Diane Henders

I Survived V-Day!

/ Diane Henders / 32 Comments

It’s probably not what you’d expect to hear from a married woman, but I’m happy to have made it through Valentine’s Day.

It’s not that I had overblown expectations, or that I was worried about potential disappointment.  Valentine’s Day has never been a big deal for Hubby or me.  We exchange cards and go out for a nice dinner, and that’s about it.

No, the true reason for my post-V-Day euphoria is this:  I made it through our meal unscathed.

It’s not what you think.

I’m not dieting or on the wagon, so I wasn’t fighting food/alcohol guilt.

I wasn’t anxious about dining etiquette.  I’m sufficiently domesticated that I don’t attract undue attention in a nice restaurant (at least not when I choose to summon up my table manners, which I should probably do a lot more frequently).

I might, perhaps, have a small social phobia left over from the time I donned my coat with a flourish in a fancy restaurant and knocked an entire pitcher of ice water off a ledge.  And the ice water might possibly have landed on some other diners…

But that was a few decades ago and I’ve (almost) recovered from that.

I wasn’t even dreading the fact that I’d have to wear something other than my usual jeans and hiking boots.   Believe it or not, I actually dressed up without whining.  Alert the media!

No; mine was a more primal fear:  The fear of pain.

And I’m proud to say I didn’t hurt myself through sheer gluttony.

I’d like to pretend that’s a joke, but it’s not.

Last year I actually physically injured myself.  I stuffed in a magnificent meal and waddled out cradling my distended belly.  Then I bent to get in the car and… pop!  One of those horrible noises you hear in your gut instead of with your ears, and a lightning-bolt of pain.

Most normal people would put their backs out bending to get in a car.  Not I.  I’m ashamed to say my stomach was so full I snapped something (cartilage, muscle, who knows?) on my bottom rib.  It took a couple of weeks before I could bear to lie on that side, and a couple of months for the pain to go away completely.

Honestly, I didn’t think it was possible to damage my skeletal structure with too much food.  Give myself a stomach ache, sure; maybe rupture my gut if I really went overboard; but blow a rib…?  I guess I’m just special.

Anyway, a few days ago we went back to the scene of the crime.  And I bravely threw myself on the live grenade that is their menu – I had bread and an appetizer and an entrée and dessert.  But I had two glasses of wine instead of the single one I had last year, and I’m convinced the subsequent relaxation was what prevented me from hurting myself again.

At least that’s going to be my excuse whenever I need to justify drinking an extra glass:  Safety first!

Ah, the sacrifices I make…  *sighs and assumes expression of courageous and noble martyrdom*

So whew.  Made it through V-Day.

Anybody else have a V-Day survival story?

Belly-Dance: That’ll Teach Me

/ Diane Henders / 47 Comments

As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I’m taking a beginner belly-dance class.  It has been a tremendous learning experience, despite the fact that I have absolutely no natural aptitude for it.

Here’s what I’ve learned so far:

The word ‘choreography’ has ‘chorea’ as its root.
Dictionary.com defines ‘chorea’ as ‘any of several diseases of the nervous system characterized by jerky, involuntary movements, chiefly of the face and extremities.’  That explains a lot.  I’m a word geek.  I’m just doin’ it right.

Also pertaining to choreography:

In choreography notes, ‘CCW’ means ‘counter-clockwise’.
It is not a typo for CCR.  Which is a relief, because as much as I love Creedence, I just can’t see belly-dancing to ‘Heard It Through The Grapevine’.  ‘Bad Moon Rising’, however, would be frighteningly apropos.

Never trust your friends.
The friend who exhorted me not to laugh at her… has belly-danced before.  The friend who swore she had two left feet… used to be a cheerleader.  Their hip shimmies are perfect, even though the only time they practice is during the one-hour class.  I practice every morning, and I still look as though I’m frantically trying to dislodge a barbed-wire wedgie.

If you stand with your feet close together instead of planted sturdily shoulder-width apart, you look more like a belly-dancer and less like you’re about to punch somebody’s lights out.
Unless you’re me.  Then it helps, but it doesn’t completely solve the problem.  I’m really not planning to punch anybody; that scowl is just baffled concentration…

Belly-dancing is best suited to women who have hips.
When you’re built like a telephone pole, it doesn’t matter how much you shimmy, you still look like a telephone pole… in an earthquake.

If you use an X-rated phrase to memory-associate the names of the moves, you WILL begin to giggle at inappropriate times in the class.
But that’s okay, because giggling is pretty much the only appropriate response to watching me try to belly-dance.

Studio mirrors were created by Satan himself.
Just sayin’.

I am apparently incapable of shimmying my hips without simultaneously flapping my hands.
This might not be so bad if the objective of the class was actually to impersonate an epileptic penguin.  But on the up side, I’ve developed a genuine empathy for tubby flightless birds with neurological disorders.

Start every day with a smile!
It’s hard not to, when I’m confronted by the sight of myself gyrating gracelessly in the mirror every morning.

Which leads me to…

Do not practice belly-dancing while wearing nothing but your underwear and a jingly hip scarf, even behind closed doors in the privacy of your own home.
Or, if you do, don’t describe it to your friends.  In a restaurant.  Just as the waiter sneaks up behind you.  For the record, he had the best deadpan I’ve ever seen.

Humility is a virtue.
I’m so friggin’ virtuous right now, it’s making my eyes water.  By the time the lessons are finished, I fully expect to achieve sainthood.  Or possibly martyrdom.

How to belly-dance.
Well… no.  I haven’t actually learned that yet.  But we have six lessons left, so I’m still hoping…

* * *

The instructor keeps going on as if she actually expects us to dance this piece in front of an audience.  If anybody’s got an inspirational story about how you started off sucking at something and ended up acing it, now would be a really great to time to share.  Even better if you ended up acing it after six lessons…

Snake And Mayonnaise

/ Diane Henders / 34 Comments

Yes, that title does actually read ‘Snake And Mayonnaise’.  That’s what I thought I saw on a poster not long ago.

You guessed it – I’ve been misreading words as usual.

It turned out the poster was actually advertising the movie ‘Snake and Mongoo$e’, but snake & mayo sounded more appetizing.  (I was hungry at the time.)  I’ve had rattlesnake fondue and it was tasty, so I was willing to give snake & mayo a try.  I thought maybe it would be like a lobster roll.  Yum.

Or not.

Speaking of eating, I did a double-take a few weeks ago when Hubby and I were shopping for new cutlery.  I didn’t realize Lagostina made flatware called ‘Enema’.  It sounded… uncomfortable.  Fortunately, the flowing script on the box actually spelled out ‘Enigma’, but we bought a different brand just in case.

And my mind must have been in that… er… area, because a few days later, I saw a Facebook status that read ‘I just pooped in Safeway’.  (Safeway is a supermarket chain here in Canada.)  I was recoiling in disgust when I realized it really said ‘popped into Safeway’.  Whew.

Also on Facebook, I came to a screeching halt when I read the status of one of my guy friends:  ‘I can’t believe I’m following a live blog about an erection’.

I couldn’t believe it either.  In the first place, who live-blogs about their erection?  Wait, no!  Don’t answer that!  I don’t even want to know…

Anyway, it turned out the word in question was ‘election’, so that was a relief.

In advertising news, I discovered the headline ‘Volkswagen takes big swing with Golf Rodent’.  I realize car manufacturers must be struggling to find names for their new models, but ‘Rodent’ was one I never thought I’d see.

And I still haven’t.  The headline was ‘Volkswagen takes big swing with Golf R debut’.  But you know?  I’d totally buy a Volkswagen Rodent.  Perfect for scurrying through traffic and squeezing into tight spaces…

Speaking of advertising, I got all excited when I discovered an ad for  ‘Vicious Women Magazine International’.  Now that sounds like my kinda mag!

But… no, not so much.  Turned out it was ‘Virtuous Women Magazine’, a religious publication written “…to encourage young ladies to embrace their calling of becoming virtuous women and daughters polished after the similitude of a palace”.  It scared the shit out of me, but I’m sure lots of young ladies (or more likely their parents) find value in it.  Different strokes…

Then I thought I’d found an ideal reader for Vicious Women Magazine, if there was such a publication.  The young woman in question was wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed, “Kiss me, I’m a monster”.  I was chuckling and wondering where I could buy one when I took a second look and realized the T-shirt said ‘modster’, not ‘monster’.

I didn’t know what a modster was, so I googled it.  And even then, I wasn’t sure.  There’s a Modster site that offers fashion advice; but the Urban Dictionary says a modster is “An asshole hipster. Usually someone who ruins the vibe at a good bar.”

I have no discernible fashion sense and I like to think I’m congenial company at the bar, so I guess I won’t buy that T-shirt after all.

But I’m still willing to try snake & mayo.  And if they ever release a car named the Rodent, I’ll be first in line!

* * *

Belly-dancing update:  We learned some new moves this week.  Or rather, the instructor introduced some new moves, which is not exactly the same thing.  One of them was the ¾ shimmy:  shaking our hips in ¾ time while walking.  Ever heard of St. Vitus’s Dance?  Yeah, that’s how I looked.  I nearly dislocated my butt.

I tried a memory technique to remember the names of the new moves, and it worked really well.  “Umi” refers to a circling movement of the hips that includes a suggestive pelvic tilt.  That move became “do-me” in my mind, and I’ll never forget it now.  But I don’t think I’ll share that particular mnemonic with the rest of the class…

Shakin’ It Up

/ Diane Henders / 37 Comments

I like to try something new every now and then, so this year I decided to take “shaking it up” literally.  Yes, I signed up for belly-dancing classes.  I do not expect this to contribute in any way to building my self-esteem or maintaining what little dignity I possess.

I went to my first class this weekend.  I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty.  I’m not uncoordinated, but I’m incapable of translating verbal instructions into useful movement.  I know that.  I’ve known it for years.

I was the woman flapping around like a brain-damaged goose at the back of aerobics class in the 80s.  I’d barely have caught onto a move when they’d change.  Forget lagging one beat behind; I was a whole song behind.

I had the same problem in Jazzercise.  The instructor busted out a new move and the rest of the women nailed it in minutes.  I flailed around as if in the throes of an epileptic seizure for the rest of the class.

It’s no coincidence that I haven’t attempted anything of the sort for decades.

Part of my problem is scale.  In the studio mirror, I look as though I’ve been badly Photoshopped.  I’m in proportion by myself, but I’m scaled up 10% compared to all the other cute little women.  When my arms are extended, they span six feet.  This means I need a LOT more space than everybody else.  This is not viewed kindly by anyone standing next to me.  Particularly not if the choreography involves vigorous arm movements.

The other problem is that my body is conditioned to run, jump, kick, punch, and heft heavy objects as forcefully and efficiently as possible.  This does not translate well to activities requiring feminine grace.

But I knew all this up front.  My expectations were realistic.

I arrived at the studio early and bought a bright, jingly hip scarf.  It fit.  So far, so good.  (Yeah, I know it’s virtually impossible for a hip scarf to not  fit.  But like I said:  low expectations, yada, yada.)

The other students were half my size, but that was no surprise.  The instructor was (shockingly) almost as tall as me.  For a few moments, I had hope.  Then she moved.

Oh my God.

The woman was sheer grace.

She explained the dance posture.  Even standing still, she was graceful.

I tried to copy the position.  I looked like a linebacker with hemorrhoids:  ready for scrimmage, but poised gingerly on tiptoe.

The hip scarf didn’t help my look.  I have no hips to speak of, so where the other women’s scarves draped gracefully on their bodies, mine looked like a bandana tied to a telephone pole.

Then we started some simple choreography.

Well, the rest of the class did.  I galumphed around in the back row, seven beats behind.  I know it was seven beats because there was one merciful portion of the song where we shook our hips for eight beats, and I caught up on the very last one.  Then the dance went on, and I was lost again.

On the up side, I discovered my core strength and flexibility are good.  Maybe by the end of the course, I’ll even be able to do something remotely attractive with them.

Or maybe not.

But, hey, I’m shakin’ it up.  And if nothing else, it’ll be a character-building exercise.

I’ll keep you posted…

Gassy And Shy

/ Diane Henders / 22 Comments

You’d think ‘Gassy and Shy’ might be a comedy duo like ‘Beavis and Butthead’ or ‘Rocky and Bullwinkle’, but it’s not.  It’s… (drumroll please) …one of my delightful spammers!  Yes, today I’m offering another succulent serving of Spam Casserole.

So, poor old ‘G&S’ popped by my blog some time ago to confide “personally I can’t eat during the day for reasons unknown, I get puffed up, gassy, And shy”.

I’m touched by his/her trust in me.  I mean, imagine the courage it must have taken for that shy person to reveal such an intimate detail, not knowing whether I might heartlessly ridicule them in a public forum.

Oh, wait, I just did.

Guess I wasn’t as touched as I thought.

But I was truly touched to discover that none other than David Bowie took the time to visit my blog and check out my nudie picture… and he liked it!  At least, that’s according to the spam comment that appeared on that post:  “COME ONE NOW DAVID BOWIE HIMSELF LIKED IT.”  Personally, I always suspected David Bowie was batting for the other team, but what do I know?  Apparently my nudity is just that appealing.

And speaking of nudity and related sports, the latest crop of spammers seems to have an unwholesome interest in my sex life.  One alluded to it in euphemistic terms: “even I fulfillment you get right of entry to constantly rapidly”.  At least I think he/she was talking about sex.  It’s kinda hard to tell.

Another took the caring approach:  “My partner and i worry about your needs and that i truly mean that”.  Good to know, but my needs are well taken care of, thanks.

In fact, this blogger confirms it:  “you are marrying a great guy, you are very lucky, he is a great in bed, I should know, we have been sleeping together off and on for years”.

Alrighty, then.

I’m pretty sure I would have noticed an extra body in our bed, but I guess I’d better ask Hubby about it just to be sure.

My next visitor offered some valuable information:  “telefonsex religious service programs are the guys that experience extra reservations for aliveness”.

I didn’t realize telephone sex was part of any religious service programs, but I guess it’s a religious experience for some folks.  And it’s good to know ‘aliveness’ is one of the criteria for participants.  I’m not quite sure how telephone sex works for dead people.

Actually, that gives me a fabulous entrepreneurial idea:  telephone sex for necrophiliacs!  I’ll set up a 900 number with a recording of dead silence.  Shares are now on sale for my startup company ‘1-900-DEAD-ONE’ – buy in early before this one-of-a-kind opportunity ends!

…Oh, sorry, I got sidetracked for a minute there.

We were talking about spammers, and I should stay on-topic.  Because according to this visitor: “The good news in addition results in a great have an effect on your intellects of your companion.”

Oh, you poor suffering readers.  If I’d only known what I was doing to your intellects… but if you’ve read this far it’s already too late, because what have I offered you in terms of intellectual stimulation?

My final spammer sums it up neatly:  “The answer is zero. I beg your pardon.”

I do.  I truly do.

Passport Photo Purgatory

/ Diane Henders / 46 Comments

This weekend Hubby and I went for passport photos.  Yikes!

If I was a customs border guard, I wouldn’t trust anybody who looked like that.  Clearly, the people in our photos are deranged criminals.  That soulless, dead-eyed stare.  Those inhumanly expressionless features.  God, they give me cold shivers.

Before, whenever I saw mug shots on the news I always wondered why they all looked like criminals.  I thought maybe it was self-fulfilling, like the child with the surname ‘Foote’ who grows up to be a podiatrist or the guy named Titzling who invented the bra (okay, that one’s an urban legend, but it makes a good story).

My point is, I thought maybe if you’re born with a face like a mug shot, you pretty well have to grow up to be a criminal.

But now I understand.  Criminals don’t actually look any different than the rest of us; it’s just that mug shots are done by passport photographers.

A proper passport photo begins with the right photographer.  It’s important to find a photographer with that precise level of sociopathy whereby he can just barely function in normal society without actually committing indictable crimes (though I’m pretty sure our photos qualify as a crime).

The photographer must be incapable of comprehending human emotion.  He is not allowed to have a sense of humour, and if he has one, it’s confiscated when he registers as a passport photographer.  He is also required to be expressionless and barely civil, ideally replicating the exact blend of arrogance and subtle threat exhibited by border guards.  This sets up the correct atmosphere for the photo.

After that, it’s all about technique.  The photographer grunts and points imperiously to a small uncomfortable stool, and the victim client perches on it as if awaiting a firing squad.

This is the photographer’s cue to make the victim client as uncomfortable and unattractive as possible:

“Chin up.  No, down.  No, up!  Look over here.  Stop smiling.”

You’d think it would be impossible to summon a smile at that point, but I’m pretty sure the only time I’ll not smile is if I’m dead (and even then I wouldn’t bet on it).  But, chastened by the photographer’s grumpiness, I try to control my obstreperous lips.

The victim client is now suitably uncomfortable, so the photographer’s next goal is ‘unattractive’:

“Put your hair behind your ears.”

“I never put my hair behind my ears.  As far as anybody else knows, I don’t even have ears.  This photo won’t look anything like me.”

“Put your hair behind your ears.  I have to see your ears.”

So I cram ten pounds of hair behind each ear, making them stick out so far that I look like a bat stalking some hapless insect.

At last I’m cranky enough to eliminate any trace of a smile, and the photographer snaps the picture with his first and only hint of visible satisfaction.

The deed is done and the woman in the photo looks as though, if she hasn’t already committed a crime, she will any minute.

No, I’m not going to post the photo.

Because… ummmm… for security reasons.  Yeah, that’s it.  It’s not because I’m totally humiliated.

It’s for security.

Retroactive Weirdness

/ 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

/ Diane Henders / 22 Comments

ABC proportionalMany 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:

The Big Sheep Blog

Carrie Rubin

CM Stewart

Fear No Weebles

Longshot’s Blog

Within The Sphere (The Blogger Formerly Known As AquaTom)

Mostly Bright Ideas

Murrmurrs

Not Quite Old

Visiting Reality

whatimeant2say

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!

merry christmas

* * *

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

Talking Turkey

/ 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/