until the yard was crisscrossed with complex mazes of fencing and netting. The deer got more and more brazen, strolling around and chowing down on the garden even in broad daylight.

Hubby and I sharpened into a precision tactical team.  With a single cry of “Deer!”, we both rushed for the door:  I (carrying my Gel Blaster) to open the gate; and Hubby stealthily circling around from the rear.  Then I fell back and together we stalked the deer, easing it toward the gate and then opening fire with shouts and soft-gels to drive it through.

We kicked that deer out of the yard several times a day, and every evening.  Each time the deer would trot across the road before slowing… and then circling right back.  And it kept getting back in, throwing itself at the fence until the wire ripped from its posts and it could scramble over.  The garden was decimated, and I felt besieged.  What the hell was wrong with this damn deer? We’ve lived here seven years and no deer has ever attacked the fence before.

At last, all was revealed when Hubby glimpsed the deer in the woods:  It wasn’t an ‘it’; it was a ‘she’.  And she had a fawn.  No wonder we couldn’t keep her out.

Without much hope, I purchased a deer call to simulate doe grunts.  The salesman at Cabela’s openly laughed at me, and in my heart of hearts I knew he was right:  There was no way I was going to be able to lure the baby outside the fence.

But the very next morning, Mother Nature (and Mother Deer) finally relented.  I looked out the window and there was Mom in the yard… with two fawns gamboling after her.  Absolutely adorable!  And, more importantly, positioned so that we could herd them out the gate.

After all our practice, it was ridiculously easy.  Mom knew the drill by then.  In fact, I’m pretty sure she was counting on us to open the gate so she and her babies could leave the nursery.  The operation was accomplished in only a few minutes, and they trotted calmly away into the forest.  As Mom flicked her tail nonchalantly in our direction, I read the thought-bubble above her head:  “Stupid humans.”

And I hardly even minded, because the fawns were SO cute.  (And SO GONE!!!)

But I haven’t relaxed.  In just a few short weeks, the fawns will be old enough to jump almost as high as the mother.  I really hope they’ve forgotten about our yummy garden buffet…

Book 18 update: I’m beginning to wonder if this book is cursed. Every time I start to make progress, something else goes haywire. But despite demonic deer, a forced transfer to a completely new publishing distributor, some necessary updates to book covers and promos, “fire-smarting” our house and yard for the current wildfire season, AND another round of medical appointments for my cranky back… I’ve managed to complete Book 18’s plotting! Stay tuned for writing progress, hopefully soon. 🙂

Smarter Than A Cervid… Not.

/ Diane Henders / 25 Comments

Every now and then Mother Nature sticks a pin in my ego just to hear it pop.  Apparently this spring she decided I was getting too big for my britches, and her rebuke was swift and humiliating. So the story begins…

Here on Vancouver Island, deer are smug. They don’t even bother to stop grazing on your prized perennials until you get within 20 yards or so.  Then they look you square in the eye with an expression that clearly says, “Get lost.  You’re interrupting my meal.”  They’ll only move on (grudgingly) if you run at them, waving your arms and yelling.  Dumb deer. 

(I’m pretty sure Mother Nature snickered with evil anticipation when I uttered those words.)

We have an 8’ high pagewire fence to keep the deer out of our garden.  It works fine, unless a tree falls on it. So when I glanced out the window and spotted a deer chowing down on my tulips, I didn’t need three guesses to figure out what had happened.

That’s when I made my first mistake:  I charged outdoors yelling and waving my arms. And instead of fleeing via the open gate, the deer strolled away and vanished into the forest behind our house.  Hubby and I checked the fence line, and discovered where a giant tree had fallen and smashed the fence flat.

Then we made our second mistake:  We repaired the fence, assuming that the deer had departed via the same route it had arrived.  (They usually do.)

But no; this time we discovered we’d trapped the deer inside. 

That kicked off a gong show of ever-escalating attempts to evict the deer:  Purchasing a motion-activated trail camera; floundering through dense woods looking for deer shit and tracks; crashing around in said woods with air horns and whistles; getting the neighbours to bring over their dogs; installing a high-wattage yard light; and constructing an elaborate corn-baited trap against the gate, so we could open the gate and release the trapped deer outside the perimeter.

Each time I came up with a new ‘foolproof’ plan, I patted myself on the back for being smarter than a cervid. 

But each time, the deer outsmarted me.

At last, Mother Nature must have decided I was suitably chastened.  One morning I spotted hoofprints and disturbed ground near a low point in the fence (right beside our brilliant trap).  Apparently the deer had simply gotten bored and left.  In fact, there’s a pretty good chance that for a few days the deer was jumping the fence both ways: Coming in to snack on the corn bait and then departing without triggering the trap. Embarrassing.

But despite the revelation that I’m dumber than a deer, I’m still calling the episode a win: The deer is gone and hasn’t returned.

Kinda like my pride, actually…

Book 18 update: I’m on Chapter 22, and Aydan’s former enemy is suspiciously friendly. Aydan’s not buying it, but she has to play along… for now.

Twit-ish Bitch

/ Diane Henders / 33 Comments

After months of unusually mild weather, winter finally decided to kick our soft wimpy West-Coast rumps last week. The rest of Canada plunged into deep-freeze temperatures of -30°C to -50°C (-22°F to -58°F), and here on temperate Vancouver Island, we went down to -10°C (14°F).

But I really like to sit outside every morning and drink my tea. Most people would consider subzero temperatures a good reason to change that tradition, but I’m pig-headed dedicated.

Before I start this story, I should note that we live out in the boonies. Gunfire isn’t exactly usual but it happens, especially during hunting season. So it’s comforting to be able to identify firearms by the sound of the shot. The flat ‘bang’ of a distant shotgun doesn’t concern me much, but the ringing report of a rifle never fails to make me hurriedly estimate range and direction. 

Next point: Our nearest neighbours have dogs. One is a good watchdog that only barks when a potential intruder approaches. The other is a brainless twit that barks just because she likes to hear herself. 

(I’m probably judging the dog too harshly. She doesn’t bark all the time. The owners are good neighbours, responsible pet owners, and all-round nice people. They say the female barks whenever she can smell a bear. There are a LOT of bears around here and they don’t always hibernate, so it’s certainly possible.)

But regardless of whether the bitch is a twit or I’m just a crabby old bag (or both), the end result is the same: The barking sprees get annoying to the point where even I, who love animals and would never harm one, start harbouring dark fantasies about making the damn dog shut up.

So.

I was sitting out on my porch, wrapped in a blanket and sipping tea; and the idiot dog was barking her fool head off. After twenty minutes of steady barking, a sour thought flitted through my mind: “There’s nothing wrong with that dog that a bullet to the brain wouldn’t fix.”

A shot rang out. The dog fell abruptly silent. My subconscious snapped “.22 rifle, damn close!” 

Some silly part of me thought, “OMG, did I just do that with the awesome power of my mind?”

An instant later my smarter self realized, “Holy shit! Somebody just shot the neighbours’ dog!”

I scurried indoors and texted the neighbour, whilst keeping an eagle eye on the road just in case the continuing shots were coming my way.

The neighbour texted back with reassuring rapidity: Nothing to worry about; he’d just gotten a new .22 and was sighting it in. It hadn’t occurred to him that we’d even hear it at our place, since nobody in their right mind would be sitting outside in the cold. (He politely omitted the last part of that sentence.)

I drew a deep breath of relief and got on with my day. 

But… I haven’t heard the dog bark since then. Hmmm. Remind me to stay on good terms with that neighbour. Just in case.

*

P.S. Could you please answer three quick one-click questions? (Anonymously, of course.) Click here to go to the poll. Thanks for your help! 🙂

Book 18 update: I’m on Chapter 14, and Aydan and her co-workers are locking horns with their new boss after less than a day on the job. Even John is keeping his head down!

Wardrobe Dysfunction

/ Diane Henders / 31 Comments

I was tempted to title this post “Wardrobe Malfunction”, but my compulsive desire for accuracy prevented me: I haven’t (recently, anyway) flashed any inappropriate body parts to an unsuspecting audience. But my wardrobe is definitely function-impaired.

I’ve mentioned before that I hate dressing up, and my wardrobe reflects that. Fortunately, I don’t really care; except on the rare occasions (like last week) when I’m forced into it. Then I scurry into the time capsule that is my closet, and flip through its contents hoping that at least one of my ancient outfits will roughly correspond to the current fashions. This quest would be considerably less stressful if I were actually familiar with the current fashions; but that knowledge always eludes me.

For nearly any other ‘how-to’ instructions, YouTube is my first and last destination. But for fashion? Oh hell no.

You’d think that videos titled “Fall Fashion Trends for 2023” would be a slam-dunk, but as I studied the incomprehensible mishmash of tight / baggy / long / short / wide / narrow / unadorned / blingy / classic / holyshitwhat-is-she-wearing garments, the only conclusion I could draw was that “the current style” is “any style of clothing I’ve worn anytime within the past five decades, and then some”.

But I’ve lived long enough to know that can’t be true. In fact, the “current fashion” is “any clothing that looks like any style I’ve worn in the past five decades, but in fact has been bought within the past ten minutes at an outrageously inflated price”.

So I did what I always do: Grabbed one of my old standbys, and went out and had a good time anyway.

And to my shock, all my clothing performed faultlessly, and so did I. No embarrassing exposures. No sticky disintegrating shoes. No errant vegetables swinging in my hair. No food-flinging. No awkward hair-related twitching or squirming. Good Lord, could I finally be developing some social graces, or at least a minimal level of social competence?!? (Don’t answer that. I prefer to cling to my illusions.)

Anybody else want to join my fashion rebellion?

Book 18 progress: I’m on Chapter 12 and Aydan is having one of those days. She managed to escape charges for assault and breaking and entering; but indecent exposure and public intoxication are still a possibility…