Diane Henders

Airport Deja Vu

/ 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

/ 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.

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!

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.

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!

/ 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)

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!

Flash Fiction: Monkey’s Money

/ Diane Henders / 18 Comments

I was in the mood for something different this week, so I went to my favourite place for flash fiction prompts:  Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable.  I chose a random letter and clicked on a random page, and here’s what I got:

“Monkey’s Money:  I will pay you in monkey’s money (“en monnaie de singe”) – in goods, in personal work, in mumbling and grimace. The French had a law that when a monkey passed the Petit Pont, of Paris, if it was for sale it was to pay four deniers (two-thirds of a penny) for toll; but if it belonged to a showman and was not for sale, it should suffice if the monkey went through his tricks.”

* * *

Monkey’s Money

George blew out a long sigh.  Here we go again.

He shuffled into the crowded holding area, trying to ignore the jostling bodies around him.  Hunkering into the relative privacy of a corner, he eyed the antics of the others.  A few familiar faces, but mostly new talent.  Or lack thereof.

From the opposite corner, Bruno gave him a pointed glance and curled his lip to expose gleaming bone-white incisors.

George ignored the challenge.  Yeah, asshole, whatever.  So your teeth are better than mine, so what?  You’re still in the monkey pen with the rest of us.  He eyed the steady stream of passersby outside with undisguised envy.  What he’d give to be one of the privileged few who were granted the dignity of actual money!

How many times had he made this demeaning passage, performing over and over for indifferent audiences?

It had seemed so exciting in the beginning.  He had thrown his heart and soul into it; had thrilled to the slightest sign of approval; waited with pounding pulse to see if he would be one of the chosen ones; dreamed of the day he would strut past the pen and into the coveted status of ‘moneymaker’.

But now his clever tricks seemed so mundane.  In each performance he struggled to imbue them with new life; to wring fresh nuance from the same stale material.

He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut.  God, this place reeks.  Too many desperate bodies clambering over each other for attention.

The shrieking and chattering intensified and his eyes popped open.  Lula again.  Christ, look at her shoving her ass in everybody’s face.  She’ll screw anything that moves.

And now every other female in the place was taking exception…

Oh, God, not again!  George shrank into his corner, trying to make himself a smaller target.  Always, dammit.  Every damn time some idiot starts flinging poop. And then everybody joins in.

Ignoring the commotion, the bored man with the list caught George’s eye and jerked a thumb toward the stage.

My turn at last!  George straightened, willing energy into his body.  Summoning every ounce of talent, he threw himself into his performance.

Maybe this time they’ll realize how good I am.  Maybe this time, somewhere in that small audience, jaws will drop in awe and delight and someone will rush forward offering precious money.

Maybe this time…

It’s over.  Already. 

Damn, if they’d only allowed me a few more minutes.  A few more seconds, even.  I was just getting into it.

But there’s still hope.  The knock-‘em-dead scenario was really only a fantasy.  It usually takes a while before they make the final selection…

Exhausted, George shambled out.  His cell phone rang, and he picked up the call as he slid behind the wheel of his car.  “Hi, honey.  Yeah, it was the usual circus backstage, but my audition went okay.  Now I just have to wait for their decision.”

* * *

I’m Only An Idiot. Whew.

/ 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

/ 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:

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

/ 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…