Diane Henders
The Sound Of Dementia
I really hope it’s not dementia, but my rate of misreads has increased considerably since I found the kiss-ass typo back in April.
Soon after that, I read ‘in my whorehouse’ over on Murr Brewster’s blog. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she actually had written that, but she didn’t – it was ‘in my wheelhouse’. (Murr is one funny blogger – go see for yourself!)
A short while later, I thought our Chamber of Commerce was mixing sacred with secular when I saw their poster advertising ‘Holy Sponsorships Available for Play With The Presidents’. A second reading revealed they were actually advertising hole sponsorships for their annual golf tournament.
My dirty mind kicked in when I saw the following tweet: ‘I’ve ordered myself some Golden Snatch earrings…’ It took me a few moments to figure out that it was a Harry Potter reference and the earrings were actually little-bitty replicas of the ‘Golden Snitch’.
And I guess I wasn’t sufficiently recovered from that when I did a double-take at a condom ad trumpeting1 ‘GET UP TO ASS IN SAVINGS’. It was in all caps with a sans serif font, which is always harder (I said ‘harder’… *snicker*) to read than mixed case (that’s my excuse, anyway). After I’d finished giggling, it took me a couple of tries to decipher ‘GET UP TO $5 IN SAVINGS’.
Another ‘say what?!?’ moment arrived in my email when my Meetup group invited me to enjoy ‘Lesbian food and belly dancing’. I’m a major foodie, but I’ve never heard of that cuisine before. Turned out it was ‘Lebanese’ food, which didn’t seem quite as exotic, somehow.
Even business headlines weren’t safe. I read ‘Things Sales Winners Deformity’ instead of ‘Do Differently’ and ‘get back to bananas’ instead of ‘back to business’. And I discovered a cabinet company that offers ‘customer insults’. Or possibly ‘customer installs’, though insults are well within the realm of possibility.
I can’t remember which community site entreated ‘Looking for a spare cowboy to borrow for a few weeks’. But it turned out they were only looking for a spare ‘carboy’ to brew a batch of beer.
My mind was clearly on bodily functions the day I read ‘Fanfart’, which sounds like something to avoid at all costs. The article was actually referring to ‘fanart’ – art done by fans of specific books.
But by far my most disturbing misread happened when I was perusing a music website. I’m a huge Bob Seger fan, and I was indignant to discover they were snidely referring to his upcoming concert tour as “The Sound of Dementia”. So he’s in his late sixties, so what? Seger is amazing, and that was completely rude and uncalled-for! Closer inspection revealed that the site was in fact a list of upcoming concerts: “The Sound of Dalmatia Tour”, “Bob Seger”, and “NeYo”, among others.
So I settled my ruffled feathers with the knowledge that the dementia was all in my head. I didn’t know dementia had a sound, but in my case it’s apparently rather empty and echoing.
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1 Would you believe I misread my own words while proofing this? I saw “humping” instead of “trumpeting”. Please… somebody help me…
‘Scuse My Bear Behind
Gardening season has been exciting this year. I had a feeling my impromptu pole dance in the spring would lead to a stellar career, and I was right. This week found me head-down-ass-up in a tunnel of pea vines, belting out Broadway tunes at the top of my lungs.
A number of factors converged to produce this one-of-a-kind entertainment extravaganza. In the first place, I didn’t plan my garden well. In spring when there was nothing but tilled soil, it looked as though there was all the room in the world between rows.
There wasn’t. The peas overran their trellises and joined hands in fellowship above the (now obviously inadequate) space between the rows.
Fine. It’s awkward to pick peas, but lush growth is the kind of garden “problem” I can happily accept.
The second factor is that our garden is out in the middle of nowhere, only a couple of miles from a vast forestry reserve.
Last week I was out there when a cloud of dust and loud rattling announced the approach of a vehicle. Moments later a truck appeared, towing a large cylinder on a trailer. In block letters on the cylinder were the words ‘BEAR TRAP – KEEP BACK 10M”.
Last year a grizzly killed two horses on the farm north of us. And I thought, “This can’t be good.”
The truck paused at our corner before continuing west. That road dead-ends only a couple of miles past our place.
This really wasn’t good.
So when I went out again a couple of days ago, I was cautious. The path to our garden winds through heavy spruce and aspen forest, and after I parked my car in our campsite clearing, I let out a few shouts of greeting: “Hello, Mr. Bear! I’m going to the garden now! Yep, down this path! Through the woods! Scary human being here! Time for you to move on!”
I strapped on my canisters of bear spray and stood debating whether it would be less embarrassing if the neighbours caught me loudly talking to myself in the woods, or singing really badly. Singing won by a small margin.
I don’t know how rock stars manage to sing while jumping around on stage. Granted, I have a crap voice, but I thought I was in pretty good shape. Singing nervously and strolling through the woods to give the bear an opportunity to get out of the way, I was pathetically out of breath by the time I got to the garden. Which made me sound even worse than usual.
The 8-foot deer fence around the garden won’t repel a determined bear, but it should prevent him from accidentally wandering through, so I went inside and promptly shut the hell up because even I couldn’t stand my singing by then.
That is, until my neighbour drove over to warn me they’d caught one grizzly a mile west of us, were fairly certain a second was still at large, and there had been a number of black bears in the area, too.
Hurray.
I abandoned all pretense of dignity.
And this happened:
I’m not proud of my performance, but I didn’t see a bear, either. If there was one in the vicinity, he was probably too incapacitated by laughter to maul me anyway.
Anybody else have a bear tale?
A Balanced Diet…
Fly Diapers. God, I’m Old.
Monday afternoon I was contemplating diapers for house flies, and that’s when I realized I’m getting old.
It’s complicated. Let me explain:
We have a little acreage outside the city, with a tiny decrepit forty-year-old travel trailer on it. The trailer’s only features are a primitive propane furnace and a queen-size bed we shoehorned in after sacrificing all the original interior partitions and fittings. A toilet is not one of its luxuries, so I built an outhouse.
I don’t like dark, icky outhouses, so ours has a clear roof for natural light, a battery-powered overhead light for nighttime use, and a rainwater collection system that gravity-feeds a small sink so we can wash our hands. Thanks to strategies I won’t describe here, it doesn’t even stink (most of the time).
The deluxe outhouse
There are only two of us, so it’s not a big deal to keep it clean. I regularly evict spiders and sweep out the inevitable pine needles and dead leaves we track in, but that’s about the extent of my chores (other than occasionally scrubbing it just because it’s an outhouse and I’m a weirdo clean freak).
That is, until this week.
This week the flies from hell arrived. I don’t know what they’ve been eating, but these are sick, sick flies. Usually fly shit looks like little black specks. These flies dumped brown and yellow splotches the size of a pencil eraser. Or larger. Sometimes much larger. Large enough to dribble when they hit a vertical surface…
It looked as though someone had taken a baby with explosive diarrhea and twirled the poor suffering child around and around inside our outhouse before fleeing the scene of the crime.
It was disgusting, and I spent a good half-hour scrubbing it all clean again before griping to Hubby about the pressing need for fly diapers.
And that’s when I realized it.
I’m old.
In mid-August thirty years ago (okay, maybe a little more), I was portaging and paddling through the beautiful network of lakes in the rocky Canadian Shield country around Kenora, Ontario. I carried all my food, clothing, and cooking tools in my backpack. I slept on the ground, cooked over a tiny fire when necessary, and carried a small trowel whose function I shall leave to your imagination. There was no human habitation whatsoever, and definitely no outhouse.
(In fact, I only met one other group of people the entire week. In complete fulfillment of Murphy’s Law, they caught me squatting behind a bush, trowel in hand. Did I mention I was wearing a one-piece bathing suit? Well, actually, not wearing it at the moment of discovery.)
Aaaaanyway…
Fast-forward.
When I wrote the first draft of this post, I was sitting in my zero-gravity lounge chair in front of our firepit. I still cook all our meals over the campfire, but I’m not exactly roughing it:
No hunkering down next to the flames for me. I even use a nonstick frying pan.
So there I was, lounging in my deluxe folding chair, typing on my laptop beside a heated trailer containing a queen-sized bed.
And kvetching about fly shit in my deluxe outhouse.
God, I’m old.
When the hell did that happen?
I Sing Like A Bird
…if the bird in question is a crow…
Compatibility Is Overrated
Over the past decade or so, it has become apparent that my husband and I are completely incompatible:
- He’s a pack rat. I’m a cleaner-outer.
- He dwells happily in his cluttered man cave. I need a tidy house and a clean desk.
- He’s a procrastinator. I do things as soon as they come up (which is really only because I’ll forget about them otherwise, but still).
- He likes to have music or TV always on in the background. I prefer silence unless I’m actually concentrating on listening to music.
- I love all kinds of music. He’s rock & roll to the core.
- I’m a jock. He’s a couch potato (sorry, dear, but you know it’s true).
- I’m an adventurous eater. He’s a meat-and-potatoes kinda guy.
- He winds down by watching TV. After half an hour in front of the TV, I’m ready to chew off my own arm if that’s what it takes to escape.
But it doesn’t end there. We can’t even agree on the things we agree on. We have two kinds of everything in our house. I drink skim milk and he drinks full-fat homogenized. I eat crackers with unsalted tops; he eats salted. He drinks black tea; I drink green and herbal. He likes white bread; I like whole-grain. We don’t even use the same brand of toothpaste.
A while ago, I ran into an old friend in the grocery store and we were standing there catching up when he suddenly blurted out, “I can’t believe you’re still married.” When I laughed and asked him why, he couldn’t (or didn’t) come up with any concrete reason, but I suspect it was the compatibility thing. Looking at the list above, you’d think we’d have throttled each other before the first year was out.
But we’ve figured out ways to compromise (or agree to disagree), and there are lots of activities we both enjoy. It also helps that Hubby is the most tolerant guy I’ve ever met, and he encourages me in absolutely everything I try (even if I suck at it).
Yesterday was our fourteenth wedding anniversary, and I can’t believe how quickly the years have flown by. It’s been the best fourteen years of my adult life.
I think what I love most about him is the way he does little, special things for me. The surprise trip to a new restaurant; cleaning out the dishwasher because he knows I hate doing it; the fancy bows on the chairs we bought together as a mutual anniversary gift; the flowers for no reason; the way he magically appears with a dishtowel in his hand when he hears me washing dishes. No grand fanfare, no ‘look what I did for you, praise me now’; just his quiet smile.
And I love the way his mind is constantly active. Conversations at our dinner table range from quantum physics to car maintenance; astronomy to science-fiction laser guns; building computers to growing tomatoes to finding a way to filter out the awful taste of his last batch of rotgut homemade wine. (We never did figure that one out. If anybody wants a few gallons of dark-brown fluid that smells like rotten eggs and burns with a clear blue flame, let me know.)
Our basement is full of obscure mechanical and electronic oddments, and Hubby’s always working on some theoretical problem or invention. It’s unfailingly interesting, and occasionally alarming. I’ve narrowly missed being struck in the back of the head by an exploding capacitor (it shot past my left ear). Sometimes there are billows of dense smoke or worrisome chemical odours.
But I think I’ve finally trained him not to use my kitchen sink for toxic substances or my food processor for non-food items. At least, not while I’m looking.
And after all, where’s the fun in predictability?
So happy anniversary to my dear Hubby – I’m looking forward to many more! (Anniversaries, I mean. Just thought I should clarify that…)
Not A Cartoonist. Obviously.
…but I’ve been having fun drawing cartoons lately anyway. And I figured, what the heck, why not post them? I don’t know if I have enough time or inspiration to do regular Sunday funnies, but I’ve got a few floating around my computer.
Here’s one for today:
Is There A 12-Step Program For That?
My name is Diane, and I’m here to confess my addiction. No, not my addiction to tools. This is a different addiction altogether.
I can withstand it for long stretches of time, but it always drags me under in the end. The high is ecstatic. Then comes the slow sobering, followed by guilt and shame. After that comes the steely resolve to do better, and sometimes I vanquish the demons for a while.
But sooner or later, I succumb again. The longest I’ve ever stayed clean was several years. I really thought I’d beaten it that time.
I was wrong.
I’m talking, of course, about Costco. I gave up my membership years ago, but in a weak moment I asked one of my friends to take me this past weekend. It wasn’t the ugliest relapse I’ve ever had, but it proved that I am and always will be an addict.
For those unfamiliar with Costco, it’s a wholesale-style outlet that sells everything from food to electronics to furniture to clothing. In gigantic bulk quantities. Usually at lower-than-retail prices, and occasionally at screaming discounts.
I have a five-pound tin of baking powder I bought at Costco over fifteen years ago. It’s still good… but it’s also still half-full. In another fifteen years, I might actually finish it. I have half-gallon jugs of onion powder and cinnamon that date back to that period, too. There’s something about large quantities of food that I just can’t resist.
Maybe it’s because my dad was a child of the 1930s Depression years. Nothing was ever wasted in our household. The tiniest scraps of food were saved and incorporated into the next meal, and staple foods were purchased in bulk to get the best discounts.
So I harbour two horribly conflicting attitudes toward groceries: Large quantities are magnificent; and: Waste nothing.
You can see my problem with Costco. They have large quantities! Of everything! What could be better than five pounds of chocolate chips for the price of two? Three water bottles for the price of one? More toilet paper than you can fit in your car?
It’s magnificent, I tell you!
When I walk into their cavernous building, my pulse races and the demons begin their seductive chorus: “Look how much there is. And for such a cheap price! It’s an excellent buy! Large quantities are magnificent!”
Euphoria seizes me and I buy. And buy.
Then I get home and realize what I’ve done. Yes, I scored a case of my favourite Ataulfo mangoes for a fabulous discount. But Hubby doesn’t like mangoes, and I can only eat so many of them before they rot.
Guilt and anxiety kick in. I must waste nothing! I must eat mangoes morning, noon, and night!
I managed to avoid gross excesses this time. I bought what I needed and could use within the foreseeable future. (Except for the water bottles – I needed one, not three. But hey, it’s not like they’re going to go bad, right?)
And I split that giant package of cheese curds with my friend, so it was a good buy.
Really.
I think I’m improving.
Maybe I should go back again this week just to be sure…
Happiness Is A Warm Gun
I’m worried.
Being the cynical geek I am, I was sure Big Brother was watching us long before the “news” broke about the NSA and PRISM. No surprise there.
That’s why ever since I started writing the Never Say Spy series, I’ve joked semi-seriously that I’m probably on a no-fly list somewhere. Anyone watching my browsing habits will know I spend a disturbing amount of time researching untraceable poisons, the characteristics of C4 and other explosives, sonic grenades, Tasers and stun guns, specifications and ballistics tables for firearms, and a host of other unsavoury topics.
Throw in my YouTube viewing history of martial arts, shooting techniques, self-defence against knives and guns, military training videos, and some other odds and sods that are definitely non-typical for your average middle-aged female viewer.
Then add my frequent searches on computer networks, hacking, cracking, and encryption, and I just bet they’re watching me.
Meanwhile, and (until this morning) completely unrelated to this… I’m a big music fan. I love just about all genres, and, as I’ve mentioned before, my MP3 player contains everything from rock to reggae to ragtime, country to classical, metal to Motown, pop to polkas, blues to barbershop harmony. But (*gasp*) I’ve never been a huge Beatles fan.
Sure, I like their music, and I respect their impact on the music scene, but I’ve never actually gotten around to buying an album. So yesterday I thought, “Hmm. What kind of self-professed music lover doesn’t have a single Beatles song on her MP3 player? Maybe I’d better go and buy an anthology.”
So off to Amazon I went, and I found a remastered 2-disc set that looked good. I checked the track list and discovered the song “Happiness Is A Warm Gun”. I’d never heard of it before. So I played the preview, then messed around a bit and got distracted. And forgot about the whole thing.
Until a mere 18 hours later.
Sometimes I like to get out and do some new things and meet new people (bear with me; I’ll establish the relevance of this momentarily). So I belong to a couple of Meetup groups. They send me updates on upcoming events.
Here’s what I found in my Inbox this morning:
What the hell are the chances of that?
My idea of getting a Beatles album was completely off-the-cuff. I went to Amazon and clicked on the first Beatles album in the list without any conscious selection process; I’d never even heard of this song before yesterday; and I arbitrarily chose to listen to its preview instead of any of several other songs that were unfamiliar to me.
And within 18 hours, I get an invitation with the very same title?!?
And what are the chances of two different Meetup group organizers emailing me on the same day about gun-related activities? I just joined this group. They shouldn’t have any way of knowing I like to shoot.
I thought the alien butt sensors and the NSA were bad, but now I’m totally creeped out.
Who else is watching me? I don’t know, but I’m suspicious of the jackrabbit that’s been living under the spruce tree in our front yard. He has a shifty expression…
Author Diane Henders 