Gettin’ Down At A Piss-Up

November 23, 2011 / Diane Henders / 9 Comments

This weekend, we attended the Grape Escape, a showcase of food, wine, and liquor. As usual, there was a mind-boggling and delicious array of food and booze. As usual, we poured ourselves into a cab afterward and managed to maintain a semi-vertical orientation while we staggered into our house.

Many of the other attendees didn’t manage to stay even semi-vertical. By the end of the four-hour event, bodies were propped against the walls, and I was saved from being crushed only because a garbage can intercepted the fall of the very tall man stumbling determinedly in my direction.

Considering that 2,500 shit-faced strangers are confined in one large hall for four hours, it’s a remarkably orderly event, probably due to the pairs of police officers sprinkled strategically throughout the venue. We go every year, so none of this surprised me.

What did surprise me was the sheer number of seductively-dressed women in attendance. I obviously failed to realize the hook-up potential of the show. It was -20 outside. I saw more exposed flesh there than at a Calgary beach in the middle of summer. Not to mention 4”+ stiletto heels, which are truly entertaining when their wearer couldn’t walk a straight line if she was barefoot and holding two handrails.

The crowd was cheerful and all-embracing. Literally. I wore jeans, a T-shirt, hiking boots, and a wedding ring. By the end of the event, guys even started coming onto me. I’m not sure whether they couldn’t see straight enough to realize they weren’t talking to the cute young thing beside/behind me, or whether they just didn’t care that much anymore. Gotta love beer goggles: improving middle-aged women’s self-esteem since the invention of beer.

I felt sorry for the long-suffering vendors by the end of the night, though. I’m pretty sure there were only a handful of us who were still capable of focusing both eyes on the label while they extolled the virtues of their Sauvignon Blanc.

Some of that was their own fault, though. They were generous with their samples, and there were a couple hundred different kinds of beer, wine, liqueurs, and hard liquor. Take even a mouthful of each, and you won’t make it around all the displays. I speak from happy experience here. Very happy.

I was delighted to discover some new favourite beers and wines, but I guess I missed the main point of the event, which was apparently to get pissed and get down.

I didn’t quite achieve “pissed”, but I was close. Next year, I’ll try harder. And maybe I’ll get myself some 4” stilettos, too. It’s cheap amusement to see a guy’s expression when I peer down at him from a 6’2” height. Fortunately, Hubby’s secure in his manhood, and at 5’7”, he doesn’t mind being eye-level with a couple of my more outstanding features.

And, hey, when you’re wearing heels that high, getting down at the end of the evening is a sure thing. Who says four inches can’t be satisfying?

Brainless

November 16, 2011 / Diane Henders / 23 Comments

I just got back from two weeks in Manitoba. I have 682 unread emails, and there’s a stack of as-yet-unidentified but vaguely frightening papers and envelopes in my “In” tray. It’s Wednesday morning, time for a blog post. I’m brainless.

I pre-planned carefully for exactly this situation. I have 38 half-written blog posts in my “Blog” folder, ready for the day that I can’t think about anything to write. Just like a boxed meal in the freezer, all I have to do is take one out, add some seasoning, and serve it up.

I’ve tried three different ones so far. They’re all flat, boring, and tasteless. And that’s “tasteless” in the sense of “bland and flavourless”, not “rude and potentially offensive” (which can actually turn out to be fairly entertaining on occasion). Apparently those posts were not only half-written, they were half-baked.

I feel the same as I did at three A.M. the day I was planning to begin my fourteen hour drive home. “Thump-bang-bang” woke me. This is not a happy sound at three o’clock in the morning.

I got up to discover that the pulley from the furnace blower motor had flung itself off its shaft and was lying uselessly in the bottom of the furnace. I spent a good half-hour trying to reinstall the pulley in my semi-conscious stupor before I realized that it was just around zero outside, there were electric baseboard heaters in the rest of the house, and we were highly unlikely to freeze to death if the furnace didn’t run for a few hours.

The pathetic part of all this is that there’s only one way to put the pulley back on the shaft. It’s not like you can do it wrong. I tried over and over. The same way. The same result. It wouldn’t go back on.

Hands covered with black grease, mind circling as uselessly as the remaining pulley on the now-disconnected drive motor, I stumbled into the bathroom to wash up and fell back into bed, realizing as I shivered under the covers that it probably would have been smart to put on slippers and something warmer than a thin robe before attempting repairs in the middle of the night.

The next morning, the problem was miraculously simplified when I looked at the furnace again and realized that both the driveshaft and the pulley had been gouged when the pulley twisted off, leaving a slight burr on both. A few minutes work with a metal file solved the problem. Amazing what a few hours of sleep and a modicum of alertness can do.

I’m hoping to regain a useful level of alertness soon, and maybe the judicious application of some honing and smoothing tools will fix up those blog-posts-in-waiting. I’ve also resolved to get a few of them completely written, once I get my brain safely reinstalled on its driveshaft.

Meanwhile, anybody got a brain file? Apparently I’ve got a nasty burr somewhere…

P.S. Many thanks to all who offered encouragement to my step-mom. Her first treatment went very well, and she wants me to thank everyone for their good wishes.

More Beaver!

November 9, 2011September 14, 2012 / Diane Henders / 14 Comments

A couple of weeks ago, one of our senators caused a kerfuffle when she took verbal potshots at our national animal, the beaver. Calling it a “dentally defective rat” and a “toothy tyrant”, she suggested that we should change our national animal to the “noble” and much more photogenic polar bear. Righteous indignation and off-colour jokes abounded.

According to the online poll at CBC, 78.54% of respondents thought the beaver should stay. Comments sections were overwhelmed by thousands of responses. Most of the male writers stated a particular fondness for beavers, though many accidentally omitted the ‘s’. A mere oversight, I’m sure. Female respondents in general tended to exhort the good senator to leave their beavers alone.

In keeping with the typical ugliness of celebrity confrontations, the love lives of the contenders were brought into question, too. Many observed that polar bears will pretty much screw anything that moves, while beavers mate for life, thereby cementing the beaver’s reputation as a morally superior mammal. (No word on the senator’s love life at this time.)

To add to the mud-flinging, photos worthy of the most sordid tabloids were posted, showing a frowsy beaver with a deranged expression, contrasted with a soft-focus photo of a snowy-white, perfectly-groomed polar bear. In retaliation, the polar bear’s weight problem was identified and cruelly ridiculed.

Almost as cruelly ridiculed was the senator herself. The general consensus was that we should keep the beaver and ditch the senate.

In other news, I noticed an article about farmers hunting beavers to save their land from the destructive flooding caused by dams. No eyebrows were raised over this article, though. It’s not exactly news that much time, energy, and money is expended in the hunt for beaver. Or, um… beavers.

P.S. I’m still with my step-mom while she undergoes chemo this week, so I may be slow in responding to comments, and I might not make it around to comment on my favourite blogs. I’m still thinking of you, though. Thanks for visiting!

Ooooo, Scary!

November 2, 2011 / Diane Henders / 8 Comments

Since Halloween was this week, “scary” has been on my mind. It was definitely on my mind when I looked in the mirror this morning, but that’s another story.

“Scary” is such a versatile word. Halloween costumes are good-scary. Haunted houses and ghost stories are creepy-good-scary. Politicians are scary in a stomach-churning, “eeeuw-I-don’t-want-to-think-about-it” way.

There’s exciting-scary, when you’re hurtling down a black-diamond ski run and you catch an edge and almost lose it but you don’t, and the adrenaline slams into your veins and you let out a whoop and haul ass to the bottom grinning like a maniac.

There’s the detached sort of scary you get when you’re airborne immediately after parting company with your dirt bike or slipping on the stairs. It’s that short moment that takes approximately forever to experience, and your brain has exactly enough time to say in calm and reasonable tones, “Oh, shit, this is really going to hurt!”

And then there’s scary-scary. The kind of scary that makes your heart pound and your hands sweat. The kind of scary that makes you drop your shoulder like a defensive tackle and fling little old ladies in all directions as you bull your way through the lineup to get to the toilet before you shit your pants.

Well, maybe not really. And anyway, that only happened once. Don’t bug me.

My point is, even though “scary” is technically defined as a bad thing, we search it out in so many ways. When I was a kid, I always wanted to be something scary for Halloween. Some people would argue that I achieved “scary” on a regular basis, but they may be exaggerating. Though I do have a vivid memory of my mother saying, “Try not to be so… ferocious.” It wasn’t even Halloween.

But I never wanted to be a clown or a princess or a ballerina. I wanted to be a pirate, a headless person, or some other horrifying apparition. I wanted to make people shiver in abject terror. Note the clenched fist and fearsome grimace. I was seven at the time, and my sword was tinfoil-covered cardboard. I wanted a bigger, scarier sword, but cardboard wasn’t to be wasted and tinfoil was expensive.

When I got old enough to understand real fear, “scary” lost some of its attraction. But still, in fiction and movies, we have to have a dose of scary, or the storyline just seems flat. It makes me wonder if cave men sat around telling scary stories, too, or whether they had enough “scary” in their lives without making any up.

What is it about that burst of adrenaline? Maybe it’s the relief afterward. Maybe it’s the bragging rights when you’re sitting in the pub telling the story with a cold one in your hand, and your friends shiver and exclaim and laugh in all the right places.

I don’t know. All I know is, it’s my corporate yearend, and I have to wade through my financial records again. That’s a whole different kind of scary. And that story isn’t going to hold anybody enthralled at the pub, either.

P.S. I’ll be with my step-mom for the next week or two while she starts her chemo treatments, so I may be slow in responding to comments, and I might not make it around to comment on my favourite blogs. I’m still thinking of you, though. Thanks for visiting!

PANIC!! …Nah.

October 26, 2011 / Diane Henders / 19 Comments

It’s funny how the bloggers I follow seem to read each other’s minds. This past week, there have been all kinds of posts about stress, panic, and overwhelm. So what the hell, I’ll get in on it, too.

Panic is an interesting critter. It starts out as, “Oh, crap, I forgot the candles for hubby’s birthday cake”, and instantly morphs into, “Oh-my-God-I’m-such-a-loser-my-husband-will-divorce-me-my-friends-will-hate-me-I’ll-end-up-dying-broken-and-alone-in-a-rat-infested-cardboard-box-under-a-bridge”.

Whoa, say what? That’s good stuff. If I could pour that into an engine, I could blow the doors off some top-fuel dragsters. Zero to insanity in under a second.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not joking about real panic attacks*. But our everyday “panic situations”? Yeah, I’m joking about them. They’re an overrated pastime.

This was inspired by the “Everybody PANIC!” post over at Visiting Reality. Thanks, Linda!

And since Charles Gulotta over at Mostly Bright Ideas reminded me he wants another flow chart (and he just did a stressed-out post, too)… voilà: here’s another scary glimpse into the inner workings of my brain.

Charles, this one’s for you.

Is It Time To Panic Yet?

*If you’ve ever had a real panic attack, you know that on a 0 – 10 Funny Scale, panic attacks are about a -50. A word of advice from someone who’s been there: If you have panic attacks, find yourself a medical professional who specializes in cognitive therapy. You’re not crazy, you’re not a coward, and you’re not weak. Your brain just took a wrong turn down the logic-path and ended up in the “Oh-shit-I’m-about-to-be-eaten-by-something-big-with-sharp-teeth” parking lot. Trouble is, it gets in the habit of taking that shortcut, and the longer you let it do that, the longer it takes to break the habit. And yes, it is possible to stop having panic attacks, it just takes a while. Go take care of it. Soonest. Not kidding. Okay, I’m getting off my soapbox now.

Delusions Of Competence

October 19, 2011October 19, 2011 / Diane Henders / 13 Comments

When I was a kid, I was an obnoxious little know-it-all. This probably explains why I was slightly less popular than herpes.

After a few years, I figured out that nobody likes obnoxious little know-it-alls, but by then it was too late. When you go to school in a small town, your position in the clique hierarchy is established at an early age. It’s probably just as well. I never did get over being a know-it-all; now I just try not to be obnoxious about it. Sometimes I even succeed.

My main problem is that I’m blessed with an overabundance of what I prefer to call “optimism”. This characteristic leads me to believe I can tackle just about anything, and that I can probably have it done before lunch.

It doesn’t seem to matter if I’ve never done it before. I research it a bit and then decide, “Ah, how hard can it be?” The internet has only made things worse. “How-to” videos are my evil enabler.

This has led to a few spectacular successes, a surprising number of acceptable results, and an occasional disaster. Fortunately, I’ve never decided to try brain surgery or air traffic control.

But with age comes wisdom. Back in the old days, I’d jump right in, secure in the knowledge that “I can do it”. Now, I’m much more mature and measured in my approach. Now I jump in hoping I can do it.

Maybe I’m solving the wrong problem here.

I’m not incapable of learning from my mistakes, though. One of my more valuable life lessons arrived as an epiphany in the dressing room at the clothing store: Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should. Sometimes I even remember to apply this wisdom before enthusiastically plunging into another ill-conceived scheme. (Another lesson from the dressing room: spandex should be issued only to those in possession of a current and valid Fashion Police Spandex Permit. But I digress.)

Lately, I’ve been thinking about this “optimism” trait more than usual. My first book hit Amazon.com last week. Three more will be up within the next five weeks. I’d like to point out that, unlike my usual reckless approach, I did actually spend a lot of time learning to write before inflicting my books on the unsuspecting public. But there’s still some little part of me that wonders if this is one of those projects that’s doomed to ignominious failure.

Telling people I’ve written novels makes me feel the same kind of defiant discomfort as if I was admitting I wore adult diapers. (I don’t, by the way. Just sayin’.) There’s the certain knowledge that it’s not a shameful thing, but it’s also slightly embarrassing to admit I spend a great deal of my time interacting with imaginary people. It tarnishes my know-it-all image when people realize I’m spewing pure, unadulterated bullshit.

On the upside, my “optimism” shows me a happy world in which people actually buy my books and enjoy them. Guess I’ll have to wait and see.

I’m hoping for spectacular success. Before lunch, if possible.

P.S. October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. Since my step-mom is dealing with breast cancer right now, I thought I’d share this video with its delightfully, um, solid message. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VsyE2rCW71o&feature=youtu.be (Sorry, guys, this one only has eye candy for the ladies. I’ll let you know if I find a counterpart for prostate cancer awareness.)

Neanderthal Behaviour

October 12, 2011 / Diane Henders / 26 Comments

My husband thinks I’m a Neanderthal. I’m pretty sure he’s right.

The first time he brought this up, I shrugged and nodded. The dictionary definition of neanderthal (uncapitalized) includes descriptors like “primitive, unenlightened barbarian”. Since I was in the process of licking the steak juice off my plate and had belched audibly a few minutes before, I could hardly argue.

But he wasn’t slamming my table manners, even though I deserved it. (Did I ever mention that my husband is the most tolerant human being on the face of the earth? The man deserves a medal for putting up with me.)

Turns out he meant Neanderthal with a capital N. As in, “an extinct member of the Homo genus known from Pleistocene specimens found in Europe and parts of western and central Asia”, according to Wikipedia.

Neanderthals have been in the news quite a bit lately. Scientists are beginning to think they (Neanderthals, not scientists) got freaky with so-called “modern man” (homo sapiens) ‘way back when. Apparently, with the exception of Africans, everybody has at least 1 to 4 percent Neanderthal DNA. Researchers postulate that it might be a lot more for some of us. Like me, for instance.

What are a few Neanderthal traits? Red hair. Well, yeah.

Heavy bone structure. When I went in for my baseline bone density exam about 7 years ago, the tech told me I had the hips of a 21-year-old. So Hubby gets bragging rights for cavorting with a 21-year-old. Or at least parts thereof. Which actually sounds pretty creepy when you say it that way.

Particularly strong arms and hands. Um, yeah. I tore some ligaments in my wrist a few years ago. After two years of disuse followed by surgery, my grip strength was measured during physio, and it was at the lower end of average… if I was a man. Off the charts for a woman. I haven’t had it re-measured since I’ve recovered. Hmmm.

More evidence: Hubby and I never share illnesses. We sleep in the same bed, exchange spit on a regular basis, and don’t make any effort to avoid each other if one of us is sick. If he gets a cold or a flu, I won’t get it. And vice versa. He maintains that this is because he’s “modern man”, and I’m Neanderthal.

And then there’s the whole plate-licking, belching behaviour, along with the fact that I subscribe to the “Knock its horns off, wipe its ass, and chase it once across the grill” method of barbeque. (Wish I knew where that quote came from). Although I don’t want to have to apologize to my food when I eat it, I definitely prefer my steaks on the bloody side.

The good news is, Neanderthals weren’t as dumb as we initially thought. Their brains were as large or larger than homo sapiens, and they probably had language and engaged in social rituals. Obviously, I didn’t get the “social rituals” part of the DNA, but there’s hope.

The evidence is pretty strong. So the next time I see the headline “Did Neanderthals have sex with modern man?”, I guess my only correct response is, “Hell, yeah. Every chance I get.”

Maybe that’s why he puts up with me.

Any Neanderthals swinging in your family tree?

A Scholarly Treatise On The Care And Feeding Of Your Pet Author

October 5, 2011 / Diane Henders / 14 Comments

Authors can be lovable and agreeable family pets. Most are easily housebroken, though some may exhibit a disturbing tendency to piddle while absorbed in a particularly difficult bit of plotting or worldbuilding. This is not a sign of aggression. It is simply inattentiveness on the part of your author. Gently but firmly insist that they take regular potty breaks, or, if this proves ineffective, place an adult diaper on the chair before they sit. The author is unlikely to notice or object.

Authors are territorial by nature. It is important to nip this behaviour in the bud. Your author must learn that he or she is part of the household, and as such, must share the domain with the rest of the family. However, your author will be happier and more relaxed if you allow him or her to have a “safe zone”. If possible, provide your author with a small desk, and refrain from disturbing the area unless absolutely necessary.

Your author may begin to show possessiveness toward other areas of the house, usually by leaving behind droppings such as laptops, pens, papers, and so on. If this happens, immediately remove the droppings, clean the area thoroughly, and relocate the droppings to the author’s safe zone. Your author will soon learn that leaving droppings outside their own territory is unacceptable behaviour.

As with any pet, it is important for you to be vigilant about your author’s diet. Authors will gobble almost any food they encounter in an effort to return to their safe zone and resume their natural writing behaviour as quickly as possible. Be strict. Your author’s health depends on it. Although an unhealthy diet may seem harmless when your author is young, you will ultimately pay the price in medical bills as your author ages.

Regular exercise is important, too, but sadly, most authors resist almost any form of fresh air or exercise. Some authors may be enticed to exercise if offered rewards such as the opportunity to work out with attractive and scantily-clad members of the opposite sex, however, this is by no means a sure-fire method.

Some owners report that they have successfully induced their authors to exercise by running away with the liquor bottle, forcing the author to chase them in order to retrieve it, but this strategy may ultimately result in hostile or aggressive behaviour on the part of your author. This is an area in which you must apply your own creativity to find the best solution.

Many laypersons consider authors to be nocturnal creatures, but in fact, authors are capable of wakefulness at any hour of the day or night. If the clicking of the keyboard disturbs your sleep at night, or if your author sleeps through important daytime events, it is possible to gradually adjust your author’s sleep rhythm to one that is more compatible with your household.

Begin by determining your author’s favourite treats. These may include food, alcohol, or sexual favours, but be cautious in your use of the latter. Nobody likes an overly-affectionate author, and many authors are incapable of the level of judgement required to discern appropriate public behaviour.

Regardless of the type of treat you choose, you must begin the conditioning process up to one-half hour before you want your author to retire for the night. Gently direct your author’s attention to the treat (remember, it may be dangerous to startle an author who is deeply involved in writing behaviour).

Once you have engaged your author’s attention, lure him or her into the bedroom with the treat. Then allow your author to enjoy the treat. If your author tries to leave the bedroom afterward, offer subsequent treats until the author loses consciousness or falls asleep. Repeat every night for at least twenty-one days, or until the new habit is established. Note: This method is only successful if you withhold the treat at all other times.

The keys to the entire training process are patience, firmness, and consistency. Though keeping an author may seem an arduous chore at first blush, your efforts will ultimately be rewarded with long years of loyalty and affection, dedications in obscure books, and occasionally, royalties.

News: I’m so excited! I’ve got the cover art for my first four books, and the planned release date for the Kindle version of NEVER SAY SPY is October 15 (hopefully all versions will be released that day, but will know more soon). Covers and book blurbs are here.

I Feel So… Versatile!

September 28, 2011April 27, 2012 / Diane Henders / 28 Comments

Update #2: Thanks also to Chris9911 for another nomination on April 27/12. I never get tired of praise! And I will do another “7 things” post to catch up on my obligations – I promise.

Update: Thank you also to Let’s CUT the Crap! over at How The Cookie Crumbles for a second nomination on January 13/12, and to RVingGirl on January 18/12! I’m flattered, delighted, and… pushed for time, so it might be a while before I keep this circulating. Meanwhile, here’s the post from my first nomination.

Many thanks to Nancy over at notquiteold for nominating me for The Versatile Blogger award!

As she points out in this post, when you do the math, it becomes apparent that within a very few iterations of this award, theoretically everybody in the blogosphere could receive this award. Twice.

But I don’t care. I’m pumped that she liked my blog enough to nominate me.

The rules are that if you accept this award, you are committed to the following conditions:

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

Here goes:

In the category of “awards that sound more prestigious than they actually are”, I won a silver medal in the 2003 team archery event at the Multi-Sites Indoor Championship of the Americas (MICA). There weren’t a lot of participants, and the medal isn’t really silver. It’s not even silver-plated. But, hell, it’s in my drawer, and I’m proud of it. Shortly thereafter, I was sidelined with a wrist injury. It’s taken me a long time to get back into it, but I’m hoping to compete in some archery tournaments again this year.
The only food I don’t like is black liquorice. If I had to choose only one thing to consume for the rest of my life, it would be milk.
I’m a car nut. I love to watch drag racing, and I’m in the process of rebuilding a 1953 Chevy 210 sedan. The engine is done, but the body is waiting for a budget. Has been for years. Sigh.
In my rare moments of spare time, I paint in oils or play the piano, both of which I do with more enthusiasm than talent. Here’s one of my paintings:
My talent level is the same for both painting and piano: I’m exactly good enough to realize how bad I am when compared to a real artist/pianist. But hey, I have fun.
I have a helpless, uncontrollable addiction to gardening. I’m incapable of leaving a patch of dirt undisturbed. I grow and preserve my own fruit and vegetables, and I make hard cider from the apples from my backyard tree.
My MP3 player contains blues, rock, metal, country, barbershop quartets, classical voice and orchestra, Gregorian chants, folk, ragtime piano, reggae, jazz, and some stuff that I can’t even put a genre to. I love it all. The only music that makes me retch is the vapid, limp-wristed whining of 80s boy bands.
I have worn a dress or skirt about nine times in the last thirty years. Twice to get married (the first time didn’t take), once to my sister’s wedding, a couple of times to funerals, and a few times to black-tie parties. I enjoy dressing up approximately as much as I enjoy listening to 80s boy bands.

Regarding Condition #3: I follow tons of blogs, and my perennial favourites are in the blogroll at the right. Here are the ones I’ve discovered most recently. There aren’t fifteen in the list, but I’ve never been much good at obeying chain letter instructions.

Recipients, please treat this like the thinly-disguised chain letter it is. If you want to play along, great. If not, please accept my admiration for your writing, and ignore the conditions.

Here they are, in alphabetical order:

Big Ugly Man Doll – A fabulous males-eye view of marriage, parenting, and manhood. Don’t miss ManFAQ Fridays. And don’t drink hot beverages while reading (I learned that the hard way).

Carol Henders – Faith, inspiration, and recipes for yummy food. How can you go wrong? You wouldn’t believe it by our blogs, but we are actually sisters. Carol, feel free to not link back to me. You probably don’t want to do that to your readers.

De Libertas Quirkas – Since I’m a geek myself, I love Kavya’s engineering take on life.

Diana Murdock – Sometimes touching, sometimes raw, always thought-provoking.

Sierra Godfrey – A great sense of humour about writing and life in general. Don’t miss her Friday Google Reader Roundup. She also writes an excellent blog about design, communication, and usability here.

Me! Me! Me me me! – Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s Aquatom! Poetry, musings, and days in the life of a superhero.

Murrmurrs – You never know what you’re going to get with Murr Brewster. From poop to politics, and everything in between (oh, wait, those aren’t actually that far removed), Murr says it loud and proud. Her blog subtitle says it all: “Snortworthy”. And you will. Oh, you will.

notquiteold– It doesn’t make a lot of sense to bounce this award back to the person who gave it to me, but I just discovered Nancy’s blog and I love it, so she’s going on the list. If you’re looking for an irreverent take on life from somebody who’s getting better with experience, don’t miss this one.

Visiting Reality – Funny double entendres… and a disturbing fixation on camels. Don’t miss Wednesday Hump Days. Hell, don’t miss any of it. Linda Grimes is a blast!

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

As I look at this list of blogs, it’s apparent that music isn’t the only field in which I have eclectic taste. Hope everyone finds something here to enjoy.

I’m A Hoer

September 14, 2011September 14, 2011 / Diane Henders / 19 Comments

I admit it. I’m a hoer. Now that the weather is beginning to cool off, I’ll soon pack it in for the winter, because it’s pretty much a fair-weather pastime for me. But most nice warm days in the summer, you can find me by the side of the road, waving at all the passing cars.

A few weeks ago, I even caused an accident because drivers were gawking at me. That’s no mean achievement, when you consider the fact that I was out in the middle of nowhere, and the average traffic load on that road is about one car an hour.

I’m talking, of course, about hoeing my garden. Wait, what were you thinking…?

And before you ask, no, I wasn’t wearing anything gawk-worthy. Quite the opposite, in fact. Dirty, baggy jeans and T-shirt, with a too-big long-sleeved shirt over top, along with my white Stetson (I’m from Calgary, I can get away with it) and a pair of geeky sunglasses.

I have a big vegetable garden by the side of the road at our acreage outside town. I don’t know what the protocol is these days, but when I grew up in the country, you waved to passing cars, whether you knew the driver or not. So I waved, as usual.

Apparently, the two drivers were lost, and the one in front decided to stop and ask for directions at the same time as the one behind turned to wave at me.

Seconds later, there was a crash, and then I was gawping like an idiot at the sight of two cars mashed together on an abandoned gravel road in the middle of nowhere. Pandemonium ensued as one of the passengers went into hysterics.

I’ve never actually witnessed hysterics in real life. If I get a Chrysler suppository or some other unpleasant shock, I’m more the ‘swear-loudly-and-hit-something’ type. So observing hysterics first-hand was… enlightening.

Fortunately, nobody was hurt, the drivers apparently remained friends, and the two cars limped off into the sunset. I think I heard one of the drivers mutter something about giving up and going home. I stood there, hoe in hand, feeling vaguely guilty about the whole thing.

I’ve heard that hoeing is a dangerous undertaking, and now I understand why. So if you happen to pass a badly-dressed middle-aged woman working in her garden in the country, please don’t be offended if I don’t wave.

Just throw money. I’m a hoer, after all.