I’m Probably A Sociopath: Exhibit A

June 20, 2012July 30, 2020 / Diane Henders / 60 Comments

If there’s an enzyme that regulates concern for how one is perceived by the general public, my levels are dangerously low. Add that to my tendency to choose a logical (to me) solution despite the hair-pulling, eye-bulging frustration of my companions, and I’m pretty sure I’m a sociopath.

As evidence, I present Exhibit A: my fanny pack. But I don’t wear it on my fanny (or at least, not the North American definition of ‘fanny’), so I refer to it as a waist pouch. See? Blatant disregard for the norms of society.

Photographic evidence: Exhibit A

I’m not actually oblivious to fashion; I just find it annoyingly illogical. On those rare occasions when I’m forced to dress up, I wear stylish clothes and hide my waist pouch inside a capacious handbag. But it’s only an empty gesture to craftily hide my psychosis (which is another earmark of sociopathy, by the way).

When I’m wearing my waist pouch, I’m happy and comfortable… and a walking fashion faux pas. I’m fully aware the fashion police will one day take me down. But until they do, I’m keeping it.

It’s comfortable, practical, and hands-free. It’s attached to my body, so it’s impossible to accidentally leave it behind. When I’m riding a motorcycle, I don’t have to figure out how to carry a purse. When I’m hiking or skiing or golfing, it’s right there when I need it. And despite its approximately five-pound weight, it’s effortless to carry because it hangs on my hips, not my shoulder.

As long as I’ve got my pouch, I’m set to survive anything from a business meeting to an exile in the wilderness. I’ve got bandaids, tissues, sunscreen, two kinds of lip balm (one with SPF 15), sunglasses, a flashlight, a bottle opener, one sturdy folding knife, and one Swiss-Army-type pocketknife with tweezers and screwdrivers and so forth.

There’s a small drugstore’s worth of useful pharmaceuticals like ASA, ibuprofen, anti-nauseants, antacids, cough drops, zinc lozenges, dextrose tablets, eye drops, and a bronchodilator. And I have my smartphone, pen, earplugs, dental floss, concealer, hair brush, hair elastics, hand sanitizer, breath mints, scissors, a measuring tape, screwdrivers, reading glasses, nail clippers, and a nail file.

Of course, I also carry my wallet, cheque book, and change purse. And a key to every lock in my life (21 in all, plus an extra for my car just in case). And a bunch of business cards. And two USB flash drives because I’m paranoid about keeping offsite backups of my work. Oh, and a little chunk of amethyst, because folklore says it enhances creativity and prevents drunkenness, which are both important considerations for a writer.

And there’s still room for my MP3 player in a pinch.

Everything has a place, and it’s packed so efficiently and predictably that I can find any item one-handed in the dark in ten seconds or less.

How can you argue with those benefits? A waist pouch is clearly the best solution. It’s simple logic. Like all good sociopaths, I hold the implicit belief that I’m right and the rest of the world is wrong.

So if you see the fashion police headed my way, call me. I’ll cut through the window screen with my pocketknife, lower myself on a rope made of dental floss, and cleverly disable their car with my screwdrivers before making my getaway. Wearing my sunglasses as a disguise.

Why yes, actually, paranoia is also a symptom of sociopathy… why do you ask?

At Least I’m Edible

June 13, 2012May 25, 2014 / Diane Henders / 24 Comments

This post is not for the soft of heart nor the delicate of spirit. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

**************

I can barely remember the time before my confinement, before this eternity of solitary darkness. I was not always contorted like this, but my prison has molded me inexorably to its shape.

A shattering burst of sound. Rough hands drag me forth. My disused senses are flayed raw by sudden noise and light but I cannot move, cannot flinch away.

This is not the gentle liberation of my long dreams.

The hands pull mercilessly at my twisted form, forcing me to resume a long-forgotten shape. The assault is savage, excruciating, but my voiceless state prevents me even the meager relief of screams.

They speak, but their words have no meaning. Perhaps they try to explain, to apologize. Or perhaps they mock my pain, taking pleasure in my suffering.

No.

More monstrous yet; they are indifferent. Though their eyes are upon me, their attention is on each other. The hands rend me open with eager brutality. Time congeals in mind-crushing pain.

The attack stops.

But it is not over.

Trapped helpless between them, their fierce heat laves me, easing my tortured body despite my terror. It is only a bitter glimpse of impossible salvation, for now I understand.

This is their unholy celebration; the culmination of their depraved rites. They will consume me slowly, their teeth shredding me, their lust burgeoning with every bite.

There will be no clemency for me. No deliverance.

My doom approaches. A ghastly abyss of putrid breath. A hot, slimy tongue ringed by cruel teeth. My spirit quails.

The teeth tear into me, but I cannot struggle, cannot cry out. Can only endure in silent desperation, entreating the distant mercy of death.

One final thought drifts above my roiling sea of agony.

At least I’m edible…

****************

…And that’s the first time I’ve ever written from the point of view of a pair of edible underwear. Might not be the last, though – you never know. Every pair has a story, however tragically, er, brief.

And hey, look what I found just for my loyal readers: Instructions for making your very own edible underwear! Brief Jerky, so nobody will ever ask “Where’s the beef?” and a cute little thong you can crochet yourself out of licorice laces – only 302 calories!

You know, just in case you were looking for a little something to spice up your… um… diet.

Note:

Madame Weebles is to blame for this post.

It all started with Nigel Blackwell’s post, “What’s In A Name? I’m A Pig”. The post includes the French Revolutionary Calendar, in which my birth day is named “millet”. So I commented, “blah, blah… at least I’m edible… blah, blah”.

Whereupon Madame Weebles dared me to write a post with that title. There was actually a small wager involved, but it wouldn’t be fair to hold her to it. She’s one of my newer blogging buddies, and I don’t think she’d read my post “Doin’ It On A Dare”.

With a title like that, it was tempting to go raunchy, but… nah, too predictable. I can write dirty jokes about anything, so it was far more interesting to write about edible underwear without a single rude word or double entendre.

…’Cause it seemed like a good idea to keep my edible undies clean. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)

…You Know; The “Thing”…

June 6, 2012July 30, 2020 / Diane Henders / 21 Comments

Ever notice how inanimate objects tend to acquire names? For me, it all started with Fred.

I don’t recall anyone in our family ever naming a plant or an inanimate object, so when I discovered that my ex-father-in-law (may his delightful soul rest in peace) called his houseplant “Fred”, I was bemused. Fred was a Norfolk Island Pine, and, when pressed, my father-in-law said he didn’t know why, “He just looks like a Fred.”

Being the creative sort that I am, I called every Norfolk Island Pine I subsequently encountered “Fred”. I have a Fred in my living room even as I write this:

Fred. Not the original.

And then there was Rodney. A few years ago, I was having trouble with voracious sparrows that decimated my garden peas. The instant the sprouts dared to poke above the ground, those rotten little sky-rodents would swoop in and chow down, leaving nothing but lifeless stumps behind.

So I bought a “scare owl”. For those unfamiliar with the foolish hopes and dreams of gardeners, a scare owl is a life-sized plastic owl, painted with realistic markings and fierce yellow eyes. The idea is that smaller birds identify the threatening presence of a bird of prey and flock off.

Yeah, right.

The sparrows perched beside the scare owl on the deck railing, chirping insults and taking turns shitting on its head. I promptly christened the owl “Rodney”, because, like Dangerfield, he got no respect.

I don’t usually apply permanent names to inanimate objects. They get lots of temporary names, ranging from “the thing” (as in, “…you know; the thing…” when I can’t think of the correct word on the spur of the moment) to “useless piece of shit” or other less complimentary terms that would require an f-bomb alert at the top of this post.

I will admit to occasionally addressing my cute little blue MP3 player as “my little sweetie” when I’m in a particularly fond mood. I do love my music. But if the batteries run down at the wrong moment, it’s right back to “useless piece of shit”. I’m fickle that way.

Lots of people seem to name their cars. Friends of ours named their red car ‘Scarlet’, and I had a hand in naming another friend’s new SUV ‘Lucy Blue’ (from Bob Seger’s Tales Of Lucy Blue).

Like Scarlet and Lucy Blue, it’s usually pretty easy to trace the origin of the name. Even Rodney makes sense once you hear the story. With the exception of Fred, most naming seems to have some logical basis.

Which is why I’m sure you’ll understand the moniker I applied to the desiccated cactus that’s been languishing on the corner of my desk waiting to be thrown away:

Meet Dick Prickly.

Anybody else name their cars/plants/inanimate objects?

Coitus Interruptus

May 30, 2012 / Diane Henders / 34 Comments

It’s driving me crazy. I’ve been trying for months, and I get interrupted partway through every time. I’m so frustrated because I just can’t finish…

The sex scene in my latest book, I mean.

My writing process borders on obsessive-compulsive. I begin by re-reading and editing everything I’ve written the previous several days, just to get back into the story. Then I write, then I edit what I’ve just written, and then I repeat. And repeat. And… repeat.

If I’m interrupted, it completely throws me. If it’s a minor interruption, I can sometimes jump back into the story, but usually I have to go back several scenes and start again. By the time one of my books is ready for release, I’ve re-read (and usually re-written) every single word at least 50 times.

How Spy I Am goes out to my beta readers this week, so you can guess how many times I’ve edited this sex scene. And I’ve never gotten through it uninterrupted.

Not. Once.

No matter how the stars and planets are aligned, no matter what precautions I’ve taken, there’s always something. A conversation that requires more input than “Mmm-hmmm”. A doorbell. An alarm.

I’ve tried working at my desk, at somebody else’s kitchen table, out in the woods, and in the car (no, I was not driving at the time). Same damn thing. I get partway through that scene, and something happens to drag me away.

I tried it in the airport boarding lounge. I figured, who the hell would interrupt me there? Nobody talks to anybody in the airport.

Wrong!

It was all I could do not to leap up and scream, “Do you mind? I’m trying to have sex over here!” Which might have been amusing, come to think of it. Maybe I’ll try that some time, just for giggles. Anyway…

Last week, I made an editing date with myself. Put all my other work aside and gave myself permission to not make supper/do laundry/whatever. I had several gloriously uninterrupted hours at my desk. I was in the editing zone. Before I knew it, I was half-way through the sex scene, thinking, “At last, I’ll get through this…”

The phone rang.

The call involved a family member and hospitalization. Fortunately nothing life-threatening, but definitely one of those calls you have to take. And there I was, left hanging. Again.

This week is my last chance. Hubby’s away on business. I’ve discharged all my responsibilities for my “real” job. My inboxes (both paper and virtual) are empty. I plan to leave my phone in the house, close the windows, lock the doors, and take my laptop out to the shed in the back yard. It’s a sordid place to have sex, but by now I have no self-respect left.

After all, what could possibly happen to interrupt me out there?

But if you see a headline about a woman who died when her garden shed was struck by lightning out of a clear blue sky, don’t look for a blog post next week.

Postscript: I was editing again after I wrote the draft for this post. Right in the middle of the fateful scene… my mouse batteries died. FML.

I. AM. CANADIAN!

May 23, 2012July 30, 2020 / Diane Henders / 38 Comments

It’s interesting to be Canadian. As a nation, we’re generally regarded as the polite, low-key, boring neighbours of the superpower south of us. We tend to define ourselves by what we’re not, instead of by what we are, and we may get quite impassioned about the whole thing. Especially if beer is involved.

We’ve got a lot going for us. We’re superpowers in hockey and curling. Our military, while pathetically undermanned, is generally respected. We are usually laid-back and polite. Until you get to know us. Then we’re potty-mouths (language warning on this link).

Despite (or perhaps because of) the abundance of off-colour jokes about our national animal the beaver, we are actually quite attached to the furry buck-toothed rodent. And every now and then, the beaver gets revenge on its detractors, though this may only happen in beer commercials.

And speaking of beer, despite my high regard for our neighbours to the south, our beer is generally much better than theirs. I have a sneaking suspicion that most U.S. beer is just Canadian beer that’s been warm-filtered through a kidney.

We’re a nation of oddballs who are perfectly capable of starting a violently destructive riot over a hockey game, and then getting sidetracked partway through:

http://www.gettyimages.ca/detail/news-photo/riot-police-walk-in-the-street-as-a-couple-kiss-on-june-15-news-photo/116466376

After all, which is more important, a hockey game or getting lucky? (Note: If you are a Canadian male, this question will cause intense indecision.)

You know you’re Canadian when you put on your parka and go out to buy a Slurpee in -30 degree weather. (If you’re not from around here, a Slurpee is a slushy drink composed of crushed ice and a soft drink). Winter is a great time to drink Slurpees, because they don’t melt and dilute the flavouring, and your hands don’t get cold while you hold the cup because you’re already wearing mittens.

Maybe because we spend a lot of time sitting inside to avoid the cold, we’ve also contributed quite a few useful things to the world. We’ve offered up handy-dandy stuff like insulin to treat diabetes (Banting & Best, 1922), basketball (Naismith, 1891), and the Canadarm for the space shuttle (SPAR Aerospace, 1981).

There are many reasons why I’m glad I’m Canadian, but a couple of weeks ago, we scored another notable achievement. A Canadian stuntwoman, Jolene Van Vugt, set a new land speed record for the world’s fastest motorized toilet: 75 km/hr (46.6 mph).

http://www.globalpost.com/photo/5703220/fastesttoilet-040512

Now I’m really flushed with pride!

Beer and Jiggs on “Da Rock”

May 16, 2012 / Diane Henders / 18 Comments

I thoroughly enjoyed spending last week in St. John’s, Newfoundland. It was my first visit to “Da Rock”, but I knew enough to be prepared for some idiosyncrasies. Here are a few things the travel brochures don’t tell you.

Everyone who’s ever visited Newfoundland raves about how friendly everyone is, and it’s true. Within a day, I’d been repeatedly called Honey, Sweetie, Darlin’, and Doll, all in delightful accents that ranged from lilting Irish to twangy down-home Newfie. And that was just the women.

The men were even friendlier. I got honks and waves, offers of rides, and one guy even offered me his hat (it was a windy day and my hair was flying). Oddly, my husband didn’t get the same warm treatment from the guys. Sheer coincidence, I’m sure.

Here’s the best piece of navigational advice I can offer: Turn off your GPS while in St. John’s. There are so many intersections where streets converge in a haphazard conglomeration, the GPS can’t keep up. “Turn right” could mean any one of three possible options – and you will invariably choose the wrong one.

When your GPS’s voice starts to sound first miffed, then frantic (“turn right…” “recalculating…” “turn left, then turn right…”, “recalculating…” “turn right, then keep left, moron…” “recalculating…” “RECALCULATING…”) you know you’re doomed.

Paper maps are a better option, but we discovered the best solution is to follow a trucker through town. You might not end up exactly where you wanted to be, but at least you’ll be on a main road and you can turn around and try again.

And now for a critical health warning: Through careful research and experimentation, I’ve determined that Jiggs Dinner is highly volatile when combined with beer. Do not, I repeat, do not consume this unless you plan to spend your evening in solitude. This meal’s after-effects pose extreme danger to anyone within a thirty-foot radius. On the upside, you won’t need to use your nose-hair trimmer any time soon.

For the uninitiated, Jiggs Dinner is a traditional Newfie meal composed of salt beef boiled with dried peas, cabbage, potatoes, carrots, and sometimes turnips. The result is delicious… but mixed with beer? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

By my unofficial count, St. John’s has one church and one Irish pub per ten residents. You’ve gotta like people whose priorities are that clearly defined. And I’m not talking little churches – I’m talking huge stone cathedrals. I was lucky to discover that the Anglican cathedral on Duckworth offers a free ½ hour classical concert on their pipe organ every Wednesday afternoon. I crept into the chill, shadowy building to gape up at the lofty Gothic arches and soaring stained glass while the sonorous tones of the organ filled the enormous space.

One word: Wow.

But since St. John’s has a total population of about 200,000, I can’t imagine why they need all those giant churches. I’m pretty sure every person in the entire town could go to church simultaneously and still have room to spare. That’d never happen, though, because they’re all in the pubs drinking beer and eating Jiggs Dinner.

Which actually makes sense when I think about it. Those stone cathedrals get damn nippy. They could use a bit of hot air.

Yep, those Newfies have it all figured out.

P.S. Seriously, if you ever get a chance to go to Newfoundland, go. Stay in downtown St. John’s, and you can walk to virtually all the attractions (if you like uphill walks). It’s the oldest city in Canada, with wonderful food, beer, people, and history… and we got to see an iceberg up close in Quidi Vidi Harbour. Doesn’t get much better than that.

Beautiful, Sunshiny, Versatile… And Lazy

May 9, 2012March 13, 2013 / Diane Henders / 31 Comments

Update: Many thanks to all those who have nominated me for various blog awards. I’ve done a couple of posts of obscure facts about myself (here’s another one). To do more posts like this would require me to go beyond “obscure” and into “too much information”, so I think I’ll quit while we’re all ahead. Here you go…

Several of my readers have been kind enough to nominate me for the Versatile Blogger award in the past few months. Many thanks to my blogging buddies, Chris9911, How The Cookie Crumbles, and RVingGirl (who unfortunately seems to have stopped blogging).

And just a couple of days ago, Fear No Weebles kindly offered me the Sunshine Award and/or the Beautiful Blogger Award. I modestly chose both. ‘Cause I like getting awards – I tuck them into my file of nice things people have said about me and take them out to enjoy them later. It’s a small file, granted, but it’s great for when I need a warm fuzzy or two.

At the time I was offered the Versatile Blogger awards, I was busy travelling back and forth to Manitoba while my step-mom underwent cancer treatments (many thanks to everyone for their good wishes – she’s finished treatment now and doing fine). But I didn’t have time to fulfill the obligations of the award. Instead, I linked to this post, with a promise to uphold my end of the bargain when I did have time… which is now. The awards all have similar requirements:

Thank the person who shared the award with you by linking back to them in your post.
List 7 – 10 things about yourself.
Pass this award to 7- 15 recently discovered blogs and let them know that you included them in your blog post.

For the sake of efficiency (which I prefer to the probably-more-accurate descriptor: “laziness”), I’m rolling all my obligations into this post – hope the blogging police don’t catch me.

Seven Things About Me (that weren’t included in the last post):

The photo in my blog header is a 2010 Harley-Davidson Crossbones. Sadly, I don’t actually own a Harley – they’re a little too rich for my budget. The only ride I have available right now is an ’85 Honda VF1100 Magna. But hey, if my books hit the bestseller list, maybe I’ll buy a Harley. (I can hope, can’t I?)
In my last post I showed you one of my oil paintings, so this time, I’m going to inflict my piano-playing on you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Here it is.
I’ve worked as a church organist, gas jockey, camp counsellor, teacher, receptionist, bookkeeper, interior designer, draftsperson, construction project manager, computer geek, tech writer, Microsoft Office instructor, and author, in that order. I’ve been an entrepreneur for so long (23 years), I’m pretty much unemployable.
In various adventures, I’ve been kicked, punched, cut, burned, and run over by a motorcycle. A strong man has crushed my skin with pliers, and I have scars on my hand from the time I tangled with a 250-lb steroid-fuelled bodybuilder. This might make you think I’ve led a dangerous, violent life. I haven’t. All those things were done unintentionally, most of them by my friends during sporting events or back-yard car tinkering. But it makes me sound like a badass if I don’t mention that part, right?
I’m just under 5’-10” barefoot. Sometimes for giggles, I go into the shoe store and walk around in six-inch platform stilettos just to see the expressions on people’s faces. Voila. Yes, that shelf beside my elbow is about four and a half feet tall.

Which leads me to: I am not photogenic (obviously). I have a gift for twisting my face into an utterly asinine expression at the precise instant the camera clicks. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. I prefer to think I don’t look like that all the time.
I always swore I’d never write fiction. Oops. My bad. My excuse is under “Are you writing about yourself, you pathetic narcissist?” on the FAQ page.

And now for the fun part. I follow tons of blogs. My all-time favourites are in the Blogroll to the right, and I’m always adding more.

I don’t take orders very well, so I’m going play fast and loose with requirement #3. I’d like to name a few bloggers I’ve discovered recently and offer them any or all of the above awards (I’ll let them choose). Recipients, if you’ve already received these or if you don’t feel like playing, please accept this as a compliment and feel free to ignore the conditions of the award(s).

Nigel Blackwell usually blogs about anything that drives, flies and/or crashes, in witty posts full of fascinating behind-the-scenes detail. And every now and then he goes off the reservation with hilarious essays about such disparate topics as socks or “write-only” memory. You just can’t lose with Nigel.

If you love blues (and music in general) as much as I do, Longshot’s Blog has wonderful retro classics.

Harper Faulkner is always funny and/or thought-provoking. Don’t miss him – it’s worth the visit.

Carrie Rubin’s off-the-wall blog, The Write Transition, makes me laugh. She’s an author with a book being released this fall, so I hope you’ll go and give her some blog love.

Pat Bean is a wandering blogger who’s been on the road in an RV for the last 5 years with a pooch for a companion. It’s a fascinating chronicle if you’re into travelling the back roads.

Lisa Clark writes The Big Sheep Blog, “Where Imagination, Business and Life Collide”, and an online magazine for 50+ women called The Ripe Report. Lisa’s always got something interesting to say, so check her out.

And of course, don’t forget to visit my generous award-givers: Chris9911, How The Cookie Crumbles, and Fear No Weebles (love that name!).

Note to all my blogging buddies: If it looks like I unsubscribed from your blog this week, I didn’t – at least not intentionally. WordPress changed their defaults to automatically subscribe to comments every time I comment on a blog, and I got buried under email. When I unsubscribed from comments, I did it wrong, and unsubscribed from the blogs, too. Grrr. Have no fear, I’m still following you – I aggregate everything via RSS feed. But you might see me doing some weird stuff with follows/subscriptions for a while. Sorry about that.

Oh, Balls!

May 2, 2012 / Diane Henders / 46 Comments

The other day a conversation with a female friend turned into a roundabout discussion that began with fruit, took a rapid detour to testicles, and ended with dirty limericks. I can’t name the friend without potentially embarrassing the innocent man whose mangoes we were discussing, but the guilty party knows who she is. I’m pretty sure I can still hear her giggling.

Anyway, I started to wonder why limericks lend themselves so admirably to off-colour content. Maybe it’s something about the rhyme structure. You just never see an obscene sonnet or haiku. (Though if you know any, feel free to enlighten me.)

Most of the limericks I know are so vile I only recite them in the wee hours of the morning at a keg party, after I’ve set my glass aside and begun to drink directly from the pitcher for the sake of efficiency. The last time that happened was many years ago, and it’s unlikely to happen again anytime soon.

But I still consider it one of my finer achievements to make a dozen inebriated guys gag simultaneously and flee the area. Abandoning the keg, no less. That was some limerick. Needless to say, I won’t be including it in this post. I can’t afford to lose readers.

I have no idea why I retain dirty limericks on the tip of my brain for instant retrieval when I can’t remember useful information like my sister’s not-so-new-anymore phone number. And maybe I should be concerned that I can recite three limericks about testicles without a moment’s thought.

Here are the ones that sprang immediately to mind:

There was a young man from Boston
Who drove around in an Austin.
There was room for his ass
And a gallon of gas,
But his balls hung out and he lost ‘em.

Or how about this one:

There was a young man from Devizes
Whose balls were of two different sizes.
One was so small
It was no ball at all,
But the other one won several prizes.

Or:

There was a young man from Madras
Whose balls were made out of brass.
He’d bang them together
To play stormy weather,
And lightning shot out of his ass.

Frankly, that last one never made much sense to me since I happen to know brass won’t create a spark no matter how much you bang it together, but whatever. It makes a good rhyme.

Maybe dirty limericks are so popular because they’re easy to create (and let’s face it, a lot of people have dirty minds). Since I happen to believe there’s always room for more bad poetry in the world, here’s my attempt:

There once was a woman from Cowtown
Whose crudity made strong men bow down.
Though they tried to harass her,
They couldn’t surpass her.
The Queen of Vulgarity’s now crown’d.

Anybody else have dirty limericks lurking top-of-mind? Or, more shockingly, clean limericks? Do share.

Or feel free to get creative and make up one of your own. I dare you.

I’ve Been Married Too Long

April 25, 2012 / Diane Henders / 31 Comments

That’s it. My husband knows me too well. Either I’ll have to develop an entirely new personality, or give him a good sharp rap on the head with one of our many hammers so he forgets a few of my fundamental traits.

Here’s why.

This weekend, I decided to do the spring tune-up on my car. Swap out my snow tires for all-seasons (yes, I used my click-type torque wrench to torque the wheel nuts to spec), do an oil change, top up fluids, inspect brakes and boots and belts for wear, all that sort of thing. And clean the car.

So I’m on my knees wielding the vacuum cleaner wand when Hubby pops his head into the garage. The following dialogue ensues:

Him: Oh, how nice of you to offer to vacuum my car!

Me: Yes, startlingly nice. In fact, unbelievably nice. *continues vacuuming her own car*

Him: How much do you charge?

Me: More than you can afford.

Him: Do you take credit?

Me: In God we trust. Everybody else pays cash.

I won’t bore you with the entire exchange, but in the end, I kindly offered to leave the vacuum out so it would be handy for him to vacuum his own car. Lest you think I’m a cruel and heartless wife, I’d like to mention that I did, in fact, have a nice dinner cooking in the oven at the time. I do try to treat him reasonably well.

Anyway, I finished up by washing my car and polishing its glass inside and out before I returned to the kitchen to finish making dinner.

The very next day, we went for a drive in his car. About a block away from our house, he said casually, “Wow, this is the cleanest my car has been for a long time. Except for that strip of dust on the dash I couldn’t reach. And nobody cleaned the inside of the windshield.”

Then he leaned over and committed the most brilliantly diabolical act imaginable. He drew his fingertip through the dust on the inside of the windshield in a criss-cross pattern right in my line of sight.

I tried. I swear to God I tried.

I lasted for ten whole seconds before I caved.

And he looked over at me scrubbing the entire passenger side of the windshield clean, and he laughed.

I’ve been married to him for too long.

Channelling My Inner LOL

April 18, 2012 / Diane Henders / 26 Comments

I just noticed that the acronym for Little Old Lady is LOL. Coincidence? I think not. (For those who aren’t up on text abbreviations, “LOL” means “Laughing Out Loud”.)

I’m not sure whether it’s my inner LOL or whether I’m on the cutting edge of the Reduce/Reuse/Recycle movement, but I have a confession to make: I wash plastic bags and reuse them. I want to qualify that statement, though – I only wash bread bags. I save and reuse plastic grocery bags, but I don’t wash them. All other bags go to the recycling depot.

My aunt doesn’t wash bread bags. When I mentioned it to her, she gave me a quizzical look and said, “I used to save bread bags, back when they were hard to get. I don’t do that now, though. You can get them anywhere.”

Um. Yeah.

So I just out-LOL’d my 85-year-old aunt.

In my defense, I’d like to point out that I bake my own bread, and it seems wasteful to buy fresh new bags, use them once, and then throw them away. Maybe I could be more cavalier about the process if I’d gotten the bag free when I purchased something else. But probably not. It’s still a perfectly good bag.

Which leads me to yogurt containers. And sour cream containers. I keep those, too. They’re a handy size: they hold the exact amount that fits in my soup bowls, and they’re wonderful for freezing single portions. But lately I’ve been struggling with the news that we’re not supposed to reuse those containers for anything. Something about harmful chemicals leaching into our food when they get reused. Say what?

They’re selling me a food product in a container they consider too toxic for me to continue using?

I like those plastic containers, dammit. I like being able to drop them into my freezer without worrying about suffering a laceration on a shard of broken glass. They’re cheap, convenient, and space-efficient.

So I went looking for some new, non-toxic plastic containers. Turns out there’s really no such thing. Each manufacturer touts their own “non-toxic” product while pointing accusatory fingers at the other manufacturers. By the time you work your way around the circle, it’s obvious that either they’re all toxic, or they’re all lying. Probably both.

I thought stainless steel was the answer, until Hubby helpfully pointed out that steel can be alloyed with a huge range of other metals, including toxic heavy metals. “Food-grade” stainless, here I come. But how do I know what those manufacturers put in their so-called food-grade stainless? They’re probably lying, too.

Sigh. Back to glass. No, wait, some glass contains lead. Or, hey, better still, radioactive thorium. Woohoo!

I’ve probably washed my sour cream containers enough times by now that the toxic parts are all gone. And I’ve got a couple of bread bags to salvage. ‘Scuse me while I go channel my inner LOL.

Get off my lawn, you damn kids!