Diane Henders

Letting It All Hang Out

/ Diane Henders / 32 Comments

The worst things in life sneak up on you from behind.  Let me tell you a story:

Once upon a time, there was no spandex.

If you’re younger than dirt, don’t panic – those dark ages are long gone.  Many regret their passing (particularly when forced to view Walmart shoppers), but you, my children, will likely never be required to live without spandex.

This story takes place very long ago, back in a primitive era when there were no cell phones, computers took up entire buildings, and people listened to things called “record albums”, which contained only about ten songs and required playback equipment approximately the size of an Austin Mini.

But the glorious light of progress dawned, and spandex was invented in 1959.  Shortly thereafter, bathing suits became much safer to wear in the presence of water since, unlike the previous archaic materials, spandex didn’t sag and bag when wet.

I grew up on a farm near a backwater town in rural Manitoba, where dubious fads such as flush toilets were regarded with suspicion and adopted slowly, if at all.  Clothing fashions filtered down to us approximately ten years after they were fashionable everywhere else, so I still remember the days of swimsuits without spandex.  Fortunately, we did most of our swimming in the dugout on our farm, so wardrobe malfunctions resulting from saggy swimsuits were limited in the scope of their humiliation.

But when I was in my early teens, I got my first Speedo.  For those of you permanently scarred by itty-bitty Speedos for men, I assure you my Speedo was a one-piece suit that covered more than most blouses and shorts cover today.  It was fabulous.  It fit even when it was wet.

Sadly, I didn’t get to wear it for long because I grew out of it (vertically, not horizontally as I tend to grow out of garments these days).  But after I achieved my more-or-less-final adult dimensions, I bought another spandex-enriched bathing suit.

I’d also like to mention that while we weren’t exactly poor, we didn’t waste money.  So that bathing suit had to last.  And last.  And last.

And it did.  Until the fateful day when I put it on in bright light instead of a dingy change room.  And when I held it up, I discovered that the network of spandex was still there… but every other fibre in the entire butt-end of the swimsuit was worn away.

I’d never noticed it before.  I had no idea how many times I had paraded around at pools and beaches with my ass completely visible through spandex mesh.

After careful consideration, I decided it was better not to know.

These days, I’m much more careful.  I own a new bathing suit and I wear stretchy workout shorts, but I check my rear view in the mirror frequently, if not obsessively.  It’s not a particularly gratifying pastime, and it’s becoming steadily less rewarding as gravity lowers my common denominator.  But at least I won’t be ambushed by anything that’s happening back there.

And I subscribe wholeheartedly to the philosophy of “cover your ass”.

Flash (Non)Fiction: It’s All About Trust

/ Diane Henders / 32 Comments

When I rang the doorbell of the upscale house wearing my faded jeans and waist pouch, it occurred to me that most lawyers probably expect their business clients to be dressed up.

Well, tough.  I’d had a busy day with no time to change my clothes.  He’d just have to deal with it.

I heard footsteps and movement at the other side of the door.  Then nothing.  Maybe they weren’t even going to let me in.

After a lengthy pause, the door swung open and the receptionist greeted me.  “Diane?”

I put on my business smile.  “Yes.”

I stepped into the entry and was removing my shoes when she said, “I’ll need your driver’s license.”

“No,” I blurted reflexively, my posture squaring into battle-readiness before I could stop myself.  I smiled and relaxed my weight onto one hip, hoping to soften my initial reaction.  “What do you need it for?” I added.

“The Law Society requires it.”

“Not the last time I saw a lawyer.”  Shit, suspicious much?  Settle down.  “But it’s been a while,” I added, trying for a tone of casual interest.  “When did they bring that in?”

“2010.”

“I’ve seen a lawyer since then, and they didn’t ask for it.”  Go for non-confrontational, dammit.  “But it was right around 2010, so maybe it was before the new rules.  Why do you need it?”

“Because of 9-11.  We need to know you are who you say you are.”

“But a driver’s license doesn’t prove that,” I argued.  Shit, this probably isn’t reassuring her.  Try some empathy.  “That seems like a pretty onerous responsibility for you.  Do they make you check everybody against a database or something?”

“No, we just collect the information in case the Law Society asks for it.”

I crushed my tongue between my teeth and managed not to say ‘that’s stupid’, but apparently she got the message anyway.

“I’ll go and get Mr. X.  You can discuss it with him.  Please have a seat.”

In what had originally been a dining room, I perched warily in one of the sleek leather chairs arranged around the small, pristine meeting table.  The long pile of the carpet looked as if it had been freshly raked and manicured.  Jeez, there wasn’t even a footprint on it except my own.

In the adjacent living space, the long boardroom table was surrounded by identical leather chairs, all aligned to exactly the same angle.  The carpet was perfect.  The floor-to-ceiling drapes were perfect, every fold carefully arranged.

Like a funeral parlour.  Soothing, neutral, and designed to conceal something rotten.

I tried to ignore my paranoid discomfort without success.  What kind of operation was this, anyway?  The website had shown a downtown address, not a house out in the ‘burbs.  I hadn’t thought too much about it when we’d set up the meeting, but now…

I shook off the thought and occupied myself by studying the certificates and diplomas precisely aligned on the wall.  Mr. X had a lot of qualifications.  That’s why I’d selected him.  I wanted a specialist I could trust to set up this deal properly.

Footsteps made me sit up straight.  Mr. X rounded the corner and I hid my surprise.  He looked a lot younger than his picture on the website.

“Diane?  I’m X.”

I rose, smiled, and shook his outstretched hand.  He didn’t fully grasp my hand in the short handshake.  He sat without facing me, pulling his chair close to the table and placing a sheaf of papers directly in front of him as if for protection.  I swivelled my chair to view him diagonally across the edge of the table, leaning casually on one elbow and keeping my body language open and relaxed.

“So that’s interesting about the driver’s license,” I prompted.  “I’m the privacy officer for my company, so I’m curious about your requirements.  That seems like a lot of responsibility for the Law Society to place on individual lawyers.”

His eyes darted sideways.  “Not really.  They don’t do anything with it.  It’s just since 9-11.  They’re watching out for money laundering and things like that.”

I’ve heard 9-11 used as an excuse for all kinds of shit, but implementing a policy nine years after the fact was really reaching.  And if I was smart enough to launder money, did they seriously think I’d be too dumb to get a fake driver’s license?

Oh, well, stupid or not, if the Law Society required it I might as well give…

“How did you find me?”  His abrupt question interrupted my thoughts.

“I searched on the internet and found your website.”

His eyes flicked away again.  “Oh.  I try to minimize my web presence.  And that wasn’t my real website.”

Wait, what the hell?

Before I could speak, he added, “You must have gotten one of the ones that somebody took over.  You know, like the Yellow Pages or something.  Not X.ca.”

“I was on X.ca.  It had your picture and areas of expertise-”

“But that’s not current.  I moved two years ago, and it’s still not updated.  I don’t know how the other lawyers manage to get everything updated when they move all the time.  You were on the wrong site.  That wasn’t my real site.  It must have been the Yellow Pages or something.”

I blinked despite myself.  “Um, I’m a computer geek, and I’m positive…”  I abandoned that tack and switched gears.  Maybe he just wasn’t a techie kind of guy.  “It’s not hard to get your site updated,” I began reassuringly.  “You just need to get your web designer to-”

Again with the shifty eyes.  “So about this alter ego trust we discussed over the phone.”

I eased back in my chair.  “Um, yeah.  You mentioned a ballpark figure of $5,000.  Is that all your fees, or are there other fees or disbursements?”

He waved his hands vaguely as if outlining an object about the size and shape of a breadbox.  “It’s fees.”

“Okay, but are there any expenses other than your fees?  What about disbursements?  Any additional fees for registering…?”

“It’s what it costs for me to do the work.”

I couldn’t help glancing to the corner of the room when his eyes twitched in that direction.  Nothing there.  When I looked back at him, he looked away.

I pulled my briefcase closer and made politely regretful noises.  “I’ll need to look into this a little more.  The setup costs aren’t looking as though they’ll justify the benefits in the end.  I suspect it won’t go ahead.”

Let me rephrase that.  It sure as hell won’t go ahead with you.  You totally creep me out, buddy.  Maybe I should’ve asked to see your driver’s license.

I stood.  “I appreciate the time you spent with me on the phone and meeting with me here today.  May I pay you for your time?”

He didn’t meet my gaze.  “No, that’s all right.  Goodbye.”

A lawyer refusing payment?  This was definitely too weird for me.

I crammed my feet into my shoes and fled.

***

True story – this just happened to me last week. 

Was he trying to get rid of me because I wasn’t dressed “right”?  Maybe he thought I was a criminal because I was reluctant to hand over my driver’s license?  Maybe he had a medical condition that made his eyes twitch?

Maybe I wouldn’t have been so defensive about the driver’s license if it had been an office instead of somebody’s house; or if they’d mentioned it over the phone when I made the appointment; or if we’d actually decided to do business together before they asked for it.  I know I was acting like the paranoid freak I am… but…

What do you think?  Would you have run screaming?

The Joy Of Mediocrity

/ Diane Henders / 34 Comments

As usual, I was dazzled by the Olympics.  So this may sound strange, but I’ve been thinking about the joys of mediocrity lately.

I’ve competed in archery off and on for quite a few years, and my skills are to the Olympics what a tricycle is to a 1966 Corvette Stingray with a 427 big-block.  I’m only good enough to get an inkling of the tremendous physical and mental preparation necessary for Olympic-level archery.

The thing is, there’s such a small margin between an Olympic gold medal and last place, we don’t really get a sense of perspective.  When all the competitors are world-class, missing by a fraction of an inch or a few hundredths of a second looks like failure.  Just for giggles, the IOC should invite a few ordinary weekend warriors to compete in the qualifying rounds of the Olympics.  You know, like a pro-am.  Then we’d understand how amazing even the last-place Olympic finishers are, compared to the average joe.

So hats off to the Olympians… but I’m celebrating “average” this week.

Mediocrity lands me square in the middle of the pack.  Even though I’m worse than half the field, I’m still better than the other half.  Nobody hates me for being too good or despises me for failing.  And when I don’t excel, hey, I’m just doing my part to make those top guys look good.

Excellence takes a hell of a lot of time and effort and commitment.  Mediocrity isn’t nearly as much work.  I love variety, so it’s far more fun for me to do lots of things more or less competently than to practice one thing long enough to do it perfectly (which probably explains my mistake-ridden piano playing and Bob-Ross-style oil painting).

And best of all, the phenomenon of illusory superiority kicks in at some point, too.  (Oversimplified definition:  If you’re not very good at something, you tend to think you’re better at it than you actually are.)

I’m not going to analyze that theory too closely because it might damage my happy illusions about my own competence.  I’m just going to say that with mediocrity, I can relax and enjoy.  If I end up winning, great.  If not?  Well, no surprise.  I get to have fun either way.  Granted, it sucks to end up in last place, but what the hell, somebody’s gotta come in last.

I realize this attitude makes me sound like a lazy slacker.  Don’t get me wrong, I do my best and I’m always trying to improve.  But “my best” means I work out 4 to 6 hours a week, not 4 to 6 hours a day.  I like having a life.

I have tremendous respect for the Olympic athletes.  Citius Altius Fortius is an admirable motto.  But ya know what?  “Good enough” is good enough for me.

Now, who wants to join me while I suck back a cold one and watch TSN?

Heeere, Mr. Gopher…

/ Diane Henders / 15 Comments

Warning:  This article contains graphic descriptions from an active zone of conflict.  It may be disturbing for sensitive readers.

Tensions were high as hostilities escalated this week in the West Garden.  In the past two weeks of conflict, dozens of innocent carrots and potatoes have lost their lives.  This week the death of two promising young head lettuce plants caused me to declare a jihad against pocket gophers.

After a brief attempt at mediation last week, negotiations broke down when the gophers walked away from the table.  (It so happened the table was appetizingly laid with Warfarin, but I see no reason to let facts get in the way of a dramatic story.)

The point is, I offered the gophers the opportunity to vacate the disputed territory or die an honourable death on their own terms, and they refused to do either.

This week, I found more impudent gopher mounds and more dead vegetables.  And I got serious.

I’m beginning to feel like Bill Murray in Caddyshack.  I laughed when he sculpted a squirrel out of plastic explosive. I thought his deranged expression was funny.

Little did I know that this week, I’d feel that expression on my own face.  And I’d be seriously wondering how he procured the C4.

However, I’d like to think I’m still slightly saner than to blow my entire garden to hell just for sake of eradicating some pocket gophers.  I went with a subtler method:  poison gas.

Gassing gophers was a whole new experience for me.  Growing up on the farm, the rifle was always handy by the back door if we needed to get rid of animal pests.  (Yes, those were the days before gun control.)  So it was with trepidation that I read the warnings and instructions on the packet of innocuous-looking little cylinders.

The instructions helpfully described how to find the horseshoe-shaped mound that indicated the location of the main burrow, and provided all sorts of useful advice about the danger of burns and poison gas inhalation.  Hooray.

But I was a woman on the edge.  This was a Holy War.  Nothing would stop me.

I found the burrow.  I dug down and identified the direction of the tunnel.  I donned my heavy leather gloves (to prevent burns) and ascertained the direction of the wind (to prevent gassing myself).

I test-fitted the cartridge in the tunnel to make sure I wouldn’t smother the fuse when I put it in…

And nearly shit my pants when I lit the first fuse.

You know how in the cartoons, the fuse makes this hissing, spitting noise and sprays a rooster-tail of sparks?  You know how the cartoon characters get all freaked out when the flame zips along the fuse ‘way faster than they expected?

It was exactly like that.

Turns out they only guarantee a minimum of five seconds on the fuse.  I spent approximately two of those seconds gaping at the smoking, spitting cylinder of death in my hand before stuffing it in the tunnel, shoving dirt over top and running like hell.

All in all, it went exactly as planned, but with a good deal more adrenaline.

I won’t know until next week whether I got him.  But if I find more mounds, I’ll have no choice but to go Rambo on his ass.

So if you see a deranged-looking middle-aged woman standing out in her garden at sunrise armed with a compound bow and broadhead-tipped arrows, just smile, nod, and back away slowly.

Heeere, Mr. Gopher…

Optimism Or Idiocy?

/ Diane Henders / 27 Comments

This week, I’m diving into uncharted waters – again.  It seems for every new situation that arises in my business or personal life, I acquire another three skills I never wanted to have.  But does that make me say, “Oh, wait, I don’t know how to do that; maybe I should get some help”?

Oh, hell, no.

’Cause that would be sensible.

No, my response looks more like this:  “Sure, I can do that.  No problem.  Is Wednesday okay?”  *scuttles frantically away to research arcane topic*

Last week, I learned basic ASP programming in an afternoon.  It wasn’t one of the more enjoyable afternoons I’ve ever spent, but I got my web forms working.

This week, I’ve been reading up on discretionary trusts, crash-safety specs on 2012 SUVs, and how to get rid of pocket gophers.  Frankly, rodent eradication has been the most relaxing and enjoyable part of my research.  Those little bastards have been decimating my carrots.  Messing with my garden is a killin’ offense.

…aaaand now that I’ve invited flaming hate mail from gopher-lovers…

Most people would consider my jump-in-with-both-feet approach to be at best, a liability, and at worst, sheer idiocy.  I prefer to call it “optimism”.  After all, I’m living proof that too much prep time isn’t necessarily a good thing.  My only colossal failures occurred after years of training and/or preparation:  my first career and my first marriage.

I dated my now-ex-husband six years before I married him, and my bachelor’s degree in interior design took four years to acquire, plus the extra two years it took for me to wrangle my failing thesis through the appeals process.  As long as I cheerfully disregard the delicate issue of innate competence (and I do, oh yes I do), the cause of my failure in both cases was obviously “too much preparation”.

Since those massive failures, I’ve flown by the seat of my pants for everything from becoming a computer geek to installing granite floors to developing the optimum recipe for banana bread.  And everything has worked out pretty well (including my second career and second marriage).

Thank goodness for my enabler:  that source of great wisdom, pure bullshit, and occasionally, useful instructions – the internet.  With the internet on my side, it’s actually possible to take on a ridiculously unrealistic challenge and come out smelling, if not like a rose, at least not like a skunk cabbage.

Problem is, I’ve been cursed with an unholy combination of do-it-yourself-ism and perfectionism.  I don’t just jump in and do it, I jump in and want to do it well.  I expect to come out smelling like a rose.

Which brings us back to that “optimism” thing again.  Some may use the word “delusional”, but… pshaw.  What do they know?

I realize this approach sets me up for more colossal failures.  I can sense their vile miasma hovering just behind my left shoulder.  Fortunately, I’m right-handed.  My plan is to keep moving so fast that failure doesn’t have a chance to catch up.

And I don’t mind if people call it idiocy – I’m happy in my delusional little world.  ‘Cause it has nice granite floors…

The house Delusion built.

Driving Ms. Crazy

/ Diane Henders / 29 Comments

Some days, even the simplest things get ‘way more complicated than they need to be.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, sometimes I’m convinced I’m speaking Swahili because nobody seems to grasp what I’m trying to say, no matter how many different ways I phrase it.  I’m convinced it’s the Universe’s way of keeping me humble enough to summon up some charity and patience when somebody else suffers a brain/speech malfunction.

But sometimes it’s really difficult to refrain from beating my head against the nearest hard surface…

We were going to a store that had recently moved.  I was driving, and my passenger (who shall remain nameless to protect the guilty) was giving me directions.  I knew we were going to 9th Avenue, but I wasn’t sure of the address.

Calgary is divided into quadrants, so there are four possible locations for any given address.  Without the suffix “SW”, “SE”, “NW”, or “NE”, you’re lost.  I was pretty sure the store was in one of the southern quadrants, but I didn’t know which one:

Me:  “What’s the address?”

Passenger:  “I don’t know the actual address, but I know where it is.”

Me:   “Okay, where is it?”

Passenger:  “On 9th Avenue.”

Me:  “I know it’s on 9th Avenue, but where?”

Passenger:  “Just take Bow Trail.”

Me:  “I know how to get to 9th Avenue, I want to know where I’m going once I’m on 9th Avenue.”

Passenger:  “I’ll tell you where to turn.”

Me:  *suspenseful pause*  “And… where will I be turning?”

Passenger:  “It’ll be a left turn.”

Me:  “Congratulations, you’ve given me no useful information whatsoever.  Where the hell is it on 9th Avenue?”

Passenger:  “Oh!  It’s at the corner of 9th Avenue and 11th Street.”

Me:  “Southwest or Southeast?”

Passenger:  *growing impatient with my obtuseness*   “No!  It’s on the northeast corner of 9th Avenue and 11th Street.”

Me:  *gritting teeth*  “The northeast corner of 9th Avenue and 11th Street Southwest or 9th Avenue and 11th Street Southeast?”

Passenger:  “Oh…!  Southwest.”

Me:  *sigh*

Before you make any assumptions about gender vs. navigation skills, I’d like to point out that my passenger was male.  Just sayin’.

I can’t imagine how the phrase “It’s on the northeast corner of 9th Avenue and 11th Street Southwest” could have become any more complicated.  What should have been a five-second exchange turned into a ridiculous “Who’s On First” comedy routine.

It might have been funnier if I hadn’t been playing the part of the straight man while trying to steer my car through traffic to an unknown destination.

But it’s okay.  I know with absolute certainty that within days of posting this, I’ll be the one in the passenger seat, obfuscating the directions while the driver’s blood pressure rockets into the danger zone.

Come to think of it, I seem to recall the following conversation not too long ago:

Hubby:  “I’m supposed to turn left here?”

Me:  “Right.”

Hubby:  “Right?  Shit!”  *swerves over two lanes of traffic*

Me:  “No, left!  I meant, that’s right… that’s correct; you’re supposed to turn left…  Never mind, I’m an idiot.”

Thanks, Universe.  I owe ya one.

Anybody else have one of those “Who’s On First” moments lately?

P.S.  I’m so pumped – my new book cover designs are finally done!  Check ’em out in the “My Books” panel at the right – or bigger versions here.  They should start hitting the stores in a week or two.  🙂

I’m Probably A Sociopath: Exhibit B

/ Diane Henders / 30 Comments

A couple of weeks ago, I concluded I was probably a sociopath.  Just in case more evidence was needed, this photo from my living room provides the confirmation:

Cabbage-rose patterned chair

Photographic evidence: Exhibit B

According to Wikipedia, a diagnosis of sociopathy can be made if the subject exhibits at least three of six hallmarks.  Let’s look at them individually, shall we?

Items 1 and 2:

  1. Callous unconcern for the feelings of others.
  2. Gross and persistent attitude of irresponsibility and disregard for social norms, rules, and obligations.

The fact that I harbour this furniture in my living room definitely qualifies me for both items (and probably also for an emergency decorating intervention).  Anyone who cares about the feelings of others or the norms of society would never force another human being to witness that fabric pattern.  But I kinda like it.  It’s… bold.  Yeah, that’s the word I was looking for.  Bold.

Item 3:  Incapacity to maintain enduring relationships, though having no difficulty in establishing them.

I thought I’d be able to weasel out of diagnosis when I read this.  I have no problem with relationships.  So there.

But then came…

Item 4:  Very low tolerance to frustration and a low threshold for discharge of aggression, including violence.

Um… well, yeah, I get frustrated sometimes.  Who doesn’t?  And yeah, I kickbox, but that’s not really violent, is it?  I mean, it’s not like I’m whacking little old ladies in the streets, right?  Just because I go downstairs and kick the hell out of my 270-lb bag when I’m having a bad day doesn’t mean I’m violent.  And really, “low threshold for discharge of aggression” is such a subjective thing.  “Low” compared to what?  Kickboxing is just a healthy outlet for my frustration.

Item 5:  Incapacity to experience guilt or to profit from experience, particularly punishment.

I figured I was home free when I read the first part.  I’ve got lots of guilt.  I tend to ignore it, but I definitely have it, so that’s gotta count for something.  But then there’s the ‘inability to profit from experience/punishment’ part.  Being a fiction writer is pretty much indistinguishable from punishment sometimes.  And apparently I haven’t learned much from it, ‘cause I keep on writing.

Item 6:  Markedly prone to blame others or to offer plausible rationalizations for the behavior that has brought the person into conflict with society.

Oh shit, rationalizations.  But that thing about the kickboxing wasn’t really a rationalization, was it?  That previous sentence wasn’t a rationalization, either.  I’m pretty sure about that.  And anyway, my mother picked out the furniture.  So it’s not really my fault…

Oops, rationalization and blame.

The wiki also helpfully notes, “There may be persistent irritability as an associated feature.”

“Irritability”?  Come on, seriously?  Do you know anybody who doesn’t get irritated sometimes?  That really pisses me off!

I mean… um… never mind.

So I’m five out of six, with bonus points for irritability.  That might worry me if I didn’t have a gross and persistent disregard for social norms.

And I just can’t seem to feel guilty about that…

Evil Eyes

/ Diane Henders / 27 Comments

As I mentioned in an earlier post, my mouth keeps me in trouble.  I’d like to pretend it’s only my mouth that’s the problem, but now my eyes are getting into the act, too.

It started innocently enough.  One day I was out for a walk when I spotted a poster advertising “CREEPFEST”.

At the time, I questioned the necessity for a festival dedicated to creeps when pretty much any ride on the C-Train qualifies as a creepfest, but, hey, what do I know?  And anyway, I live a sheltered life.  It might have been a film festival for horror movies or something.  Later, I discovered it was actually advertising “CREEKFEST”, a family fun day down at our local Fish Creek Park.

Honest mistake.

But it got worse.  I was skimming a document online when my eyeballs snagged on the phrase “making goats is the first step toward success…”

Excuse me?

Success in what, exactly?  And do I really want to achieve the kind of success that requires me (or anyone for that matter) to screw goats as a first step?

When I re-read it, I discovered to my relief that the word in question was “goals”, not “goats”.  But apparently, making goats was indeed the first step… down a sad and sordid path.  It was only the beginning of the mutiny currently being staged by my evil eyes.

I misread a quotation:  “Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes all the way to the boner”.  Granted, the original quote wasn’t exactly inspirational even when read correctly, but that extra ‘r’ on the end just didn’t help the situation at all.

I misread a friend’s tweet:  “Think I’ll take up lap-dancing”. I was halfway through a bottle of brain bleach before I realized the tweet actually read “Think I’ll take up tap-dancing”.

Which, frankly, was disturbing enough, but it didn’t actually warrant a brain cleanse.

Even my favourite recipe website wasn’t safe.  I glanced at a recipe I’d printed, and misread the header as “cocksucker” instead of “cooks.com”.  You’d think that’d be a bit of a stretch, but the “-om” was covered by another sheet of paper, so the only letters visible were “cooks.c”.  And the ‘c’ and ‘o’ are quite similar in their header font.

But still.  Come on, eyeballs, gimme a break here.

If one wanted to get all persnickety about this, one might argue that there’s nothing at all wrong with my eyes, and that the problem actually originates a couple of inches behind my eyeballs.

Our theoretical persnickety commentator might also add that if one has a more-than-passing familiarity with words like ‘boner’ and ‘lap-dancing’ and ‘cocksucker’, one can’t reasonably feign shock and outrage at reading them, whether or not they’re in appropriate context (if there is actually an “appropriate” context for those particular words).

And if those were the only words I’d misread, I’d have to concede the point.

But making goats?

Nope.  I’ll admit to being slightly warped, but I’m not that twisted.

Maybe it’s time for reading glasses.

Cheapskate!

/ Diane Henders / 38 Comments

I’ve reluctantly come to accept that I’m a cheapskate.

I tend to make do with what I’ve got until it’s long past time the item was replaced.  When I finally do buy a new item, I’m willing to pay for the features I need, but I refuse to pay extra for non-essentials.  Like colour.  (Which probably explains why I was such a resounding failure as an interior designer, but that’s another story.)

Self-help programs point out that it’s necessary to first identify and accept that you have a problem before healing can begin.  My cheapskate epiphany came when I realized I’ve owned nothing but white cars since 1989.

I’ve disliked white cars since I was old enough to pronounce the words “I like the red one better”.

In 1989, I bought a well-used 1975 Dodge Dart for $1100, which was all I could afford at the time.  It had one of the old 225 slant-six engines you couldn’t kill with a howitzer, and I loved that car so much that I forgave it for being white.  (Plus it had sporty stripes on the sides, so it wasn’t completely white.)

When the Dart rusted away several years later, I bought a 1986 Taurus cheap at an auction because it was (again) all I could afford.  It was a piece of shit.  I spent more time repairing it than I did driving it.  And it was white.

In 1998, I’d been divorced for a couple of years and I was back on my feet.  I decided I deserved a new car.  I’d never bought a vehicle off the lot before, and it was time, dammit.  No more hand-me-downs.  No more making do.

Off I went to the Saturn dealer to buy a new car.  Any colour I wanted.  Ha!

But they offered me a deal.  They had a demo on sale.  It was brand new except for the few hundred kilometres that had been put on by the dealership’s test drives.  And they’d knock $6,000 off the price and give me an extra year’s warranty.

Yeah, you guessed it.  I’m still driving it.  It’s been a great car.

But it’s white.

Because I’m a cheapskate, my motorcycle helmet has a fiery red skull on the back, and there’s cabbage-rose-patterned furniture in my living room.  Many would consider those patterns to be mutually exclusive.  I mean, really, most people are either flaming-skull or cabbage-rose, right?

But the helmet had all these great features, and it was cheaper than the plain black one.

And really, the furniture wasn’t my fault.  My mother chose the pattern.  Back around 1973.  That furniture has survived exposure to decades of children, cats, three different households in two provinces, and nearly 40 years of direct sun, all without fading or sagging or showing any visible signs of wear and tear.  I’m pretty sure it would survive a nuclear holocaust.

It is, however, violently unfashionable.  When I said “cabbage-rose”, you thought muted pinks, didn’t you?  Wrong-o.  The background is navy blue with poison-green leaves, and the cabbage roses are blue and orange.  Big suckers, about 5” across.  That furniture is so obnoxious, it even makes my fiery skull shudder.

I don’t want to spend the money right now, but some day, I’ll buy new furniture.  Any colour I want.  Ha!

…Is there an echo in here?

Please tell me there’s somebody else out there who makes do with not-so-perfect colours for the sake of frugality (which is a much nicer way to say ‘cheapness’).

I’m Disturbed

/ Diane Henders / 34 Comments

Okay, stop laughing.  I realize you already know I’m disturbed.  What I meant was:  I’m bothered.  Alarmed.  Perturbed.  Ruffled.  Unnerved.  (Yeah, and addicted to my thesaurus, but that’s a post for another day.)

Why?

Last week I was walking past a transit bus shelter near our house.  Some discarded packaging lay on the bench inside.  Apparently one of our fine upstanding citizens considered himself* too important in the grand scheme of things to dump the wrapping in the garbage can only a few feet away.

But that wasn’t what rattled my cage.  No, it was far more subtle and sinister.  As I neared the shelter, I caught sight of the label on the packaging:  “MACHETE”.

Ooookay.

So tell me.  If you needed to go out and buy a machete…

Now don’t get ahead of me; I don’t have issues with the need for a machete, even in a large urban area like Calgary.  A machete is a perfectly valid purchase.  It’s a tool.  Hell, I have one.  It’s under the bed…  Um, never mind.

Kidding.  I’m kidding, already!  (It’s actually by the back door.)

Anyhow, I’m not arguing the need for a machete.  And I realize not everyone who requires a machete necessarily owns a car.  In fact, there’s a logical argument for the possibility that if he could afford a car, he’d probably buy a chainsaw.  Or a katana, I guess, depending on whether he planned to cut down rampant underbrush or unwanted neighbours.

But my question is:  Why would he take it out of the package before boarding the bus?

And if you were the bus driver, would you seriously consider stopping to pick up some machete-toting dude?

“Oh, well, he’s carrying a big honkin’ sword that’s capable of cutting my bus in half with a single stroke, but that’s okay.  He probably needs it to chop his compost.  Gardeners are nice people.  I’m sure it’ll be fine…”

Yeah, right.

Here in Canada, it’s not technically illegal to carry a machete, or any kind of bladed tool other than automatic knives like switchblades.  I’ve personally schlepped a pair of axes down the sidewalk in small-town Manitoba without raising too many eyebrows (long story).

But since our laws also contain handy-dandy catch-phrases that prohibit “weapons dangerous to the public peace”, I’m thinking our proud new machete owner might have some ’splainin’ to do unless there was a patch of jungle near the bus shelter.  I didn’t see one, but maybe our intrepid machete-master cleared it before I arrived.

So let’s think about this for a moment.  I prefer to believe our transit bus drivers possess a modicum of common sense.  I’d like to think they wouldn’t allow some machete-wielding freak to get on their bus.  It’s enlightened self-interest if nothing else.

But if there had been a kerfuffle of any sort, I would have read it in the news.  We’re a tough bunch of rednecks around here, but I’m pretty sure a machete on a transit bus would rate a couple of lines near the back of the paper.  But no.  Nothing.

So somewhere in our fair city, there’s a guy who thinks it’s a good idea to carry an unsheathed machete on a transit bus.  And there’s a bus driver who’s okay with that.

I’m disturbed.

And I think I’ll bring my machete the next time I take the bus.  ’Cause one machete-wielding freak obviously isn’t enough for this town.

***

*Note:  For brevity, I used masculine gender throughout.  I’m perfectly willing to acknowledge the culprit may have been female.  Heaven knows there are days…