Happiness Is A Warm Gun

July 31, 2013 / Diane Henders / 43 Comments

I’m worried.

Being the cynical geek I am, I was sure Big Brother was watching us long before the “news” broke about the NSA and PRISM. No surprise there.

That’s why ever since I started writing the Never Say Spy series, I’ve joked semi-seriously that I’m probably on a no-fly list somewhere. Anyone watching my browsing habits will know I spend a disturbing amount of time researching untraceable poisons, the characteristics of C4 and other explosives, sonic grenades, Tasers and stun guns, specifications and ballistics tables for firearms, and a host of other unsavoury topics.

Throw in my YouTube viewing history of martial arts, shooting techniques, self-defence against knives and guns, military training videos, and some other odds and sods that are definitely non-typical for your average middle-aged female viewer.

Then add my frequent searches on computer networks, hacking, cracking, and encryption, and I just bet they’re watching me.

Meanwhile, and (until this morning) completely unrelated to this… I’m a big music fan. I love just about all genres, and, as I’ve mentioned before, my MP3 player contains everything from rock to reggae to ragtime, country to classical, metal to Motown, pop to polkas, blues to barbershop harmony. But (*gasp*) I’ve never been a huge Beatles fan.

Sure, I like their music, and I respect their impact on the music scene, but I’ve never actually gotten around to buying an album. So yesterday I thought, “Hmm. What kind of self-professed music lover doesn’t have a single Beatles song on her MP3 player? Maybe I’d better go and buy an anthology.”

So off to Amazon I went, and I found a remastered 2-disc set that looked good. I checked the track list and discovered the song “Happiness Is A Warm Gun”. I’d never heard of it before. So I played the preview, then messed around a bit and got distracted. And forgot about the whole thing.

Until a mere 18 hours later.

Sometimes I like to get out and do some new things and meet new people (bear with me; I’ll establish the relevance of this momentarily). So I belong to a couple of Meetup groups. They send me updates on upcoming events.

Here’s what I found in my Inbox this morning:

What the hell are the chances of that?

My idea of getting a Beatles album was completely off-the-cuff. I went to Amazon and clicked on the first Beatles album in the list without any conscious selection process; I’d never even heard of this song before yesterday; and I arbitrarily chose to listen to its preview instead of any of several other songs that were unfamiliar to me.

And within 18 hours, I get an invitation with the very same title?!?

And what are the chances of two different Meetup group organizers emailing me on the same day about gun-related activities? I just joined this group. They shouldn’t have any way of knowing I like to shoot.

I thought the alien butt sensors and the NSA were bad, but now I’m totally creeped out.

Who else is watching me? I don’t know, but I’m suspicious of the jackrabbit that’s been living under the spruce tree in our front yard. He has a shifty expression…

I’m Amused

July 24, 2013July 24, 2013 / Diane Henders / 32 Comments

In the vagaries of the English language, I’m “amused”. I’m also amused by the vagaries of the English language, but that’s not actually what I mean.

No; if “amoral” means “lacking morals”, and “atonal” means “toneless”, and “achromatic” means “without colour”, then I’m “amused”. As in “lacking muse”.

Which is a fancy way to say I don’t know what to write about today.

So I shall resort to poking fun at the English language. If the prefix “a-” indicates absence or lack, then why doesn’t “acute” mean “ugly”? Why doesn’t “along” mean “short” and “alike” mean “hate”? And if I amend an item, am I actually ripping it apart?

After coming up with a few other examples, I just couldn’t resist messing around with some flash fiction:

Flash Fiction: Afoul Play (On Words)

Setting my torch alight, I stood blinking, blinded by the sudden blackness. When the vague outlines of the hallway emerged from the dark, I crept forward. The groan of a loose floorboard underfoot made me flinch, my heart drumming against my ribs.

Glad to be alone, I turned to Jim. “Man, why did we let Rick talk us into this? And why are we still doing it when he didn’t even bother to show up?”

Jim replied with his usual unintelligible mumble before pressing his lips tightly agape, but I didn’t let it bother me. He always spoke aloud.

Behind me, Lucy whispered, “Light the torch. This is too creepy. Maybe we heard Rick aright. After all, it was two weeks ago. Maybe he meant twelve noon, not midnight.”

“No, I’m sure he meant midnight,” I argued. “He said we had to sneak in when it was dark, and he teased me that I’d probably arouse at eleven and sleep through the whole thing.”

A few minutes of stealthy tiptoeing later, Lucy hissed, “Oh, gross! Do you smell that? There’s something alive here. It smells like it’s been rotting for weeks!”

“Probably just a dead mouse or something,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

“It can’t be. It’s too strong. It smells like something…” Her voice trembled. “Something big.” Her nails dug into my shoulder. “What’s that aloft? On the floor under that big table?”

I swallowed hard and peered through the dimness.

“Light it! Light the torch!”

Jim’s shout startled me so much I nearly dropped the torch. It bobbled dangerously and Lucy’s shaking hands clamped over mine, pulling the torch atilt to prevent the oil from spilling out.

My lighter clicked. Flames flared high, revealing the reason why Rick hadn’t joined us tonight.

“Rick! Ohmigod, Rick!”

Lucy’s screams echoed in my ears as my stomach lurched. My knees gave way and I arose to the ground, the impact jarring me asleep…

Which means awake… but “awake” actually means asleep.

Which would mean I was awake to start with…

Which means I was sleeping…

So did this really happen, or was it a dream?

Well dang, it looks as though I’ve written a blog post after all. Maybe I wasn’t as “amused” as I thought. But I still think English is a very funny language!

* * *

Addendum: It seems WordPress has been having difficulties lately, and sometimes when you try to leave a comment you get a page that says “This comment could not be posted” or some other error message. If that happens to you here, I’m sorry, and thanks for trying. If you want to try again, here’s what has worked for me on other blogs:

Type your comment as usual, but before clicking Post Comment, highlight the comment and press Ctrl-C on your keyboard to copy it.
Then click the Post Comment button.
If a page comes up saying “This comment could not be posted”, click the Back button to return to the page
Then press the F5 button on your keyboard to refresh the page.
Paste your comment back into the comment box by pressing Ctrl-V.
Click Post Comment again.

Usually the second time’s the trick, but sometimes it wants a couple of tries. It’s a huge pain in the butt and I hope they have it resolved soon, but in the mean time, thank you for trying.

MWF Seeking Woman With Gun

March 6, 2013 / Diane Henders / 46 Comments

This week I’m working on the cover art for the sixth book of my series, and I’m wading through images that range from OMG to WTF and everything in between.

As you may have noticed, the visual theme for the Never Say Spy series is “woman with gun”. Try searching that phrase on a stock photo site. You won’t believe the range of results. Apparently there’s an enormous need for stock photos of women from all walks of life holding firearms.

Brides, women in schoolgirl uniforms, soldiers, police officers, business women, rednecks, slutty cops in lingerie, bikini models in sky-high heels, punks, cowgirls, pregnant women, pioneers, spies, pirates, Cossacks, construction workers, Muslim women, duck hunters, and female SWAT personnel are just a few of the variations I’ve found.

Wardrobe choices range from leather, lace, fur, camo, denim, and spandex to more unusual garb like plastic wrap, tartan micro-minis, hard hats, headscarves, men’s pajama tops, parkas, sailor suits, a Napoleon uniform, metallic gold body paint, and nothing but a hat.

Clearly most of these women have never actually fired a gun, though it would be fun to watch them try using those grip positions. And maybe I’m just a strait-laced old lady, but I’ve never felt the urge to shoot in the nude (or even wearing a nice conservative string bikini). I prefer to keep my tender parts covered when there are hot brass cartridges flying around. I guess I’m just a wimp.

Weapon choices vary wildly. There are the usual assault rifles, semi-auto pistols, shotguns, revolvers, and air rifles, but bananas seem to be an extremely popular choice of weapon, too. I wonder if the gun control advocates realize that these deadly weapons are readily available in every supermarket, stored within easy reach of children. It’s shocking, I tell you.

If you’re looking for more unusual weapons, there are dangerous-looking women brandishing paintball guns, water pistols, fingers, hair dryers, tattoo guns, drills, cannons, gasoline nozzles, muskets, flintlocks, nerf guns, cameras, caulking guns, or a heavy-duty perforator. If I ever write a thriller about construction workers, I’m gonna use the photo of the blonde with the hard hat and perforator. That chick’s got muscles.

And… in all the thousands of photos retrieved by searching “woman with gun”, there was one picture of a cowed-looking young guy in a shirt and tie, holding a little-bitty gun and looking apologetic. I’m not sure whether the photo was tagged wrong or whether they popped that one in there just for fun, but I got a good laugh out of it.

Which was nice, because I figured they owed me after making me look at a naked woman posing with a bleeding, severed pig’s head. No matter what you need, there’s a stock photo out there for you. Though if you need that one, please don’t tell me. I’d rather sleep tonight.

But I really can’t complain. There are worse ways to spend a day than looking at pictures on the internet while blasting my favourite tunes.

I’m off to work now…

What are you up to today? Brandishing your banana? Decapitating pigs? Do tell.

Stand Back: Brain Farts!

February 27, 2013 / Diane Henders / 40 Comments

My brain has apparently been eating ‘way too many beans lately. The brain farts are getting embarrassing.

The past few weeks I’ve been totally immersed in finishing Book 6 in the Never Say Spy series. Who knew fiction writing could cause such nasty brain flatulence? Must be all the fibre in the pages.

The other night I slid into bed and Hubby said, “Oh, are you finished in the bathroom already?”

I stared at him blankly for a moment. No, I wasn’t wondering ‘Who are you and what are you doing in my bed?’ I wake up in the middle of the night to do that. Seriously. It’s the weirdest feeling.

But getting on with the story…

I realized I’d completely forgotten to wash my face and brush my teeth. So I got out of bed, went to the bathroom… and put on deodorant.

Shortly thereafter, I had a session with my muay thai trainer. I’ve been going to the gym regularly for quite a few years, and when I realize it’s time to go I often leap up from my computer without fully disengaging my brain. (Yes, actually, that is quite painful. Thanks for asking.) So before I leave home, I perform a short ritual similar to the Catholic “Spectacles-Testicles-Wallet-And-Watch” to confirm that I have my shorts, running shoes, gym card, and hair elastic.

Knowing I’d be distracted that day, I took extra care , double-checking to make sure I had everything before I left. So I arrived, full of pride, with the four things on my checklist. But… without my hand wraps, boxing gloves, water bottle, or shin guards. Smooth. Very smooth.

Several days later, I booked an appointment with my accountant. I had just completed a marathon 14-hour writing session the previous day and I was coming into the home stretch with the final chapters. I knew I was going to be distracted.

I repeated the appointment time to myself and to Hubby several times, beginning two days prior to the appointment. I put the appointment in my computer calendar with a popup reminder and an audible alarm. The night before, I reminded myself again: “Appointment at 11:00 AM tomorrow.” The morning of the appointment, I got out of bed and reminded myself, “I have to get up from the computer at 10:00 AM to get ready for my meeting.”

When I looked at the clock next, it was 11:15. Much grovelling ensued.

You’d think I’d have learned my lesson. But no.

Only a few hours later, I was heading out to the gym. Not because I’d remembered it; simply because it’s muscle memory after all these years. I can’t count the number of times I’ve arrived at the gym and begun my workout only to wake up and go, “Shit, I didn’t feel like doing this today. I was going to skip it…”

Anyway, I was getting changed before I left home and I forgot to put on my bra. Fortunately the bathroom is upstairs, and by the time I got downstairs it had become uncomfortably obvious that I wasn’t being supported in the manner to which I am accustomed.

My final draft should be finished and out to my editors/beta readers this week, after which I’ll be able to return to a state that passes for normalcy (at least for me). I shudder to think what other gaffes I may commit in the interim.

I think it’s time to get a T-shirt: “ Beware: Brain Farts. Keep back 15m.”

Anybody else suffer from brain flatulence? And please tell me I’m not the only one who wakes up wondering “Who are you and what are you doing in my bed?”

* * *

I’m doing another Goodreads giveaway this week: Two signed copies of Never Say Spy are up for grabs. Follow this link to enter the contest!

Fifty Shades Of Leverage

September 26, 2012 / Diane Henders / 29 Comments

My fifth book, How Spy I Am, is finally out (phew), so of course I immediately thought of Fifty Shades of Grey.

What, you don’t see the connection? Bear with me…

First, a disclaimer: I am one of the (apparently) tiny minority that hasn’t read Fifty Shades. I likely won’t, for several reasons:

1) I read the first pages on Amazon and didn’t get swept away by it.

2) I’ve read some well-written BDSM erotic romance novels by authors whose blogs I follow, but reading was more an act of loyalty than anything else. BDSM just isn’t my flavour.

3) I almost never read any type of romance, though I make an exception for Fallen Arches – Novellas of Broken Romance over at Curmudgeon-At-Large. They make me swoon. (It’s probably because I can’t breathe between paroxysms of laughter).

So, Fifty Shades? Probably not for me.

But.

I’m impressed by the number of people who are leveraging Fifty Shades. Suddenly there are flocks of books titled “Fifty Shades of (fill in the blank)”. There’s even a website titled “What to Read After Fifty Shades”.

Love it or hate it, Fifty Shades has made a shitload of money, and everybody wants a piece (if you’ll excuse a cheap but irresistible double entendre).

So that’s it; I’m getting in on the act. After consulting Wikipedia to verify my accuracy, I’m going to tell you how my books are just like Fifty Shades of Grey:

I have male and female characters. Sometimes their relationships are complicated and fraught with sexual tension. See, just like Fifty Shades.
My protagonist is a confident middle-aged no-bullshit woman instead of an insecure college girl, but what the hell. Details. They’re both female.
My protagonist gets tied up every now and then. She never enjoys it, but hey, bondage, right?
The male character in Fifty Shades is an entrepreneur. I have a grandmother/granddaughter team who own a sex shop in a small town. Voila: entrepreneurs and sex. Double whammy.
Sex. Got that covered. My characters don’t intentionally hurt each other during the act, but that’s just a technicality.
A virgin. Hmmm. That could be a problem. Never mind, I wouldn’t want to be accused of being an exact copy.
Oho, here’s a good one: The characters in Fifty Shades communicate using a laptop. So do my characters. Score another point.
You may be thinking this is a little thin so far, but here’s the kicker: My main male character has grey eyes. Grey. And in Book 2, he ties my protagonist up and restrains her. Ha! Spike it in the end zone!

I’m sure there are many more striking similarities but I could only get so much from the wiki and I was too lazy to look up any more synopses. Nevertheless, I’m convinced my claim of sycophantic imitation is just as valid as everyone else’s.

So there you go. My books are just like Fifty Shades. And repeating “Fifty Shades” fifty times in a blog post works wonderfully for search engine optimization, too.

I anticipate that within days, book reviewers and avid readers will be calling my novels “the next Fifty Shades of Grey”. My book sales will skyrocket. The news media will grovel for interviews with me. Hollywood will call and beg to pay gazillions of dollars for the movie rights to my books.

Because I’m leveraging the power of “Fifty Shades of Grey” just like everybody else.

Or not.

Okay, I was just kidding around with the whole “Fifty Shades” schtick, but I actually have a serious request this week: I’m doing a survey on how readers like authors to sign books, and I’d really appreciate your opinion. There are only three quick questions over at http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/K3LQS9D, and I’m giving away a signed copy of the updated version of Book 1: Never Say Spy. Thanks for your help!

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.

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.

The Great Motorcycle Debate

March 28, 2012May 25, 2014 / Diane Henders / 30 Comments

*F-BOMB ALERT* – CONTAINS (more) COARSE LANGUAGE (than usual)

Spring is finally around the corner, and a middle-aged woman’s fancy turns lightly to thoughts of… motorcycles. In honour of the season, I pose you the following question: cruiser or crotch-rocket?

I’m a cruiser fan. I’ve got some old wrist and knee injuries that get aggravated by the weight-forward position on a crotch-rocket, and anyway, I’m a traditionalist. I like the kicked-back coolness of a cruiser.

Here’s the considered opinion of a couple of the characters in my second book, The Spy Is Cast:

*****

Germain and Hellhound put on their riding leathers, and we all trooped out of the hot RV into the cooler outside air. Germain swung astride his Yamaha, and Hellhound grimaced.

“Shit. Can’t believe I’m gonna hafta ride on the back of this piece a’ Jap crap. Lucky it’s gettin’ dark so nobody’ll see me. Why don’t ya get a real bike?”

“It’s better than that bone-rattling piece of shit you call a Harley,” Germain retorted good-naturedly. “They’ve been making bikes for how long, and they still can’t make one with a decent muffler?”

Hellhound perched precariously on the back, struggling to hoist his boots up onto the passenger pegs. “Why the hell would ya wanna ride one a’ these goddam crotch rockets anyhow?” he groused as he groped behind him for handholds. “Ya like bustin’ your fuckin’ nuts on the tank? Maybe you ain’t usin’ your junk anymore, but I still wanna keep mine in workin’ order.”

“Don’t they make a cute couple?” I observed loudly to Kane.

“Hey, Germain,” Kane called. “That’s got to be the ugliest girlfriend I’ve ever seen!”

Hellhound flipped him a stiff middle finger as they pulled away, and we laughed while they rode out of sight.

* * *

So which do you like better – cruisers or crotch rockets?

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.)

Flash Fiction: IgNobel Prize

May 18, 2011June 10, 2011 / Diane Henders / 2 Comments

This is another flash fiction challenge. Our assignment: choose something from the “M” section of Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, and write up to 1500 words before Friday.

The “M” section is enormous. I started reading the first page and quickly went into overload, so I clicked on a page, closed my eyes, and randomly clicked the mouse to select my phrase. The phrase is at the end, ‘cause if you read the phrase first, there’s no point in telling the story.

*F-BOMB ALERT* – CONTAINS (more) COARSE LANGUAGE (than usual)

IgNobel Prize

“We’re really putting our asses on the line.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Martin snapped. “It’s worth it. Pass me that pipette.”

“No, really.” Devon handed over the glassware and pushed his glasses up again, peering through the thick lenses. “It was fine as a theoretical exercise, but going ahead with it? There’s a reason why the senior researchers won’t touch this.”

Martin blew out an impatient breath, careful to direct it away from the delicately balanced equipment. “Yeah, there’s a reason. They’re pussies.”

When Devon didn’t reply immediately, Martin spared him a quick glance. “Come on, man, don’t be a douche. The simulations went fine, and our dry run was perfect.” He transferred his attention back to the digital temperature readout. “We’re almost there. Let’s gear up.”

He slipped on the goggles, gloves, and mask, but Devon hung back. “Martin, we shouldn’t be doing this at all without faculty approval, and even if we had approval, we should be doing it in a clean room, not in an open lab. If we get some contaminant in the solution…”

“Jesus, Devon, how many friggin’ sims did we run? Yeah, it’s critical, but we’re not talking nanoparticles here. Unless some big chunk of lint or something falls in, it’ll be okay. Just don’t drop any of your goddamn hairs in it, and we’ll be fine.”

Devon stiffened and glared. “You just have to keep rubbing it in, don’t you, Mr. Perfect-Hair-Chick-Magnet? Just because I’m follicularly challenged…”

“Jeez, dude, chill. Can we please get back to the experiment that’s going to make us household names in the scientific community? The one that’s going to make us a fortune and win us the Nobel Prize? You know, that one?”

“Or the one that’s going to blow up the lab, and us with it. Martin, this isn’t a good idea. Let’s just shut it down for today and run it by the senior researchers on Monday morning.”

“Yeah, so they can take all the credit. I don’t think so.” Martin shot another look at the temperature readout. “Come on, man, set me up here. It’s time.”

Devon shuffled over, reluctance in every line of his body. Martin placed his forearms in the supports that would hold his hands rock-steady and nodded up at Devon’s frown. “Go.”

With the precision Martin had always secretly envied, Devon placed the instruments in Martin’s waiting hands. Devon was by far the better technician. Good thing he was too much of a chickenshit to do this on his own. Martin suppressed a smile. He was the one actually doing the procedure, so he’d get the bulk of the recognition. And the money.

A hair drifted down. “Devon, for fucksake, you’re shedding again! Get your fucking hair out of here!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Devon whisked the loose hair off the workbench and drew back, one hand self-consciously covering the thinning spot where his scalp peeked through.

Martin jerked as his phone vibrated on the table beside him. “Jesus! I thought I’d turned that off.”

Devon turned an ashen face toward him. “Holy… crap! Thank God we hadn’t started the fluid. You’d have blown us up, twitching like that.”

“Yeah, man, turn it off for me, would you?” Martin held his voice steady and took a few deep breaths, feigning calm.

Devon snatched up the still-vibrating phone. “It’s Lisa. Why is she calling you?”

Martin gulped down sudden consternation. “I don’t know, man, just turn it off… Shit!”

Devon had punched the Talk button, his round face glowing with happiness. “Hi, Lisa.”

Martin’s fingers tensed around the instruments, and he concentrated on relaxing his grip to hold them just so. He couldn’t put them down now.

His heart sank at the look on Devon’s face. Shit, shit, shit!

“Lisa, this isn’t Martin, it’s Devon.” Devon’s voice was hollow, and Martin averted his eyes from his friend’s stricken face. Well, probably ex-friend, now. He could hear the urgent chatter at the other end of the line, but Devon interrupted, his voice flat. “I might have believed that, if you hadn’t said his name before you started your little X-rated phone show. Goodbye, Lisa.”

The silence stretched after Devon hung up the phone. Martin studied the temperature readout intently.

“So how long have you been screwing my girlfriend?” Devon’s voice was very quiet.

“Aw, come on, man, it’s not like that.”

“But it is. She started with some very graphic references to last night. Before she went on to say what she had planned for you tonight.”

Martin blew out a breath and tried to ease his tense fingers. “Jesus, it’s not like I’m the only one. She’s a science slut, man. She fucks everybody in the research department at least once, just in case they discover something important somewhere down the road.” He glanced up. “Christ, don’t look so shocked. Did you really think a hot piece like Lisa was doing you for your manly physique and great hair?”

He realized he’d gone too far when Devon turned on his heel and strode away.

“Shit, Devon, I’m sorry, man! I thought you knew… Come back! Shit, man, come on!” He couldn’t turn to see, but the sound of the slamming door told him all he needed to know.

He slumped on the stool, the instruments still balanced in his fingers. Everything ready to go, and nobody to turn the petcock to start the final flow of fluid. All the preparation, all his dreams, all the fame and fortune, shot to hell.

A sudden thought made him straighten, excitement racing through his veins. What if…?

Martin leaned ever so slowly toward the petcock. Yes, it was close enough. And he only had to turn it a few degrees counter-clockwise. He could push it with his nose. His heart pounded.

Devon was gone, wouldn’t be there for the completion of the procedure. All the credit would go to Martin. All the fame, all the money… and Lisa would be all over him. He grinned and shifted carefully to ease the tightening denim at his crotch as he considered what she’d promised if the experiment succeeded.

Careful, careful… He nudged the petcock open, and triumph surged through him at the slow drip of fluid into the open chamber. Temperature perfect, the instruments steady in his hands, all according to plan.

Something moved at the edge of his vision, and cold fingers of fear caressed the back of his neck as he focused on it. A hair. Quivering just above his left eye.

He held very still. Can’t turn back now. The fluid dripped inexorably.

It must still be attached. He never lost hair.

It was moving.

His heart banged in his chest, sledgehammer blows that made him gasp. The hair vibrated with each beat. Slipping.

Martin huffed desperate breaths, his lower lip pushed out in a futile attempt to blow the hair up and away. Shouldn’t have worn the goddamn mask! Shouldn’t have-

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

The phrase: “For a hair Martin lost his ass”, from the “Martin to Mary Anne Associations” page