Retroactive Weirdness

January 1, 2014October 2, 2018 / Diane Henders / 34 Comments

This probably isn’t a revelation to anybody else, but I was a bit surprised this week when I realized the extent of my own weirdness.

I maintain a file of ideas and thought-snippets for my blog. When something strikes me as odd or funny or disturbing, I pop it into the file. Most of the 60 or so entries are only a sentence or two, and in the spirit of year-end cleanup I decided it was time to develop some of them into blog posts.

What’s more, I realized this post would fall on New Year’s Day.

“Well,” thought I, “What a fine opportunity to wrap up the year with a retrospective of some of the oddments I’ve discovered.”

Little did I know what a can of worms I was opening. Here are a few of the items that amused me this year:

I discovered that it’s impossible to brush my teeth without making my nose wiggle. And now that I’ve noticed it, it’s impossible to ignore. I try, but I can’t look away. Then I end up giggling and spluttering toothpaste everywhere.

I discovered that studies have been performed to determine how often people fart in a day. That in itself tickled my funnybone, but when I found out that the testing apparatus included mylar underpants to trap and measure the emissions, I cracked up. There’s just something hilarious about mylar underpants with a hose attached…

Also on that topic, I discovered that there is actually such a thing as fart-absorbing underwear with a built-in carbon filter. It’s purported to control odour effectively, but there’s no word on how well it muffles the sound effects. I guess you just have to blame the barking spiders for those.

And then there’s Poopourri, which, frankly, is right at the top of my “disturbing” list for many reasons, all of which are illustrated by this commercial. Yes, this is actually a real product, and apparently it’s supposed to work. I just… I got nothin’.

If you’ve managed to recover from that, here’s another goody I’ve been meaning to share with you, my poor suffering victims faithful readers: In a small town named Torrington about an hour northeast of Calgary, there is a Gopher Hole Museum. This museum consists entirely of dioramas containing dead, stuffed gophers dressed up and posed in various activities of human life. Don’t believe me? Check it out: http://gopherholemuseum.ca/dioramas/ And yes, I went to see it, because it just had to be done.

Last but by no means least on the roster of weirdness, I discovered that it is apparently profitable to hoard food items long past the point where they are safe to consume or even possible to contemplate without gagging. Yes, some guy sold a 20-year-old bottle of McDonald’s McJordan BBQ sauce for $10,000: http://sports.nationalpost.com/2012/10/17/an-anonymous-buyer-spent-10000-on-20-year-old-mcjordan-barbeque-sauce/

More to the point; some wack-job bought a 20-year-old bottle of McDonald’s McJordan BBQ sauce for $10,000. One word: Eeuwwww.

I guess I’d better go excavate under the couch cushions and see if I can find some fossilized potato-chip crumbs. They’ve gotta be worth something. Or maybe a half-squished piece of two-year-old popcorn that looks like the face of some religious icon…

Come on, ‘fess up! Somewhere in the back of your cupboard, you’re hoarding a box of Kraft dinner from 1972 that’s worth at least a grand. Right? …Right…?

* * *

I’m on the road this morning, so I’ll be back to reply to comments a little later in the day. Talk to you soon!

The ABC of Me

December 25, 2013October 2, 2018 / Diane Henders / 22 Comments

Many thanks to Shree over The Heartsongs Blog for nominating me for the Awesome Blog Content award a few weeks ago! If you haven’t visited Shree yet, you should – when she’s not writing thought-provoking posts, she’s doing beautiful artwork and mandalas like the one she drew for the ABC award above.

Due to time constraints and my innate laziness, when I receive a blog award I generally link back to a couple of my earlier posts here and here. After all, I figure there’s only so much anybody really wants to know about me, and I think we’re all grateful if I don’t veer off into “too much information”.

But this is a format I haven’t done before and I thought it was fun. And I couldn’t resist Shree’s beautiful hand-drawn award!

So here goes:

A – Animals. Love ‘em all! Yes, even snakes. And especially cats, frogs, and salamanders.

B – Books. I’m an addict. I start to get the shakes if I don’t have at least three books waiting to be read.

C – Cars. I like driving them and working on them. Someday I’ll finish restoring my ’53 Chevy…

D – Dresses. All forms of dressing up are to be avoided whenever possible.

E – Eh. Yep, I’m Canadian.

F – Food. At any hour of the day or night!

G – Gardening. I’m incapable of leaving a patch of soil undisturbed.

H – Home. My favourite place.

I – Infantile. My sense of humour.

J – Jokes. I love any kind of wordplay, even puns. Okay, I’ll admit it. Especially puns.

K – Keystone. I grew up in Canada’s “Keystone Province”: Manitoba.

L – Laugh. I do that a lot. Frequently when I shouldn’t.

M – Milk. My favourite beverage. Yes, I like it even better than beer. Shocking, I know.

N – Nudity. Just checking to see if you’re still reading…

O – Onomatopoeia. A mostly-useless word that refuses to leave my brain, taking up valuable memory space along with my grandparents’ phone number from 1970 and my very first credit card number. You’d think there would be a way to purge that stuff and fill the space with something more useful. Like maybe some current phone numbers.

P – Popular. What I wasn’t in school.

Q – Queen… and Quantum. I love a huge variety of music, and Bohemian Rhapsody is one of my favourites. Plus I’m a science geek, so I’m giving you a twofer! Click here for “Bohemian Gravity”

R – Restaurant. I love eating in restaurants, particularly ones that serve food I can’t (or won’t) make myself.

S – Silence. Ahhhh…

T – Tools. I love tools. Automotive tools, carpentry tools, cooking tools, you name it. Tools, books, and food are the three types of purchase that never need justification in our house.

U – Urban. The opposite of where I like to live.

V – Vivere. My favourite Andrea Bocelli album. Here’s my favourite track from the album, coincidentally also a “V” – Vivo Per Lei:

W – Wild. My imagination.

X – Xenophobic, I ain’t.

Y – Yellow. My favourite colour.

Z – Zoo. What it’s like inside my brain…

And now for the obligations of the award:

The rules for receiving the ABC award are:

1) Thank and link back to who nominated you: Done!

2) Say something about yourself with a word or a phrase beginning with each letter of the alphabet. Done!

3) And of course nominate some other bloggers for the award.

It seems as though a lot of the bloggers I’ve enjoyed in the past have vanished. I always find new ones to enjoy, but today I thought it would be nice to recognize and compliment my favourite long-time bloggers. Here they are:

Within The Sphere (The Blogger Formerly Known As AquaTom)

I know a lot of these bloggers don’t generally accept/participate in blog awards, and that’s perfectly fine – I mean this as a compliment, not an obligation.

If you celebrate Christmas, I wish you a very merry one!

* * *

Update: Winners have been drawn for the Spy, Spy Away book giveaway contest – click here to check ’em out!

Talking Turkey

December 18, 2013 / Diane Henders / 42 Comments

No, I’m not referring to “talking turkey” in the sense of discussing business, nor in the sense of a chatty fowl. What I mean is, sometimes I’m a turkey when I’m talking.

I’ve mentioned on several occasions that my mouth tends to get ahead of my brain at times, and a couple of weeks ago I made yet another conversational gaffe. But before I reveal it, allow me to digress for a moment (I promise this is relevant, as you’ll see shortly).

The concept of noun gender in French tends to confound most native English-speakers. Why “la chaise”, a female chair? Or “le magasin”, a male shop? It eludes logic.

But have you ever noticed that a lot of English-speakers assign gender to inanimate objects, too?

When a pronoun is required in conversation, one of my friends always refers to her car as “she”. Plants often end up with a gender-specific pronoun, too (like Fred, my Norfolk Island pine, and his prickly buddy Dick). Some people arbitrarily assign the female pronoun to all cats, regardless of their actual gender. And, for reasons unknown, I tend to refer to dead turkeys as “him”.

So.

My sister and I were visiting my step-mom for an early Christmas celebration, and we were preparing “Christmas” dinner, complete with turkey and all the trimmings. I had never used an electric turkey roaster before, so I was keeping a close eye on the proceedings. My sister was sanguine about the roaster, but she’s always very careful about food safety, so she was hovering with her temperature probe. (Which suited me fine – I’ve never been fond of Salmonella Surprise.)

We peeked into the roaster an hour before our meal was scheduled, exclaiming over the beautiful golden-brown bird and the delicious smells wafting into the kitchen.

I nodded sagely (’cause you can’t roast a turkey without sage) and observed, “Yep, he’s done.”

My sister inserted her temperature probe, checked the readout, and concurred: “He’s done, but that breast still feels a little tough.”

I waved an airy hand. “Don’t worry, there’s still lots of time. We’ll just turn him down to 225. After he goes down low and slow for an hour, that breast will-”

Everyone in the kitchen exploded into laughter. At last, my sister managed to choke out, “I didn’t think that changed the texture of breasts…”

Bedlam reigned and risqué double entendres volleyed back and forth. In the end, we agreed we should inform our respective husbands that more research was required.

So there’s your cooking tip for the day (regardless of which kind of “cooking” you’re referring to): Going down low and slow for an hour will reward you with a tender, delicious breast.

You heard it here first.

But I still feel like a bit of a turkey.

* * *

The internet is down at my house today, so I’m posting from a coffee shop and probably won’t be able to respond to comments until the afternoon (if I’m lucky and the tech gets everything fixed). Talk to you later…

P.S. If you haven’t entered to win a signed copy of SPY, SPY AWAY yet, here’s the contest link: https://blog.dianehenders.com/do-you-know-me/book-contest/

Airport Deja Vu

December 11, 2013December 18, 2013 / Diane Henders / 36 Comments

I actually wrote this in the airport on Saturday but I’m flying home today, so who knows…?

The sun is coming up and I’m sitting in the airport waiting to board my flight. While I sit here with my carry-on baggage tucked close to my feet so no evil person can tamper with it, I’m reflecting on the changes in air travel since I flew for the first time thirty-some years ago.

After several decades, you’d think things would have changed more than they have. I still feel unaccountably guilty every time I go through security. The boarding lounges are still the same boring rows of uncomfortable seating. In fact, judging by the numbness of my butt, these may even be the very same seats as thirty years ago.

They still ask us to get to the airport an hour or two before our flight, apparently for the sole purpose of clogging the boarding lounge with cranky people.

The aircraft are basically the same. The same cramped seats, the same seatbelts, the same impossibly tiny washrooms. I never cease to marvel at the fact that some people actually have sex in those washrooms. Hell, there’s barely room for me in there. Then again, I guess if you did actually manage to cram two people in there, they’d pretty well have to be having sex.

It’s funny, but the only major improvements are to the airport terminal washrooms and the public-address systems – the two things that aren’t directly related to flying.

I like the automatic flush toilets, except when they flush before I’m done. There’s nothing like a splash of icy water on your ass and a sudden loud noise to get the old adrenaline pumping. But it’s nice to see they haven’t eliminated (sorry) the most critical function of airport toilets: they still project a spray of contaminated water up to three feet when you flush, and it’s impossible to vacate the cubicle fast enough to avoid it. You haven’t truly travelled until you have splatters of toilet water on your pants.

I have a love/hate relationship with the motion-activated water taps and soap dispensers, too. When they work, they’re wonderful. When they don’t (which is most of the time), I feel like an idiot waving my hands up, down, and sideways under an unresponsive spigot. But, whatever. I look like an idiot on a semi-regular basis anyway, so there’s really no added humiliation there.

The change I appreciate most is the improved public-address system. I used to hate those old PA systems that sounded like a garburator attacking a table-setting for twelve. You never knew whether they were saying your departure gate had changed and you had ten seconds to get to the opposite end of the airport; or that your flight had been cancelled altogether; or possibly that a fireball of death was speeding directly toward the terminal and everybody should flee. It’s wonderful to be able to effortlessly interpret the announcements now.

But I’ve just discovered that the more things change, the more they stay the same. The public address system just came on and delivered a lovely, crystal clear message: my flight has been delayed for nearly two hours.

Sigh.

* * *

Since “that new-fangled internet” can be unreliable in airports, I’ll be responding to comments sporadically today… unless that fireball catches up with me. If that happens, all bets are off.

Hortiporn Addict

December 4, 2013 / Diane Henders / 47 Comments

I’ve succumbed to my own sordid vices again. I really thought I had overcome them this fall, but I was wrong. One glimpse was all it took.

The seductive cover photo made my heart pound. I carried the magazine home with trembling hands and smuggled it into my pile of innocuous reading material. I swore to myself I’d be strong this time. I wouldn’t let my base instincts overcome my knowledge of what was good and right.

But the illicit thrill drew me irresistibly.

Just one look, I promised myself. I won’t let it consume me this time.

But one page led to another. Each photo was more tempting than the last. Each coaxed and promised, “I could be yours. Yours alone. Imagine running your hands over my smooth, glossy skin. Imagine my sweet taste on your lips…”

All that firm flesh; all those provocative layouts…

Omigod, look at the size of that…!

And then it was too late. All my good intentions evaporated and I fell straight back into the waiting embrace of my worst weakness.

Yes, I’m ashamed to say I was drooling over hortiporn again.

It’s sheer coincidence the catalogue fell open to carrots and cucumbers.

I swear I’m addicted to seed catalogues. They’re terrible things. The vegetables are so big and beautiful and blemish-free. The flowers are so lush and brilliant. And the worst part is, I know damn well the photos are just as air-brushed and artificially enhanced as pinups in a skin mag. I’ll never grow anything that beautiful in my garden. (Yes, I’m talking about vegetables. Jeez. Everybody knows you can’t grow hot guys in the garden… can you…? ‘Cause I’m willing to try if there’s a possibility…)

Every year I get sucked in. The snow swirls outside, and I curl up on the couch and dream of all the delicious and wonderful goodies I’ll grow next year. I forget all the hard work of planting and hoeing and harvesting. Those vivid colours drive the memories of hard labour straight out of my head, and I get out my pen and start making my list.

And the catalogues come earlier each year. I got this one a little more than a month after I finished planting the *ahem* several hundred fall flower bulbs I *ahem* accidentally ordered last spring. I was sure the memory of planting all those bulbs would dull the lustre of this year’s hortiporn.

Not a chance. One glance was all it took. I remembered how tasty the summer’s harvest was. And how beautiful it was, at least to my eyes:

I know; it looks like work. But it was worth it!

So the seed companies win again. This week’s catalogue was only the first salvo in their attack, and my defences are already breached. Soon more temptation will arrive from at least two other companies. Then the spring bulbs and nursery stock catalogues will come. And in the depths of January, I’ll cave and order another couple of hundred dollars worth of seeds and plants.

But I can quit whenever I want to.

Honest.

Most people dream of tropical vacations. I dream of this.

* * *

Woohoo! Book 7: SPY, SPY AWAY has just been released on Smashwords, and I hope it’ll show up today on Amazon. (Members of my New Book Notification List will get an email as soon as it’s available.) To celebrate, I’m giving away a signed paperback copy. If you’d like a chance (or two) to win it, pop over to my Book Giveaway page.

Love My Beaver!

November 27, 2013 / Diane Henders / 36 Comments

Well, it’s time for another “proud to be Canadian” blog post. In previous years, my national pride has been stimulated by achievements such as world-champion profanity and the world’s fastest motorized toilet.

Fitting neatly into the topic of stimulation, this year I had originally planned to point out that we Canadians are a sexy bunch. A recent study showed we indulge in lots of interesting bedroom shenanigans, with threesomes being a popular choice. After all, it’s cold outside a lot of the time, so what else are we going to do? But my favourite statistic from the study was this: apparently 8% of Canadians have had sex in a canoe.

There’s one for my bucket list. Fortunately, they didn’t specify that the canoe had to be on water to qualify, ‘cause Hubby can’t swim. I’d offer to keep you posted on our progress, but I’m sure you’d rather not know. So moving right along…

I had also considered informing birders that Canada is home to the little-known Kiki bird. Although it’s an extremely common bird, most people in warmer climes have never encountered one. The Kiki can be spotted year-round in extreme northern Canada, and throughout most of the country during the winter months.

It’s a very large bird, completely flightless, and its plumage varies through every colour of the rainbow, making it impossible to determine its gender at a glance. You might think this would make it difficult to achieve a positive identification, but it’s instantly recognizable by its distinctive call: “Ki-ki-ki-riiist, it’s cold!”

All you have to do is step outside whenever the temperature dips below -20 and you’re likely to hear at least one. Go out in -30 or colder, and you’re guaranteed to hear a chorus.

The Kiki bird (winter plumage)

Either of those things would have been worthy of a “national pride” blog post, but today I’m gratified to report our most significant achievement yet: everybody sucks the ass of our national animal.

No, seriously.

My blogging buddy Murr Brewster pointed it out back in October, and she’s not even Canadian. I was buried in writing the final chapters of Book 7 at the time, but it’s one of those things I just have to bring to the attention of my readers, even if I’m a little behind (sorry).

It’s true. Beaver bum goop (actual words used by National Geographic’s columnist) is used in perfumes and as a food component, particularly in vanilla flavourings. And beaver butt smells good. I realize there’s a significant segment of the population that has always insisted beaver smells and/or tastes good; but I always kinda thought it was a subjective and largely gender-based opinion. Now I stand corrected. NatGeo says it’s yummy, so I defer to their expertise.

A couple of years ago, one of our senators had the temerity to insult our national animal and suggest we should change it to the polar bear instead. The backlash was swift and overwhelmingly negative, and no wonder.

After all, what other country can boast that its national animal is industrious, a stellar structural engineer, a devoted spouse, peaceable when left to its own devices, and a formidable fighter when provoked?

In every sense of the expression, its shit doesn’t stink.

Yep, I’m proud to be a Canadian!

I’m Only An Idiot. Whew.

November 13, 2013August 20, 2014 / Diane Henders / 46 Comments

A while ago, I discovered I’m an idiot. That was a relief.

Let me explain…

I’m not exactly a gym rat, but I work out a few times a week. I enjoy competing against myself, in a laissez-faire sort of way. If I don’t do anything stronger or faster, I don’t worry about it too much, and when I do hit a milestone, I’m pumped. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)

But on days when I really underperform, I can’t help feeling a little bummed. That happened to me a while ago – I’d been keeping track of my running times, so I knew roughly what interval I should be hitting. Then I ran a lap and stared in disbelief at my stopwatch, panting and wheezing like steam engine. It was twice my previous time. What a wimp.

Then the hypoxia subsided and I realized my earlier intervals had been half laps. Oops. So I wasn’t a wimp; I was just an idiot. Whew.

The reverse happened last week. I hurt my ankle kickboxing a while ago, so I’ve been doing my cardio on an exercise bike instead of running. I do the random program for half an hour, and crank the intensity up to 10 so I’m working close to my maximum on the peaks. (Sadly, this sounds more hardcore than it actually is – the top setting is 25. But “cranked it up to 10” sounds good…)

Once the program starts, I turn my brain off and just go for it. Last week, my half hour slipped away before I knew it, and I was coming into the final three minutes smugly congratulating myself because my workout had felt so easy. At last, I was making progress! I was a hero!

Until I looked closely at the screen for the first time, and realized I’d set the intensity to 9 instead of 10.

So I wasn’t a hero; just an idiot. Oops. Not so much of a relief.

But sometimes I really do get to be a hero. I love working out when I’m travelling, because just about everywhere is closer to sea level than Calgary. I get down into that nice, oxygen-rich environment, and I am a superhero at the gym! I can run farther, faster, work out harder! It’s fabulous! (A side benefit is that I can drink twice as much beer at sea level before I feel the effects, so I look like a superhero in the pub afterward, too… but I’m pretty sure Marvel Comics isn’t going to be introducing “Middle-Aged Six-Pack Lady” anytime soon.)

Occasionally, I also get a belly laugh from my workouts. The last time I worked out at a hotel fitness centre, I was doing my thing when a guy passed through on his way to some other equipment.

And he stared at me. So I stared back.

So the guy holds eye contact, cracks off a long, rip-roaring fart, and then stumbles over a weight machine, still staring.

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. I suppose it would have been correct to return the compliment, but I lacked the necessary resources at the time. There’s never a bean burrito handy when you need one.

I laughed myself silly after he left, though. I guess that’s what they call a “core workout”.

At least I wasn’t the idiot that time. Whew.

* * *

Postscript: Yesterday when I walked into the gym I encountered an elderly man on his way out. He shot me a big grin, and with a heavy accent proclaimed, “Kickboxing!”

I’m not sure whether I was looking like a hero or an idiot when he saw me kickboxing, but it made my day.

* * *

P.P.S. One of my blogging buddies, Charles Gulotta, has launched a line of everyday greeting cards that address the in-between-occasions of life with his usual quirky sense of humour. Check them out here if you could use a chuckle!

P.P.P.S Another one of my blogging buddies, Tom Merriman, just made me a superhero for real! (Well, kinda for real… as real as cyberspace ever gets…) Check out Middle-Aged Six-Pack Lady here: http://wellheregoes.wordpress.com/2014/08/17/the-middle-aged-six-pack-lady/

Movember Moustache Monikers

November 6, 2013October 2, 2018 / Diane Henders / 31 Comments

Hey, guys, it’s Movember!

I love Movember because it’s a light-hearted way to start conversations about an uncomfortable topic for most guys: prostate/testicular cancer and mental health. Too many of my male friends and family have dealt (or are dealing) with prostate cancer or depression, so promoting awareness is important to me.

(Okay, I’ll admit it. I also love Movember because I have a penchant for men with moustaches. It’s really a win-win for me.)

Last year I did a full month of posts supporting the Movember movement, so this year I’m dialling it back to one post (or maybe two – not sure yet). But just to kick things off, I’d like to reiterate some important advice I offered last year: check out ‘Mo’ Advice For Movember’ for a female perspective on which mo’ to grow. (Hint: Please don’t grow a Kitty-Cat. Just… don’t, okay?)

This year I planned to write a post on all the many reasons why I love male facial hair, but it turns out most of my reasons are X-rated. I realize most people don’t expect good taste or restraint from me, but there is such a thing as ‘too much information’, so I scrapped that idea.

You’re welcome.

Instead, I decided to use this as an opportunity for intellectual growth. So in the spirit of high-minded scholarliness, I offer you some of my favourite moustache monikers:

On a serious note, to all my male readers: Guys, please take care of yourselves. If you’re having trouble with anger or depression, asking for help is a sign of strength, not weakness. And please get your checkups. Remember, earlier is easier.

Here are some resources:

Symptoms, risk factors, triggers, and treatments for depression in men

What is the prostate gland and how does it work?

What to expect during a prostate examination

And last but not least: Guys – remember to use good nutiquette!

* * *

Over to you! Moustaches: love ‘em or hate ‘em?

* * *

Woohoo! Cover art is done for Book 7, ‘Spy, Spy Away’! Check it out!

Bass Ackwards

October 30, 2013November 5, 2013 / Diane Henders / 33 Comments

The other day I was watching the sunrise in the west when it occurred to me that I do a lot of things ass backwards.

I should clarify that I wasn’t watching the sun rise in the west. Just the sunrise. Contrary to certain unkind (if perceptive) speculation, I do actually live on the same planet as everybody else.

It’s just that our house is oriented southwest/northeast on a bit of a slope, so the actual rising of the sun in the east is obscured by the houses behind us but we have a nice view of the mountains from our second floor to the west.

If you look west instead of east at sunrise on a clear day, you’ll see that as the sun rises (or as the world turns, if you want to be technically correct… but I’ve never been a soap opera fan), the shadow of the earth crosses the sky from east to west. The rays of the rising sun form a pink band that chases the dark blue away, sinking lower and lower on the western horizon as the sun comes up. When the pink band crosses the snowy mountains, they glow like fire. It’s all over in a few short minutes, and I love to watch it.

But watching the sunrise in the west makes me backwards to the rest of the world, which is apparently my natural state. This phenomenon has been brought to my attention a couple times in the past few weeks.

I’m right-handed. Strongly right-handed. Always have been.

Except I’ve always dealt cards with my left. And I recently discovered I coil electrical cords to my left. I didn’t realize it until Hubby and I butted heads over it. (Well, I butted heads. He’s the most tolerant guy on the face of the earth.)

There’s an easy way to coil cords neatly; you just add a little half-twist with each wrap. In fact, Hubby’s the one who taught me that. Which is why I was cursing the snarled-up disaster I discovered the last time I went to use the back yard extension cord. I confronted him: “What the hell is this? You’re the one who taught me how to coil cords properly!”

And he said, “I did coil it properly, but it just twisted up in my hands.”

That’s when we discovered that I coil cords left-handed, which meant his right-handed half-twist made it into a full twist and a hell of mess.

He taught me how to tie a bowline knot long ago, too. And I did it correctly for a while, but then I forgot and had to figure it out again on my own. I still tie a perfectly secure bowline, but now it’s backwards.

When you think about it, “ass backwards” should mean my ass is to the back. Which would mean I’m actually facing forward and going the right way.

I’m just going to cling to that interpretation. I like it here in my own little world.

I’m off to watch the sunrise in the west now…

What Was IN That Salad?!?

October 23, 2013 / Diane Henders / 28 Comments

So, the other night I was gambling in Vegas with James Spader and a couple of Klingon women in 70s-style fun-fur maxi coats.

Then things got weird.

As I noted in I Dream Of Dillweed, I usually don’t remember my dreams unless I’m sick. Well, physically sick. Let’s not get into the delicate issue of mental health.

But the other night I had this vivid dream, and James Spader was in it. I have no idea why; I haven’t watched TV for years, and the last thing I saw him in was Boston Legal. Also, though he’s a fine actor, if I was going to dream of an actor there are lots of others I’d prefer to meet in my dreams, ifyaknowwhatImean.

The Klingon women made sense… I guess. I’ve been a Star Trek fan pretty much all my life, but Klingon women aren’t really my type. Though they could have been Klingon men in drag. It’s hard to tell with Klingons. Either way, they weren’t doing it for me.

Also, I was winning in Vegas, which is weird in itself. I was playing video poker (my game of choice, so that was normal). But the machine was spitting out real coins, which doesn’t happen anymore. And I was chortling and stuffing the coins into the capacious pockets of the white painter’s coveralls I wore.

That was all fine until I got the Superhero Distress Call. I thought my blogging buddy Tom was the only one who has an inner superhero, but apparently I do, too. Sadly, she seems a little on the incompetent side.

In the first place, I got my cape on backward. Which actually turned out to be a good thing because I’d forgotten to put on the rest of my superhero suit, so I was running down the sidewalk holding the cape closed over my bare ass.

But that started to make sense when I arrived at Superhero Central a few moments later, and it turned out I had the clumsiest superhero suit ever invented.

All the other superheroes were suited up and leaping into flight, and I was still struggling to pull my suit out of the storage locker. It was stuck underneath its belt, which consisted of a bunch of heavy diving weights strung together on aircraft cable.

I was still trying to yank it free when the Bad Guy launched himself into the air from a black spiderweb trampoline. (The Bad Guy was dressed like Robin from the old Batman comics, except he wore black gloves. That actually makes a bit of sense, because I’ve always thought Robin was disturbing anyway.)

Fortunately, one of the other superheroes realized I was in trouble and came back to rescue me. And he was a handsome superhero, too, which was nice. In fact, he looked remarkably the way I picture John Kane, one of the characters in my books – no surprise, since I’ve been writing my fingers to the bone the last couple of weeks.

Problem was, he didn’t do anything useful; he just jammed a Cone Of Silence (anybody remember that from Get Smart?) over our heads. And then I woke up.

Earlier that evening at the pub I had eaten what they called a “California Salad”: Mixed greens with Brie, spiced roasted pecans, sliced apples… and laced with much-too-sweet cranberry sauce. And no, I didn’t dream that, though I kinda wish I had – the cranberry sauce was gross.

But now I wonder what else was in there…