Tag Archives: double entendre

Contemplating Uranus

Hubby is an avid amateur astronomer… and an alliterative archetype, apparently.  (Sorry, I couldn’t resist the chance to string together eight A-words without using the word ‘anus’.  We’ll get to that one later.)

Anyhow, Hubby is my go-to guy whenever I spot something in the night sky that intrigues me.  I’m not much of an astronomer – I can spot the Big Dipper and Orion and the North Star, and that’s about it.  So, early in the evening I’d point to a bright dot near the horizon and sing out, “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight…”

And Hubby would say, “That’s not a star, that’s Venus.”

Oh.

So I learned to say, “Oh, look, there’s Venus!”

Then we got wrapped up in our move, and summer arrived with its long hours of daylight, and we didn’t have much time for stargazing.  But the other night we were sitting beside a little bonfire enjoying a cold beverage and I pointed happily to the bright dot in the southern sky.  “Oh, look, there’s Venus!”

Hubby said, “That’s not Venus, that’s Saturn.”

“Oh.  Where’s Venus?”

“You can’t see it now.  Planets move around, you know.”

“Right, so that explains why you haven’t mentioned Jupiter or Venus lately.  What about Neptune?  And weren’t you talking about seeing Mercury a few years back?”

“Yes, but you can’t see them right now, either.”

Mellowed by beer, my next question slipped out before I even considered it.  “But you never mention Uranus.  Can you ever see Uranus?”  As soon as the words left my mouth, I started to smirk.

In the firelight, Hubby didn’t notice my expression, or maybe he was ignoring it in an attempt to keep the conversation above a third-grade level.  “I saw Uranus the other night,” he replied seriously.

I couldn’t resist a straight line like that.  “Dang, I guess I should have put on some underwear.”

He gave an ‘oh-lord-here-we-go’ eye roll, and I attempted to veer back to the path of maturity by adding, “So what does it look like?  Can you see it with your naked eye?”  (Yes, I said ‘naked’ with a completely straight face.  See, I can act like an adult… for several seconds at a time.)

“No, it’s not very bright.  Even with my telescope, it’s just a fuzzy gray ball.”

I blame the beer.  My moment of maturity vanished without a trace.  “Uranus is gray and fuzzy?  That can’t be healthy.  And you say you can’t see Uranus without a telescope?  How does that even work?  If you have to look in the eyepiece at one end to see your other end, you must be very flexible…”

By this time we were both snickering.

“Yep,” Hubby agreed.  “It’s hard to get a glimpse of Uranus.  I can’t even spot it without help; I have to enter coordinates into my telescope to make it point in the right direction and then I use a computer program to track Uranus…”

“Okay, I’m never gonna turn my back on that telescope again.”

The conversation ended in a blaze of glory… literally.  We spotted a big meteor sailing erratically through the sky shedding sparks, and at that point we lost interest in Uranus… or anyone else’s, for that matter.

But now, inquiring minds want to know:  Have you ever seen Uranus?

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Getting The Goat

I’m on the road again this week, and one of my stops was my old stomping grounds in Calgary.  I don’t miss the city at all, but I sure have missed my wonderful friends.  We all got together for dinner, and after catching up with the last eight months of everyone’s lives the conversation turned to more general topics.

That is to say, the moral tone of the conversation plummeted like a rock pitched into a cesspool.

I was the unwitting instigator.  But really; it wasn’t my fault.  Much.

“So my friends were looking for a goat…” Jill began.

“Wait, what did you say?” I inquired.

“They were looking for a boat that was big enough to fit everybody into.”

“Oh!  I thought you said ‘goat’!”

Laughter ensued.  Then Mike, the usual shit-disturber, spoke up.  “Now every time you say ‘boat’ I’m going to think ‘goat’.”

Jill went on in the misguided hope that she might be allowed to finish her story.  “…so anyway, they wanted a boat and they were looking for a slip for it…”

The table erupted in bawdy speculation.

“A slip for the goat?  I didn’t know you could buy lingerie for goats.”

“Well, obviously it was a seductive goat if it would let all those people into it.”

“How many people can get into a goat, anyway?”

“Depends on how, um… accommodating… the goat is.”

I can’t remember whether Jill ever actually finished her story.  We were all convulsed with laughter, and the other patrons of the restaurant were eyeing us with expressions ranging from disapproval to envy.  (Or maybe it was all disapproval – I was laughing too hard to be certain.)  Oddly enough, the waiter seemed reluctant to return to our table after that.

We finally settled down, and Judy threw a pointed glance a Mike.  “You can dress him up but you can’t take him anywhere.”

Mike and I exchanged a glance at our T-shirts and jeans, and I countered, “You can’t even dress us up.”

I thought about suggesting that maybe next time Mike could throw on a sport goat over his T-shirt, but I decided it was time to put that topic out to pasture.  After all, people can only stand so many ba-a-a-ad jokes.

I parted from my friends reluctantly, with another warm and funny memory filed away.  And from now on a single word, either spoken or texted, will be capable of inducing paroxysms of laughter:  “Goat!”

Anybody else have a word or phrase that never fails to make your buddies guffaw?

P.S. I’m travelling again today so I’ll be checking in to respond to comments later in the day.  ‘Talk’ to you then!

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Having Words With Myself

Every now and then the playback needle in my brain skips a groove and ends up on a different track altogether.  (And if you don’t understand that reference, you’re probably too young to be reading my blog.)

When the needle skips, it’s as though I’m a foreigner looking at our language for the first time.  Words I’ve used for decades suddenly look weird and unfamiliar, and I feel compelled to discover their origin.  And if I stare at a word too long, no matter how familiar it is I’ll begin to question whether I’ve spelled it correctly – it looks wrong no matter how I rearrange the letters.

That happened to me earlier this week, and I’m hoping it’s only because the last couple of weeks have been immensely stressful:  It’s the usual craziness of releasing a book plus a spate of family illnesses and deaths, all in addition to the never-ending gong show that is our house construction.

At least, I’m hoping it’s only the stress that’s making my brain twist.  But even if my word-weirdness is the harbinger of some dire malady, at least I’m getting a chuckle out of the symptoms.

For instance:

The phrase “He’s holding his own” is meant to indicate that someone is holding up under pressure and not requiring the help of others.  But whenever I hear that expression my mind immediately demands, “Holding his own what?”  Which is quickly followed by, “I hope he washes his hands afterward.”

In the same vein, ‘He knows how to handle himself’ is also supposed to be an admiring comment, but you can probably guess where my brain goes with that.  (I wrote ‘he knows how to handle himself’ in Kiss And Say Good Spy; and I admit I was grinning when I did it.)  Whenever I hear or read that phrase I wonder whether it’s being used as a compliment or a filthy innuendo.

…And don’t even get me started about the word ‘innuendo’.  To me it sounds like The Godfather describing a kinky sex act:  “In-u-end-o!”

‘Feckless’ makes me giggle, too.  The online dictionary tells me it’s derived from the Scottish word ‘feck’, which means ‘effect’; therefore ‘feckless’ means ‘useless, incompetent, ineffective’.  I always think of ‘feck’ as an Irish expletive, so in my mind ‘feckless’ should mean ‘not giving a feck’.  E.g. “I’ve been doing this stupid job for so long I’m feckless about it.”  Or “If he fell off the face of the earth, I’d be feckless”.

‘Gormless’ is an intrinsically funny word.  Unlike the others, it doesn’t remind me of any other word (except maybe ‘worm’) but even if I’d never heard it before, I think I’d still identify it as an insult.  Like ‘flaccid’, ‘gormless’ is a word whose sound suits its meaning perfectly.

And speaking of the way words sound, I have to smother a smile when anybody says ‘Doing his/her duty’, too.  Unless the speaker enunciates very clearly, I hear ‘doing his/her doody’… which is another thing entirely.  (Please pass the toilet paper.)

What word or phrase never fails to make you snicker?

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This Week’s Been A Gas!

We’re slowly settling into our new place, but, like the nocturnal swamp shuttle, there are still a few kinks to work out.  Y’know, little issues like sewer gas.

Sewer gas wafts into corners and creeps along floors and trickles down stairwells, making it nearly impossible to trace its origin.  So I was nosing through the house snuffling like a deranged bloodhound and muttering, “Dammit, I smell sewer gas!” while Hubby, who lacks my sensitive sniffer, thought I was going crazy(er).

I finally figured it out by posing myself a simple question:  “What’s the stupidest thing our homebuilder could have done?”

Yep, nailed it on my first try.  They had routed sewer vent lines up to the second floor for the future bathroom, left the lines uncapped, and then installed the plywood subfloor over top.  So the longer we used the septic system, the more the house reeked of decomposing shit.

It wasn’t a huge chore to saw open the floor and cap the lines, but the whole episode definitely impaired my sense of humour for a while.

Then again, my sense of humour is usually a little messed up:

Hubby, my evil enabler, bought us three big bags of Kernels popcorn.  While we were happily munching, we noticed that their plain popcorn looks like home-popped corn, while the caramel popcorn is puffed up into near-perfect spheres.  (And aren’t you impressed that I didn’t even make a dirty joke about chowing down on tasty balls?  Good Lord, I must be growing up.)

Anyhow, I wondered if caramel corn is actually a different variety of popcorn.  Turns out it’s not; but I got as far as “why is” in my Google search when their top four searches popped (sorry) up:

What?!?

It makes sense that a lot of people might wonder about the sky; and since I don’t have kids I can’t knowledgeably dispute the importance of Caillou’s baldness.  But green poop is the third most common internet search?  Are that many people pushing out technicolor turds?

And I didn’t think the FBI showed up at people’s doors frequently enough to warrant fourth place; but even if they do, I wouldn’t have thought people’s reaction would be, “Oh, hang on, Mr. Cranky Gun-Toting Lawman.  I realize by the way you kicked down my door that you might be in a teensy bit of a hurry, but I just want to do an internet search before you drag me away…”

The next giggle happened when we were getting ready to configure my step-mom’s new FitBit.  I looked up the installation procedure, read the first step, and laughed.

Maybe I should kiss it first…

You’ve gotta love it when the first item on the configuration list sounds like a kinky sex act.

And speaking of dongles and related words, I ran across this vintage game in a little store:

From a more innocent time…

I probably wouldn’t have snickered quite so much if I hadn’t just researched gender reassignment surgery (don’t ask why; you know how my internet searches tend to go down oddball rabbit holes).  I discovered that they usually use a skin graft from the forearm to construct a new penis, and one of the potential complications is ‘hairy urethra’.  So you really can end up with a wooly willy…

Okay, I’ll stop now.

How’s it hanging for you this week?

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Too Many Balls

It’s been one of those weeks – our house still isn’t done, and I’ve had to do the exterior trim painting because we can’t find a painter to do it (the market is booming and all the trades are insanely busy).  Between doing part-time construction work while living out of a suitcase and (still) trying to finish Book 12, I have far too many balls in the air.

That causes quite a bit of stress for me, but it also creates ample opportunities for my mouth to run amok while my brain is momentarily occupied with juggling the aforementioned balls.  (And just never mind what my hands are juggling… but at least Hubby’s smiling.)

Moving right along…

A few days ago I discovered that one of the deck railing systems we’re considering has the option to install an ornamental ball as a post cap.

And yes, you know I’m snickering at using “post” and “ball” in the same sentence.  After all, I’ve written a post about balls and a post about posts, so it was practically foreordained that I’d end up putting a post and balls in the same, um… post.

Anyway, the conversation went something like this:

Me:  “We’re going to have to spend an extra $27 on the deck.  I just found some ornamental post caps I like.”

Hubby:  “Oh?  What do they look like?”

Me: “They’re balls.”

*silence*

Me:  “You know, an ornamental ball that sits on top of the post.”

Hubby:  “Okay… How many for the deck?  One on each post?”

Me: “Oh, no, only three; one on each outside corner.  There’s such a thing as too many balls, you know.”

Hubby:  “Yeah, I’d say three might be one too many…”

So there you have it:  Too many balls in the air, and too many balls on our deck.

And I’m nobly restraining myself from making any more deck jokes, but I’ve just gotta say that I think we’re going to like it here.  Hubby’s deck is bigger than it’s ever been!  And with three brand-new balls; well, what’s not to like?

What’s bouncing in your world this week?

 

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Cremation, Cucurbits, And Coc… Erm… ‘Roosters’

This week’s silliness comes to you courtesy of my friend and long-suffering employee, David, who went to considerable effort to snap the following photo for me:

Ummm…. Okay…?

Ummm…. Okay… There’s an unexpected combo…

This is why David and I have worked together so well for so long: a complete meeting of minds over all things even remotely humorous. We laughed ourselves silly(er). Cremation and hospitality? Is there a brew pub in the basement so you can suck back a few pints after immolating the mortal remains of your loved ones? Or maybe they rent out the chapel for weddings and bar mitzvahs in between memorial services?

I guess it could be worse, though. My mind immediately leaped to other unfortunate potential combinations like ‘Cremation and Wild-West Weenie Roast’, but maybe that’s too tasteless entirely. (And there’s nothing worse than a tasteless weenie.)

Speaking of weenies, last week I speculated that my zucchini might have suffered shrinkage due to the frosty outdoor temperatures. Eh, no. Not even close.

Just as plump and perky as ever (the zukes, not me).

Just as plump and perky as ever (the zukes, not me).

I realize these are nothing compared to the behemoths that grow in more temperate climates, but those gardeners know better than to turn their backs on a zucchini plant for two weeks at a time. I shoved these bad boys into the downstairs fridge, and when I went down to check on them the next day they’d wedged themselves against the door in a bid for freedom. I’m pretty sure they’re still growing. Maybe the researchers who developed Viagra should be studying zucchini right about now.

Anyway, floating along this stream of consciousness…

I spotted this on my walk yesterday:

Yes, that says ‘Rooster Scented Jasmine Rice’

Yes, that says ‘Rooster Scented Jasmine Rice’

For those of us who grew up on a farm, this brings to mind (or rather ‘to nose’) a far-too-vivid image. Have you ever smelled a rooster? Nasty. Just nasty.

But it could have been worse. They might have used a synonym for ‘rooster’. I’d love to see the reactions of passersby if they’d been advertising ‘Cock Scented Rice’.

Maybe you think I’m reaching a bit with that thought, but I assure you I’m not. This fine product is available from Amazon if your local grocery doesn’t carry it: http://www.amazon.com/Grace-Cock-Flavored-Soup-Mix/dp/B002Q46EH6

Yes, this is a real food product.

Yes, this is a real food product.

And speaking of Amazon, I just had to share a capture of the screen that displayed when I looked up the soup mix. Note the ‘Also-Viewed’ offerings: ‘50 Ways to Eat Cock: Healthy Chicken Recipes With Balls’, and ‘Aunty‘s Spotted Dick Pudding’.

Amazon has a dirtier mind than I do.

Amazon has a dirtier mind than I do.

Ahem.

As usual, my stream of consciousness has carried me far past the point where I should have paddled hurriedly ashore and portaged past the treacherous bits.

So, leaving behind the sordid beginnings of this post, I’ll finish off with something bearing no connection to cremation, cucurbits, or cocks. (Though, come to think of it, it does include two out of three of those. Dang, if I’d had Aydan eating zucchini instead of peas from her garden I could’ve scored the trifecta.)

Anyway, voilà: I’ve finally finished another cover update. This one’s for Book 3: Reach For The Spy:

Reach For The Spy cover updated 2015

Quite a change from the original, but I didn’t feel comfortable pointing even an unloaded weapon at my photographer friends.

 

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It’s A Conspiracy!

I’ve long suspected that my body has it in for me. I’ve mentioned a few of its subversive attacks in previous posts:

But there’s more.

Confronted with any occasion where photos are likely to be taken, my skin goes haywire. Like the last time I went for a photo shoot:

A few days before the big day I was washing my face before bed. Uh-oh. Sore spot on my chin. Yep, you guessed it. An incipient zit.

I ignored it, hoping it would go away. Wrong thing to do. Obviously feeling slighted and seeking attention in the way of misunderstood teenagers everywhere, it invited all its friends and threw a party.

Fortunately, zits don’t have many friends because they’re… well, zits. So the party stopped at three, but still. My skin had been fine for the past few months. Why now?

In fact, why ever? It should be illegal for zits and wrinkles to coexist on the same face. When I was teenager, all the experts agreed that acne goes away when you’re an adult. Well, they lied, and I want to know which way to the Complaints Department.

But maybe the underlying problem is that I’ve never actually grown up…

Anyway, I had hoped that would be the extent of my body’s betrayals. But no; this week my brain has gotten into the act, too.

Maybe it’s because of the antihistamine I took, or maybe it’s just my usual post-book recovery phase (Book 10 is with the beta readers now), but the end result is the same: My brain has buggered off to La-La Land without leaving a forwarding address.

Usually I don’t have any difficulty writing blog posts, but today finding words to string together feels like groping for a live goldfish in a vat of molasses.

(And now I’m wondering where the hell that thought came from. Why would there be a goldfish in a vat of molasses? Wouldn’t a goldfish die in molasses? So it would have to be some kind of sugar-fuelled mutant super-carp… Argh. Never mind.)

I knew I was in trouble when I looked in the mirror and there was a sign on my forehead that said ‘This space for rent’. Anybody who’s been planning to alter my behaviour with subliminal suggestions should seize the opportunity, ‘cause there are no other thoughts rattling around in my skull to interfere with the programming.

I’m not sure what all these mutinous body parts are hoping to accomplish. Do they want shorter hours? Better working conditions?

Maybe more beer would pacify them. I hope so, because without a brain to guide the action, that’s about all they’re gonna get.

Come back, Brain! I miss you!  Whatever your demands are, just let me know and I’ll do my best to comply.

‘Cause the sound of wind whistling through the vacant space between my ears is really starting to get on my nerves…

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A Clean Post

As my blogging buddy Sue Slaght pointed out last week, you know you’ve hit the big time when one of your blog posts gets banned. Apparently WordPress flagged last week’s post as ‘likely inappropriate’ and blocked it from their Reader application.

Well, dang. Who knew they’d object to a post containing the words p*rn, s*x, scr*tum, sy*hilis, and n*ked? They were obviously okay with allowing the original p*rn commenter to solicit me on my guest book. And I’ve done two other posts with the word n*ked in the title, so it couldn’t be that. The previous week’s post containing ‘s*x’, ‘sy*hilis’, and ‘scr*tum’ got through okay…

Wait; maybe ‘werew*lf’ was the offending word!

I got a belly-laugh out of the whole thing, partly because their tag perfectly fit my blog compilation series. Maybe I should name the upcoming book ‘Likely Inappropriate’ in homage to WordPress’s delicate sensibilities.

The funniest part was that last week’s post was actually one of the cleaner ones I’ve written. I mean, really; I was talking about spam and search terms.  I didn’t even tell any dirty jokes. Jeez.

But I’ve learned my lesson, honest. So this week I’ve written an innocent post full of valuable writing advice. No dirty words at all. This one’s for you, WordPress:

Cleaning Up Your Post

The relationship between blogger and reader is an intimate one, and it’s important to gain your readers’ trust by keeping your post clean. Here’s how:

First, strip away the superfluous trappings to lay the post bare. Every post is different: some require rigorous scrubbing, but for others a light polishing is enough to raise them to their full potential. Some people use an automated process, but the hands-on approach is always more satisfying. Don’t be afraid to experiment. You’ll know you’re doing it right when the subject begins to firm up for you.

Work closely with a reader to identify subtle lingual nuances. Pay attention to how the post feels rolling off the lips and tongue. Savour the sensory experience, reading in multiple passes from top to bottom, then from bottom to top. This technique is important because critical points may be missed if you only go down.

By now your subject should be rock-solid, so it’s time to plunge deeply into the meat of the matter. Pay careful attention to rhythm and be sure you don’t deviate from the main thrust of your post. Any miscues at this point will be, at best, an unpleasant distraction for your reader; and at worst, a complete disaster resulting in messy fallout.

Slowly work toward the climax of your post. Don’t hurry. When the time is right you can switch to the hard-hitting style that will thrill your readers to the core.

After this you may discover that your post needs a bit more cleaning. That’s normal, but don’t be too heavy-handed. The best strategy is to let the post rest for a while before undertaking the final polishing. Then your magnificent post will be ready to fulfill all your readers’ needs!

Just remember: The extra time and effort you invest in this process will be worth it, ‘cause nobody likes a dirty post.

Thank you, WordPress, for reminding me how important it is to keep it clean!

* * *

Woohoo! The draft is finished for Book 10: Spy Away Home! Just a bit more polishing (sorry, couldn’t resist), and then it’s off to the beta readers.

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Great Balls Of Portent

Every now and then I think to myself, “Diane, maybe it’s time you grew up. Seriously, you’re a fifty-year-old woman. Don’t you think it’s time you stopped snickering at farts and tasteless double entendres? Even teenagers aren’t as dirty-minded as you.”

And just about the time I take a deep breath and decide to squelch my baser nature and write nothing but G-rated blog posts forever more, something like this appears:

An anatomically correct building. And it’s Canajen, eh?

An anatomically correct building. And it’s Canajen, eh?

Yes, that is a real building: Newmarket Health Centre in Ontario, Canada, kindly brought to my attention by the CTV news team: http://toronto.ctvnews.ca/aerial-view-of-anatomically-correct-newmarket-health-centre-sparks-jokes-worldwide-1.2254688.

I don’t care how innocent and/or politically correct you are, there’s only one thing that building resembles.

It was built in 1951 and nobody seems to recall who the architect was. He (I use the male pronoun because it seems the most probable) just couldn’t have drawn up those plans without recognizing the likeness. And the terracotta-coloured scrotum is the biggest joke of all – there’s no way that was accidental. It sticks out like a sore… um… never mind.

The architect probably thought he was safe in perpetrating his practical joke. After all, there was no Google Earth or satellite view available to the general public in the 50s. But now his puerile sense of humour is, erm, exposed, for all to see.

I think it’s hilarious, but remember I was innocent in this. I didn’t go looking for the likeness on my own – even I am not so twisted that I scour aerial maps in the hope of finding suggestively-shaped buildings. Nope; fate just dumped this article in my lap. So to speak.

Coincidence, right?

I think not.

Exactly a day after the Newmarket Man showed up in my news feed, my friend Chris sent me this:

Words fail me… Okay, no. It just begs for words.

Words fail me… Okay, no. It just begs for words.

Yes, they’re billed as “the tastiest balls you’ll ever put in your mouth”. And if you want to try ‘em, the recipe is here:  http://www.mtlblog.com/2015/02/poutine-poppers-are-the-mini-mouthgasm-you-need-to-eat-now/#

Needless to say, the tagline incited a few comments, largely focusing on the quantity of comparative research required in order to authoritatively apply the superlative. (Or, as we boorish types put it: “How many balls has he actually tasted?”)

Again, there’s really no polite and wholesome way to take this. Unless you were raised in a social vacuum by a Victorian nanny, a tagline like that is going to make you laugh. Or choke, I guess.

But my point is this: These two items popped up completely unsolicited, only a day apart, immediately after I’d considered cleaning up my act. They’re clearly a message from some higher (or probably lower) power: A clean mind just isn’t in the cards for me.

Since omens frequently arrive in threes, I waited with bated breath to see if fate would offer me any more family jewels. But, nope; that was it for this week.

When I think about it, though, I guess it makes sense. Balls generally come in pairs.

Did you get any portents this week?

P.S. I just realized it’s been nearly three whole years since I last wrote a post about balls: https://blog.dianehenders.com/2012/05/02/oh-balls/. Maybe my mind is cleaner than I think. But probably not.

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I Got Ten Inches Last Weekend

Like so many of my inappropriate stories, it all started in the pub with the usual suspects on Friday evening. The waitress had been by to collect our food orders and my friend Chris and I had each decided on pizza. I had ordered a 10” medium and he’d gone for the 12” large.

Okay, I can hear you starting to snicker already. Wait for it…

The food arrived and we all dug in with enthusiasm. Except Chris, who was eyeing his pizza with a puzzled look. “What size pizza did you order?” he asked.

“Medium. Ten-inch,” I mumbled around my mouthful.

“Mine doesn’t look any bigger than yours,” he said.

By then everybody had stopped eating to listen with widening grins on their faces.

I peered over at his pizza. “You’re right. They look the same. Hang on…” I pulled out my little measuring tape. (If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you’ll know I always carry a measuring tape, along with a bunch of other obscure but useful stuff.)

I measured my pizza. “Ten inches.”

Somebody called out, “Now measure Chris’s!” just as the waitress arrived to see me reaching toward Chris with my measuring tape extended.

Everybody erupted in laughter while the waitress froze.

Chris salvaged the situation as best he could by gravely measuring his pizza. Then he said the words you’ll rarely hear from any guy: “Mine’s only ten inches.”

The waitress’s apology for the mistake was almost obscured by the shouts of laughter. Then she turned to me and said, “I can’t believe you have a measuring tape in your purse!”

That only increased the merriment because everybody at the table knew the story of how I used to lurk in men’s washrooms with my measuring tape. We didn’t enlighten our waitress, though. Some things are just too hard (yes, I said ‘hard’) to explain.

And speaking of questionable behaviours, Hubby and I had a chuckle over our Valentine’s Day meal, too. We avoid restaurants on Valentine’s Day because neither of us wants to eat in a crammed-full restaurant. So Hubby had picked up steaks, crab, and a lobster tail for our dinner, and I was making Eggs Benedict for our lunch.

We were out of back bacon. (I know you’re thinking, “How could Canadians run out of back bacon?” You’re right; the government will probably revoke our citizenship cards.)

Anyway, we improvised with regular side bacon, but we’d gotten some mutant package that was either the product of a novice butcher’s first day on the job, or else they’d swept up all the bits that had fallen on the floor. Or both.

But we slapped the bacon on the Bennies (no, that’s not a euphemism) and dug in regardless. A few minutes later a bacon fragment escaped my fork and Hubby looked over in time to see me groping down the front of my T-shirt.

I quipped, “Most women would spritz themselves with cologne for a Valentine’s Day lunch with their sweetie. I drop bacon down my cleavage.”

He shrugged, grinning. “Works for me.”

Ah, bacon. The universal male attractant. Or maybe that’s cleavage. Or bacon-flavoured cleavage…?

So how was your Valentine’s weekend?

 

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