Diane Henders

Ping-Pong Brain

/ Diane Henders / 32 Comments

It’s a small feather-weight sphere containing nothing but air, and it ricochets wildly off hard surfaces (such as the inside of my skull) at approximately Mach 2.  Yep, I’ve got Ping-Pong Brain.

Between the release of Book 11, a Bookbub1 promo for Book 1, and my website redesign, the past few weeks have slowly drained my brain’s contents while accelerating its activity until there’s nothing left but a frantic sense of urgency and the attention span of a super-caffeinated gnat.

For instance, moments ago I clicked over to the internet to find out whether the Style Guide recommended capitalization on the word ‘Mach’, and I found a site dedicated to those pesky word usages that are so easy to screw up:  http://stage-door.org/stampact/traps.html.  The first few paragraphs are standard fare, but if you scroll down to the alphabetical list below there’s a fascinating (and immensely time-sucking) list.

I got sidetracked and wasted a good 15 minutes before I smacked my brain back in the direction I’d originally intended.

After a few more attempts at concentration, I realized that the probability of producing a coherent post for today was approximately equal to that of being picked up by a squadron of flying pigs for a nice aerial tour of the frozen flames of hell.

So I’m not even going to attempt it (neither the coherent post nor the scenic flight with AirPorcine). Instead, here are a few random things that have made me giggle lately:

The following article is a few months old by now, but I still find it funny (in a sad sort of way) that the people of Siberia preferred Barsik the cat to any of their other political options: http://www.cbc.ca/news/world/barsik-cat-siberia-russia-barnaul-1.3373334.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a follow-up article, so I don’t know whether Barsik actually won the election.

Next there was a salvo in the ongoing good-natured culinary skirmish between Hubby and me.  I tend to get creative when I’m cooking, while he prefers to follow detailed recipes.  This creates a certain amount of friction when he’s trying to duplicate one of my dishes:

Hubby:  “How much (ingredient) do you put in?”

Me:  “Um… a bit…  Maybe, um, a teaspoon?  Or maybe a bit more.  This much.” *dumps ingredient into palm and displays the small heap*

Hubby (long-suffering):  “And how long should I cook it?”

Me:  “Until it’s done…?”

Hubby:  *grinds teeth*

So he sent me this:

Measuring spoons for a tad, dash, pinch, smidgen, and drop

Measuring spoons for a tad, dash, pinch, smidgen, and drop

These are the official conversions:

  • Tad = 1/4 teaspoon = 1.25ml
  • Dash = 1/8 teaspoon = 0.625ml
  • Pinch = 1/16 teaspoon = 0.3125ml
  • Smidgen = 1/32 teaspoon = 0.15625ml
  • Drop = 1/64 teaspoon = 0.078125ml

(He thinks this will help, but in fact he’s only given me more obscure units of measurement with which to annoy him.  Shhh, don’t tell.)

And finally, my diminished concentration resulted in yet another silly misread.  A couple of days ago, this article came up in my news feed:

nose hair conditioner

I must have a nostril-hair fixation, because I read “Your Nose Hair Is A Bad Conditioner”.  It speaks to my disordered state of mind that my mental critic said, “Well, yeah; duh.  Who’d use nostril-hair as a conditioner?”  I had actually scrolled down about three articles before I went, “Wait, what?”

And that’s my brain this week, ping-ponging from cats to cooking to conditioners.  How was your week?

* * *

If you’re interested in the Book Club, I’ve posted a few thoughts about the format for discussion.  I’d really appreciate your input on 4 questions – please click here to reply.  Thanks! 

1 If you haven’t discovered Bookbub.com yet, you may or may not thank me for mentioning it.  It’s a bargain e-book notification service, and you can sign up to receive emails (daily or weekly) containing free and discounted e-books in the genres you select.  It’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to my to-read list… but then again, I’m happy at the sight of 50 books piled up ready to read.  If a burgeoning TBR list stresses you out, you may want to skip Bookbub. 😉

A Sticky Situation

/ Diane Henders / 61 Comments

Adhesives hate me.  No matter how they’re ‘guaranteed to stick’, I’ll somehow create a situation in which they won’t.  Or they’ll stick exactly long enough to lull me into believing they’re set, and then fall apart.  Or worse, they’ll create an unbreakable bond at the wrong moment, in the wrong place, and with the most unpleasant consequences possible.

Take Crazy Glue, for example.  “Glues Anything!” they shout.  “Super Strong!  Bonds in Seconds!”

Maybe that’s true for everybody else, but not for me.  They don’t call it Crazy Glue because it’s crazy-strong; they call it that because it’s guaranteed to make me crazy in short order.

I carefully peruse the instructions.  Prepare all the surfaces as directed.  Apply the glue, hold the pieces together…

And hold.

And hold…

Five minutes later, I’m still holding the damn thing and it’s still not stuck.

Apply more glue.  Repeat the process.

Nope.

Then, after the third attempt, it finally sticks… long enough for me to breathe a sigh of relief and gently, carefully, place it on my workbench to cure.

Then it falls apart.

If I’m smart, that’s when I quit.  But I’m not good at admitting failure.

So I try one more time.  By now glue is oozing out of the joint and it sets up like stone, creating great gobs that are far more durable than the original material.  So there’s no way to clean it off without damaging the item (farther) beyond repair.

I don’t have any better luck with other products.

Shoe Goo is supposed to be ideal for repairing boots or shoes (unless you’re trying to repair hiking boots that have been waterproofed with mink oil).  Tuck Tape will stick to vapour barrier without fail (unless you’re outside in sub-zero temperatures trying to rig up a plastic shelter to keep the snow off your grapevines).

A few days ago I tackled a simple project:  mount a 2’x3’ poster on a painted wall.  I asked Hubby for some of the sticky poster-putty he’d used (successfully, I might add) only last week.

Putty in hand, I eyed the poster.  It wasn’t thick or heavy, but it had a glossy finish.  Already I sensed impending doom.  But I squished it onto the wall, hoping for the best.

By the time I got to the fourth corner, the first one was already peeling off.

Not off the glossy poster.  That would have made sense.  No, the putty was peeling off the painted wall, where it should have stuck.

I tried again.

Failed.

Fine.

Got out the masking tape and taped the poster to the door instead.  Done deal.

I’d walked a whole ten paces away when a derisive whisper reached my ears:  the sound of a poster slithering to the floor.

The masking tape had let go of the door.  It bonded permanently to the poster, though, so of course it wrecked the edges when I tried to peel it off.

But wait! I will wrest triumph from the jaws of defeat!

I’m gonna wash down my door and walls, bottle the result, and sell it to politicians in a fancy canister labelled “Spray-On Weasel Grease – Inconvenient Promises Will Never Stick To You!”

And then I’m gonna NAIL that goddamn poster to the wall.

I anticipate this:

nailed cartoon small

Note:  I’ll be doing website updates over the next several days, so expect some changes around here!  I hope it’ll all be fine, but I never quite know what’s going to happen until I press that final button. If the site looks odd or doesn’t seem to be working properly, please comment below or email me.  Thanks in advance for your patience and assistance!

Serious, For Once

/ Diane Henders / 73 Comments

(Don’t worry, this is a temporary aberration. I promise I’ll be back to my usual foolishness next week.)

I try to avoid being serious whenever possible, but my father-in-law lost his battle with cancer last Thursday so I’m not quite myself this week. We knew his time was getting short so we were able to say our goodbyes, but many people aren’t so lucky.

The following is a post I wrote ‘way back in 2013.  I didn’t share it at the time because it was more solemn than I generally like to be, but today it seems fitting.

* * *

I’m at the age where mortality starts to get up in my face a little more each year. One of our friends just died of a heart attack at age 47, another at 50. Other friends are being diagnosed with cancer, heart disease, diabetes, you name it. “Catching up with the news” used to mean hearing about happy things like weddings and babies. Now it’s diseases and funerals.

You just never know when your time is going to run out.

I drive the highways quite a bit, and I see lots of memorials beside the road. One I pass frequently is a white cross with a hard hat and safety vest hanging from it. There are bouquets of flowers beside it in the ditch, along with hand-lettered signs that say, “Miss you, Dad”, and “We love you, Dave”.

The little roadside shrines always make me sad. Sad that somebody lost a loved one in an accident, but sadder still that Dave’s buddies probably never said, “We love you, Dave” while he was alive.

Why is it so hard to tell people what they really mean to us? Imagine how Dave would have felt if one his buddies slapped him on the back and said, “Man, I love working with you. Your sense of humour makes my day.” Or whatever they loved Dave for.

Maybe he made up rude song lyrics and sang them off-key and it made everybody laugh. Maybe he bought a round for the guys every Friday night. Maybe he was always willing to swap a shift so a co-worker could go to his kid’s hockey game. Or maybe he was the sympathetic ear everybody turned to when they needed to blow off steam. Whatever it was that made him special, I’ll bet Dave never knew how much they appreciated him.

And now it’s too late to tell him.

We’ve got so many commercialized occasions for “heartfelt” cards and gifts. Mother’s Day and Father’s Day and Valentine’s Day are fine, but they’ve become obligations and you’re in trouble if you miss them. So you stuff a card in an envelope; buy some flowers; go out for a nice dinner; bang-boom-done-for-another-year. All the “heartfelt” your money can buy.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we created a new occasion? No cards or gifts allowed. Just one day out of the year where our only obligation is to say something nice that we’ve thought to ourselves but never said.

And not just to parents or spouses. How about to co-workers, doctors, baristas, teachers, or cleaning staff? No big embarrassing fanfare, just a quiet, sincere “You make my life better”. Or “We love you, Dave”.

Nobody else even needs to know we said it. Only the person who truly needs to hear it.

Maybe we could do it more than once a year, too.

It’s just a thought.

* * *

And on that note, thank you to all my readers. I don’t blog because I like flapping my virtual gums; I do it because you wonderful folks brighten my day with your comments. Thanks for taking the time – you’re the best!

What’s Your Hippie Name?

/ Diane Henders / 84 Comments

This week’s post comes to you with many thanks to @glbryant, whom you will likely recognize as one of my dedicated commenters on this blog.

Last week he emailed me to say he was re-reading Book 10 in preparation for the release of Book 11, and he’d realized all over again how absolutely irritating one of the characters was. (Fortunately I had intended Tyler Brock to be annoying.)

For those who haven’t read the series, Brock could make a saint blaspheme, which led @glbryant to speculate that even Moonbeam (an earth mother from Book 9 who renames everyone with hippie-type handles) wouldn’t be able to tolerate him.

This quote from his email says it all:  “…if Brock had spent any time at the commune, his name would’ve been Astral Penis-Pox Douche-Weasel.”

Which left me both inspired and rolling on the floor in tears of laughter.  Not only that, but it was remarkably prescient on his part, because both Moonbeam and Tyler Brock are in Book 11. (Unfortunately, Moonbeam doesn’t assign a hippie name to Brock.  Missed opportunities. *sigh*)

So, without further ado, I present the Earth Spirit’s Name Generators, one for the good guys and one for the bad guys.  Discover your hippie name below by looking up your initials in the tables, or feel free to make up one of your own.  Post your good-guy name below (and your bad-guy name if you dare).

Turns out my good-guy name is Starry Shining Poem (which is a little lame).  But I totally make up for it with my bad-guy name:  Deranged Zit-Nibbler.

(Note:  I swear I didn’t purposely assign words to the initials of people I know.  That would have required far more forethought and evil intent than I can muster.)

Good-Guy Hippie Name

 First Name  Middle Name   Last Name
 A – Astral  A – Misty  A – Dreamer
 B – Venus  B – Floating  B – Song
 C – Blessed  C – Flowing  C – Karma
 D – Starry  D – Singing  D – River
 E – Heavenly  E – Cloud  E – Stream
 F – Moonbeam  F – Shining  F – Dancer
 G – Cosmic  G – Desert  G – Whisper
 H – Aurora  H – Soaring  H – Poem
 I – Sage  I – Sky  I – Breeze
 J – Sunbeam  J – Earth  J – Heart
 K – Beloved  K – Soul  K – Journey
 L – Zen  L – Rainbow  L – Miracle
 M – Dharma  M – Star  M – Butterfly
 N – Infinite  N – Peace  N – Prophet
 O – Harmonious  O – Sparkling  O – Seeker
 P – Emerald  P – Crystal  P – Spirit
 Q – Summer  Q – Flower  Q – Nirvana
 R – Ambrosia  R – Blazing  R – Freedom
 S – Feather  S – Glowing  S – Universe
 T – Crimson  T – Daylight  T – Quest
 U – Sundance  U – Serene  U – Daydream
 V – Autumn  V – Secret  V – Hope
 W – Wind  W – Brilliant  W – Utopia
 X – Dusk  X – Sunray  X – Singer
 Y – Tranquil  Y – Truth  Y – Ocean
 Z – Azure  Z – Revelation  Z – Jewel

Bad-Guy Hippie Name
(Firstname with hyphenated Middlename-Lastname)

First Name Middle Name Last Name
 A – Sleazy  A – Douche  A – Groper
 B – Stoned  B – Pox  B – Gargler
 C – Creepy  C – Rat  C – Bucket
 D – Deranged  D – Toad  D – Humper
 E – Slimy  E – Spit  E – Fondler
 F – Easy  F – Zit  F – Waffle
 G – Wacko  G – Weasel  G – Blister
 H – Pantywaist  H – Poop  H – Nibbler
 I – Diseased  I – Dong  I – Gobbler
 J – Sucky  J – Scum  J – Juggler
 K – Nutjob  K – Booger  K – Poker
 L – Whiny  L – Pube  L – Chomper
 M – Brown-nosing  M – Donkey  M – Squeezer
 N – Snivelling  N – Wombat  N – Butt
 O – Obnoxious  O – Jizz  O – Guzzler
 P – Babbling  P – Vulture  P – Muffin
 Q – Wimpy  Q – Goblin  Q – Licker
 R – Lecherous  R – Monkey  R – Stroker
 S – Sick  S – Platypus  S – Whacker
 T – Twisted  T – Snot  T – Crumpet
 U – Skeezy  U – Puke  U – Banger
 V – Sketchy  V – Turd  V – Picker
 W – Wasted  W – Meat  W – Jiggler
 X – Bombastic  X – Pus  X – Sucker
 Y – Squirrelly  Y – Slime  Y – Dongle
 Z – Wanking  Z – Pecker  Z – Tickler

* * *

And in other news…

I’ll be updating my blog and website in the next few weeks, and since you’re the ones who have to look at it, I’d very much appreciate your input.  I’m just in the planning stages right now, but here are a few things I’m considering:

  • A larger font
  • More obvious menus to get to pages like Books and Guest Book
  • A link to Pinterest boards where we can all indulge our fantasies by selecting actors to play each of the characters
  • A techno-geek page on the inventions
  • A trivia page
  • A virtual book club where readers can discuss questions supplied by me and/or readers.

Any requests/suggestions/comments?

Also, since the virtual book club would require frequent contributions from readers in order to make it worthwhile for everyone, would you please vote in the poll to give me an idea of how much interest there is?  Thanks!

My Life’s A Thriller

/ Diane Henders / 60 Comments

The weeks leading up to a new release are always stressful for me – so much to do!  So little time!  And after spending the last five years immersed in writing, I’ve developed a few habits that spill over into my ‘real’ life (such as it is).  For example, the habit of building as much tension as possible into even the smallest events.

Sometimes I get a little too caught up in my work…

caught up in my work

And, in other thrilling news:

First:  Is that a turtle in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?  http://www.ctvnews.ca/canada/ont-man-fined-for-smuggling-nearly-40-live-turtles-in-his-pants-1.2792723

I suspect it wasn’t much of a thrill for the turtles, but, as my blogging buddy Beth Younker points out, if one of them had been a snapping turtle it might have been an exciting time for both smuggler and border guards alike.  Sadly, no snapping turtles were included, but the article does have a rather questionable reference to ‘red-eared sliders’.  Sounds like a euphemism to me…

And this:  http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/toronto/wynne-photo-op-goes-wrong-1.3470752. ‘Cause seriously, how often do you get to see a premier posing with a giant pink phallic object?  I doubt if it did much for her, but the media got a cheap thrill from it… and the rest of us laughed our asses off!

Any thrills in your life this week?

Pre-orders are available for Book 11: The Spies That Bind!  So far Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble, and Apple are up, but I’m still waiting on Kobo (as usual).  As soon as they’re all available, I’ll send out an email to everyone on the New Book Notification list.  I’ll also send a second email on March 18 when the book is released. 

If you’d like to sign up for new release notifications, just click here.  (If you already signed up for a previous book, you’re still on the list unless you unsubscribed or changed your email address.)

…And That’s My Cover Story

/ Diane Henders / 47 Comments

Woohoo! The cover art and blurb for Book 11 are finished! As with any process where I’m involved, there have been some giggles along the way.

Rick Hand of Hand Crafted Images always makes it fun to shoot the cover photo, and luckily he’s got a great sense of humour. He needs it when he’s working with a so-called model like me.

I’ve mentioned my uncanny knack for twisting my face into the world’s goofiest expression at the precise moment the camera clicks. (At least I prefer to think I only look goofy for that instant. If it’s all the time, please don’t tell me – I prefer to cling to my illusions.)

But apparently I also have a gift for twisting my body into poses that make a photographer (and everybody else) go “WTF?!?”

For example, Rick was testing the lighting levels when I did this:

I don’t know what the hell I was thinking but apparently it was something like, “‘Scuse me while I stick this cardboard gun up my own ass. And if I place my left hand just so, it’ll look like a giant schlong hanging out the front of my jeans.”

Yep, I’ve got a real gift for modelling.  It’s a lucky thing Rick’s good at arranging me because my sole talent is holding still once he’s got me in place.

Moving on to the title selection:

You probably already know that my geeky OCD personality requires spreadsheets for everything, including titles. I’ve itemized every word that rhymes with ‘spy’, along with a list of common phrases that include those words. So when it’s title time, I consider the themes in the book I’ve just written and try to match up a phrase that works.

But apparently there’s an easier way:  An app at portent.com generates titles automatically based on user-supplied keywords. So I entered ‘female spy’ and sat back to wait for the perfect title for Book 11.

Here are the contenders:

“How Female Spies Make You A Better Lover”: I do my best to make my sex scenes hot, but I didn’t realize I was providing such a valuable service to society. Go, me! *buffs fingernails against shirt and looks smug*

“Doing Female Spies The Right Way”: Is it me, or does Portent seem to have a one-track mind?

“True Facts About Justin Bieber’s Love For Female Spies”: Okay, now they’re just scaring me.

“The 12 Biggest Female Spies Blunders”: This one’s pretty appropriate since Aydan does tend to blunder into situations, but it’s not really the catchy title I had in mind.

“Why Female Spies Are The 51st Shade Of Grey”: Why Portent, you kinky thing! You’ve been peeking through my blinds again, haven’t you?

“Why Female Spies Are Scarier Than Dating Taylor Swift”: I’m not sure what level of fear we’re talking about here. It seems reasonable to be more afraid of female spies, but then again I don’t know Taylor Swift.

“Shocking Ways Female Spies Will Make You Better In Bed”: I’m sensing a theme here…

“How To Fight Lex Luthor Using Only Female Spies”: Superman, are you paying attention?

“How Female Spies Killed Kenny”: I’ve never watched an episode of South Park but apparently Kenny has died in all sorts of creative ways, so this seems plausible.

But I guess I’m just set in my ways. Despite the stellar appeal of Portent’s shortlist, I decided to stick with my spreadsheet even though one of the above titles could probably have made me famous. (Or infamous. It’s a fine line.) So voilà, Book 11:

Secret agent Aydan Kelly is hoping to resume her peaceful life as a bookkeeper, until her director issues an ultimatum: Go undercover as an arms dealer or go to jail for life. But when Aydan realizes her co-worker’s son has been taken by a serial killer, she defies orders in an attempt to save the child.

Neglecting her undercover assignment may cost more than just her freedom. When the gunrunner she’s been baiting threatens her loved ones, Aydan must choose between protecting them herself or entrusting their safety to geriatric amateur vigilantes while she closes in on the killer.

How much will she risk for a child who may already be dead?

* * *

The release date is March 18, 2016, and The Spies That Bind will be available for pre-order in about a week. If you’d like to receive an email notification when it’s available, please click here to sign up for my New Book Notification List.

Size Does Matter

/ Diane Henders / 71 Comments

Well, it had to happen. After a couple of months in which my daily life provided no trouser-snake humour whatsoever, the unnatural clean streak has finally broken. This week provided a veritable plethora of penises. A cornucopia of cocks. A deluge of dicks; a wealth of wangs; a surfeit of schlongs…

Oh, okay, fine; so it was actually only two minor references. But that’s more than enough to get me started.

First off, though, I’d like to note that it wasn’t my fault. For a change, my juvenile sense of humour was under control. But fate had other plans…

We were sitting in the bar on Friday night when I mentioned Iceland. It’s a place I’d like to visit, since I love wild and lonely landscapes and Iceland has that in spades: volcanoes and glaciers; fire and ice.

So I innocently brought it up, and one of my friends (who shall remain nameless to protect the guilty) turned to me completely straight-faced and said, “Did you know Icelandic men have the largest penises in the world?”

Well, how does one respond to such a statement? With a hint of disapproval and a dignified change of topic, of course…

*insert uncontrollable laughter here*

Oh, hell, no. You know me better than that.

Snickering and raunchy remarks abounded, along with a pointed inquiry as to how she came by this gem of information. She swore it was a result of scholarly medical research, and that a world map actually exists showing each country colour-coded by average size.

I called bullshit.

I was wrong.

Here it is: https://i.ytimg.com/vi/-3naDJj52v8/maxresdefault.jpg. (There’s nothing risqué in this link, just a colour-coded map of the world… but if you’re someplace where people might sneak up behind you and read the giant heading “25 Countries With The Largest Average Penis Size”, you might want to wait a bit. And for those of you who are looking at the legend and going, “What the…? Yikes!”, the measurements are in centimetres, not inches.)

Just in case you don’t dare look at it, I’ll satisfy your curiosity: Icelanders are actually second-largest with an average of 16 to 17 centimetres (6.3 to 6.7 inches). Columbia, Venezuela, and the Congo are the ‘big’ winners at 17+. (Also; Canadians, while not as well-endowed as the Icelanders, nevertheless average a centimetre or two larger than the States. Just sayin’. )

Anyway, the whole ‘measurement’ thing segues nicely into another exchange that made me giggle last week:

Hubby was getting ready to trim my hair. (Yes, I trust him with scissors.) I had asked him to cut about an inch and a half off the ends, and he inquired, “Is that a male inch-and-a-half or a female inch-and-a-half?”

Which, of course, was a reference to this old chestnut:

Q: Why are women so bad at judging distance?

A: Because men keep telling them that three inches is actually six.

How did things measure up in your world this week?

* * *

Book 11 draft is finished and the beta readers are hard at work – woohoo!  Tentative title is “THE SPIES THAT BIND”, and it looks as though the release date will be sometime during the week of March 21st.  I’ll post the cover and blurb next week, so stay tuned!

 

…And They Say Romance Is Dead…

/ Diane Henders / 43 Comments

Many thanks to my blogging buddy, Tom Merriman, for inviting everyone to participate in his February blogging theme. Since Valentine’s Day is coming up fast, it seemed like a perfect fit for today’s post.

I was thinking of doing a bit of flash fiction, but Tom has already set the bar too high with his first post of the month. Plus I’m completely immersed in the final push to finish the draft of Book 11 this week, so I’ll fall back on my favourite thing instead: tasteless jokes.

(I wish I could say I made these up, but I didn’t. They’ve been around the internet a few times, but they still make me laugh!)

*

Mike was going to be married to Karen so his father sat him down for a little chat. He said, “Mike, let me tell you something. On our wedding night in our honeymoon suite, I took off my pants, handed them to your mother, and said, ‘Here, try these on.’ She did and said, ‘These are too big. I can’t wear them.’

I replied, ‘Exactly. I wear the pants in this family and I always will.’ Ever since that night, we have never had any problems.”

So on his honeymoon, Mike took off his pants and said to Karen, ‘Here, try these on.”

She tried them on and said, “These are too large. They don’t fit me.”

Mike said, “Exactly. I wear the pants in this family and I always will. I don’t want you to ever forget that.”

Then Karen took off her panties and handed them to Mike and said, “Here, you try on mine.”

Mike did and said, “I can’t get into your panties.”

Karen said, “Exactly. And if you don’t change your attitude, you never will.”

…and they say romance is dead…

*

A family is sitting around the supper table when the son asks his father, “Dad, how many kinds of breasts are there?

The father replies, “Well, son, there are three kinds of breasts. In her twenties, a woman’s breasts are like melons, round and firm. In her thirties to forties, they are like pears, still nice but hanging a bit. After fifty, they are like onions.”

“Onions?” asked the boy.

“Yes, the sight of them makes you cry.”

This infuriated the wife and daughter so the daughter asked, “Mum, how many kinds of willies are there?”

The mother smiles and answers, “Well, dear, a man goes through three phases. In a man’s twenties, his willy is like an oak tree, mighty and hard. In his thirties and forties, it is a like a birch, flexible but reliable. After his fifties, it is like a Christmas tree.”

“A Christmas tree?”

“Yes, dead from the root up and the balls are only for decoration.”

…and they say romance is dead…

*

…He grasped me firmly, but gently, just above my elbow and guided me into a room, his room. Then he quietly shut the door and we were alone. He approached me soundlessly from behind, and spoke in a low, reassuring voice close to my ear, “Just relax.”

Without warning, he reached down and I felt his strong, calloused hands start at my ankles, gently probing and moving upward along my calves, slowly but steadily.

My breath caught in my throat. I knew I should be afraid, but somehow I didn’t care. His touch was so experienced, so sure. When his hands moved up onto my thighs, I gave a slight shudder and partly closed my eyes. My pulse was pounding. I felt his knowing fingers caress my abdomen, my ribcage. And then, as he cupped my firm, full shoulders in his hands, I inhaled sharply.

Probing, searching, knowing what he wanted, he brought his hands to my back, slid them down my tingling spine. Although I knew nothing about this man, I felt oddly trusting and expectant. This is a man, I thought. A man used to taking charge. A man not used to taking ‘No’ for an answer. A man who would tell me what he wanted. A man who would look into my soul and say…

“Okay, Ma’am, you can board your flight now.”

…and they say romance is dead…

*

Cletus is passing by Billy Bob’s hay barn one day when, through a gap in the door, he sees Billy Bob doing a slow and sensual striptease in front of an old John Deere tractor. Buttocks clenched, he performs a slow pirouette, and gently slides off first the right strap of his overalls, followed by the left.

He then hunches his shoulders forward and in a classic striptease move, lets his overalls fall down to his hips, revealing a torn and frayed plaid shirt. Then, grabbing both sides of his shirt, he rips it apart to reveal his stained T-shirt underneath. With a final flourish, he tears the T-shirt from his body and hurls his baseball cap onto a pile of hay.

Having seen enough, Cletus rushes in and says, “What in the world’re ya doing, Billy Bob?”

“Good grief, Cletus, ya scared the bejeebers out of me,” says an obviously embarrassed Billy Bob. “But me ‘n the wife been havin’ trouble lately in the bedroom d’partment, and the therapist suggested I do somethin’ sexy to a tractor.” (Read that last line one more time…)

…and they say romance is dead…

*

One lazy Sunday morning the wife and I were quiet and thoughtful, sitting at the breakfast table when I said to her, “When I die, I want you to sell all my stuff immediately.”

“Now why would you want me to do something like that?” she asked.

“I figure a woman as fine as yourself would eventually remarry and I don’t want some other asshole using my stuff.”

She looked at me intently and said, “What makes you think I’d marry another asshole?”

…and they say romance is dead…

* * *

Go ahead… tell me a romantic story! 😉

Winter Is Cancelled Due To Lack Of Interest

/ Diane Henders / 60 Comments

Well, the groundhogs have spoken, and I choose to believe them even though their accuracy rate has only been about 37% in the past. (It’s still better than random chance, which is 33% according to an internet article I found… but then again, statistics are made up on the spot about 80% of the time.)

Still, we clever humans only manage to forecast the weather accurately about 40% of the time around here, so the groundhogs aren’t doing too badly.

You have to wonder about the science of weather prediction when a burrowing rodent is as likely to be right as a high-tech computer, but it’s really not the computer’s fault. In our crazy little microclimate around Calgary, our weather guys and gals can predict pretty much anything and get it both right and wrong in the same day. So why shouldn’t a groundhog have a go at it?

And speaking of ‘having a go at it’, I was disillusioned to discover that Groundhog Day isn’t the innocent G-rated celebration we’ve been led to believe. Nope, it’s all about sex. Apparently groundhogs aren’t taking their weather-related responsibilities seriously; they’re just scoping out the chicks. I feel so betrayed. *sigh*

Our two most famous Canadian groundhogs, Shubenacadie Sam and Wiarton Willie, disagreed on whether we’re going to get more winter. Nova Scotia’s Sam says it’s over, and Ontario’s Willie insists otherwise. So if you live in Ontario, you’d better keep your willie warm – it’s gonna be nippy out there.

But we redneck westerners are instinctively suspicious of anything that comes out of Ontario. Them gummint folks ain’t to be trusted. In fact, if you scroll down to the ‘Death and further scandals’ section on Wiarton Willie’s Wiki (try saying that five times fast) you can see why we weally wonder about Willie.

So out here, we consulted our own oracle: Balzac Billy, AKA ‘The Prairie Prognosticator’.

Balzac is a small town just north of Calgary, and for those of you who are thinking, “Wait a minute; groundhogs don’t live around there”, well… you’re right. Balzac Billy is a guy in a groundhog suit.

Which raises a few unwholesome questions if you consider the rodents’ true motivation for leaving their burrows; but what the hell. The search for female company will bring most males out of their burrows. If a guy can attract the ladies despite being dressed as a giant rodent, more power to him.

But back to the weather forecast. Billy agreed with Sam: Winter is over here. And I think he may be right – winter never really got started this year (unless you count the snow we had last August, but we’re trying to forget that).

And anyhow, even if Billy and Sam are wrong, it could be worse. Winnipeg’s groundhog died last week, so it looks as though they’re stuck with winter forevermore. At least they’re used to it out there.

And groundhogs or not, we still have Environment Canada to give us all a healthy dose of delusional dreams.

What’s the weather like where you are?

That Turkey Neck Seems Glad To See Me…

/ Diane Henders / 43 Comments

Warning: This post may leave you with a permanent aversion to turkey necks… or perhaps an unhealthy attraction to them.

It’s surprising how often I have a week where the coincidental funnies all have a similar theme. That’s what happened this week: it was all (loosely) food-related.

The first laugh occurred when I was eating lunch, digging happily into a giant jar of sauerkraut. (For those who are shuddering right now, Hubby completely agrees with you.) But I love sauerkraut despite the fact that it looks like something long-ago-drowned and smells like rotting socks.

You know how you’ve got that one little spot in your throat that’s supersensitive to everything from toast crumbs to pickle juice? That spot where the slightest touch makes your throat spasm and your eyes tear up and your nose run; and if you try to talk you sound like the Godfather with laryngitis?

Yeah, that one. I’d like to know what evolutionary function that stupid little spot ever served. It can’t be some built-in defense against poisoning, because by the time anything gets down that far it’s already too late.

Anyhow.

I got a tiny bit of sauerkraut juice on that spot. And my throat closed and my eyes teared up, etcetera. After I’d finished hacking and mopping up tears and was capable of speaking again, I croaked, “Got some sauerkraut in the wrong spot.”

To which Hubby wryly replied, “Oh, you mean ‘in your mouth’?”

The second laugh (albeit accompanied by a shudder of revulsion) happened when I was cooking a turkey on Saturday; a largish bird because we were going to have ten people around our table.

What’s funny about that, you ask? Well, the story started last week when one of my internet searches went off into the weeds, and in the process of navigating back I ran across onanism (children, take your hands out of your pants and look that up). That led to the unwelcome discovery that medieval women sometimes used turkey necks for, um, non-nutritional purposes.

Eeeeuuuwwww! Consider how rarely they bathed in the first place, and then add some lovely Eau de Decomposing Meat on top of that… *shudder*

So you can imagine the look on my face when I dragged out THE BIGGEST HONKIN’ TURKEY NECK I’VE EVER SEEN from the cavity of this bird. I wasn’t sure whether to blush, laugh, or gag. (I laughed, of course.)

The final bout of laughter occurred several hours later when we were all sitting around stuffed with the aforementioned turkey. (Note: We stuffed ourselves from the top down, not from the bottom up. Just wanted to clarify that.)

Anyhow, this was a pseudo-Christmas bash because we hadn’t gotten together in December, so a few small gifts were exchanged. Ever the queen of refined taste, I had made these hot-pads for the cat lovers:

It's a cat-owner’s most frequent view of the cat.

It’s a cat-owner’s most frequent view of the cat.

Merriment ensued, but we lost it completely when one of my friends (who shall remain nameless to protect the guilty) not-so-innocently remarked, “Gee, you could have made it really Christmassy by leaving a bit of tinsel hanging out of the hole.”  If you’ve ever owned a cat or dog, you know how that story goes.

And that was my week, from beginning to, um… end.  How was yours?

(Your week, not your… oh, never mind.)