Why Do I Do It…?

March 14, 2012 / Diane Henders / 15 Comments

I cling to the delusion that I’m a relatively intelligent human being.

It only took me one try to learn that you don’t guide the plug into the socket by gripping the prongs with your thumb and forefinger. I’m generally a pretty quick study that way. When it hurts, I figure I must be doing something wrong.

But I recently came to a realization that shook the very core of my confidence: I’m a very slow learner when it comes to eating.

Not that I don’t know how to eat. Far from it. I’m an eating prodigy.

My problem is I don’t know when to stop.

For some reason, I lack the judgement I’m able to exercise in all other areas of my life. I apply the “if it hurts, stop” rule with a high degree of success until it comes to food. Then the rule comes out looking more like, “if it hurts, keep eating until it really hurts, then stop for a while and drink beer until you can eat again”.

I prefer to call this “gusto”, which is a nicer way to say “stupidity”.

After several decades of research and analysis, I’ve concluded my friends are to blame.

It can’t be the beer impairing my judgement, because I’m capable of hurting myself with or without it, though the whole effort is more enjoyable in the presence of alcohol.

It can’t be me, because I don’t eat like that when I’m at home. I’ve had people come up to me at a party and say, “Wow, I wish I could eat like you and still stay that slim.” To which I respond, “Don’t bother wishing. I don’t even eat like me.”

This phenomenon was hammered home a few weeks ago at a friend’s birthday party. We were sitting around the table eating take-out Chinese and shooting the breeze until suddenly I glanced at the completely cleared table and asked, “Am I the only one still eating?”

And everybody laughed and said, “Well, duh.”

I was in pain. I had been comfortably full when I took that last helping, and I knew I didn’t need to eat more. I ate it anyway. Then I ate brownies and birthday cake. Then I propped myself in a chair and held my stomach and groaned. Then I drank some more beer. If we’d stayed any later, I’d have been back into the snacks.

Why do I do it?

It’s not peer pressure. Nobody says, “Hey, I bet you can’t eat this.” In the first place, they’re mature human beings and I’d like to think we’re all a little past the point of silly challenges. In the second place, they know they’d lose the bet.

But that’s not the point.

I’ve got nothing to prove, and even if I did, I’d be embarrassed to prove it with sophomoric excesses.

So I can only conclude it’s some sort of hive-mind telepathy by which I absorb and respond to everyone else’s appetites. I’m not eating for me; I’m eating for everybody in the room. Ergo, it’s not my fault.

Maybe I’ll wear a tinfoil hat to the next party. Think that’ll fix the problem?

Food Fetishes

February 1, 2012February 1, 2012 / Diane Henders / 21 Comments

The dictionary tells me a fetish can be an object that elicits reverence and devotion, or an object that causes an erotic response. For me, food falls neatly into both categories. Sometimes I love food. Sometimes I looooove food. (Not literally. Don’t worry, it’s still safe to eat the cucumbers at my house.)

I do, however, admit to a peculiar food-related habit that can be safely discussed in polite company. And no, I’m not going to talk about the time I nearly suffered le petit mort over a hazelnut crème brulée and a flight of ice wine.

But it was really, really good.

‘Scuse me while a take a deep breath.

Anyway, what I meant to discuss is the fact that I’m a picky eater. Not in the sense of having a limited range of foods I’ll eat – quite the contrary. I’ll eat just about anything except black licorice. I’m talking about the way I eat.

I always hold corn on the cob with the big end at the left. I eat left to right in a clean, straight pattern. The cob, when returned to my plate, is placed horizontally at the 12:00 position. I contend this is simple logic. If the cob’s at the front, it’s hard to reach over it to get at the rest of your food.

Pie and pizza are to be eaten point-first. I’ve seen others eat it crust-first, and while that appeals to my logical side (eat the dry crust first and finish up with the good stuff), I don’t seem to be able to adopt that system.

I once knew a guy who preferred to dig randomly into the middle of a pie without cutting slices, but I consider that to be a sign of a deranged mind. He ate his corn randomly, too. And he was more than a little deranged. ‘Nuff said.

Meat, potatoes, and veggies get laid out in specific locations on the plate. Meat at 10:00, potatoes at 2:00, veggies at 6:00. But I’m flexible. Sometimes I swap the potato/veggie positions. And sometimes the meat moves up to 12:00 or down as far as 8:00.

I didn’t realize how entrenched this habit was until I caught myself rotating my plate and feeling vague discomfort when the food came arranged differently in a restaurant. I’ll deny actually rearranging food on my plate at a restaurant, but you probably already know I’m lying. And I always eat clockwise around the plate, one bite of meat, then one of potatoes, etc.

Toast, I bite off the bottom left corner first. Then the bottom right corner, then the middle. I repeat in rows until the entire slice is gone. It’s simple logic. I like peanut butter and honey, and this configuration minimizes the probability of smearing sticky stuff on my cheeks.

Speaking of peanut butter, I scoop it from around the edges of the jar. Systematically, scraping it tidily off the inside and gradually working my way around counter-clockwise. I never stick a knife in the middle of the jar. Freud would probably have a heyday with that one.

And don’t even get me started about buttering toast and then scooping up more goodies on the knife, leaving toast crumbs in the butter/honey/jam. That’s just plain wrong.

Is it because I’m a geek and my brain is naturally happy with linear patterns? Or is it because I’m a control-loving, slightly obsessive freak? (Don’t answer that).

Anybody else have freakish food fetishes? Please tell me I’m not the only one.

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?

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.

SpongeToffee GuiltyPants

July 20, 2011 / Diane Henders / 7 Comments

I feel irrational guilt when dealing with authority figures. I blame sponge toffee.

Back in the days when dinosaurs roamed the earth, the general stores used to carry slabs of it. It was pure sugar whipped into foam and solidified to the brittle consistency of glass. You could chew it into a hard, sticky pellet, or you could suck it and let its sharp edges lacerate your tongue. To a child, it was pure, golden-brown heaven.

Unfortunately, that divine confection was responsible for the most traumatic discovery of my childhood: the fact that it is possible to do something bad even when you’re not trying.

Don’t get me wrong, I was no stranger to doing naughty things in the full knowledge that I’d be in trouble for them later. I was also a master of doing things that I was pretty sure would get me in trouble if I was caught, but they hadn’t been specifically itemized as “bad”, so they were a grey area.

But back to the sponge toffee. I can’t remember how old I was. I had been sent into the store to purchase something while my mother stayed in the car, probably tending to my baby sister.

I had “grown-up money” to buy “grown-up groceries”, and I was proud. I selected whatever it was that I was supposed to buy and marched up to the counter, cash in hand. And spotted the slabs of sponge toffee. Five cents. (Yeah, it really was that long ago. Shut up.)

I bought the groceries, and I bought a piece of sponge toffee.

And I caught holy hell.

I couldn’t understand. I’d bought it. I hadn’t stolen it. But apparently, using other people’s money to buy something for yourself was the same as stealing. Who knew? (So much for the concepts of mortgages and credit cards.)

I can’t remember for sure, but I doubt the consequences were particularly dire. I probably had to pay back the nickel out of my ten-cent allowance, and I probably didn’t get to eat the toffee, but the lesson remained, written in letters of flame upon my soul.

Even when you think you’re not guilty, you are.

Which probably explains my reflexive “Oh, shit, what have I done?” reaction whenever I see a police car.

And don’t even get me started about the Canada Revenue Agency tax forms that require you to sign where it says “I certify that the information given on this return and in any documents attached is correct, complete, and fully discloses all my income.” Just to really get my knickers in a twist, they add “It is a serious offence to make a false return”.

As if I wasn’t already suffused with anticipatory guilt.

What if I make a mistake without realizing it? Or what if somebody else makes a mistake on a T-slip or one of the other “any documents attached”? I’m guilty, guilty, guilty.

I don’t really enjoy sponge toffee anymore, either.

Anybody else with an overactive conscience? Or am I just seriously messed up? Or… is that not an “or” question?

Doin’ It On A Dare

May 11, 2011 / Diane Henders / 22 Comments

This may reflect badly on the sexual preferences of my ancestors, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got donkey DNA in me somewhere.

The stronger the resistance, the harder I dig in my heels. And I’m genetically programmed to respond to dares:

Challenger: “Betcha can’t do that!” Me: “Oh, yeah? Watch me!” This can be a useful trait at times, but I’m trying to overcome it. Those who know me well are starting to catch on.

Hubby: “Betcha won’t clean the bathroom, do the laundry, wash my car, and make me a gourmet meal tonight!” Me: “Oh, yeah? Watch… hey, wait a minute…”

I prefer to think that my life has been enriched by the activities that I never would have tried if I hadn’t been dared to do them.

I never would have ridden to the top of that scree slope on my dirt bike. The view was amazing. ‘Course, the trip down got a little exciting when my brakes faded and gave out from the heat. And yeah, I caused a minor rockslide. But I didn’t actually hurt anything when I had to run into the side of the hill to stop.

I never would have known how many little channels and islands there are in Lake of the Woods if I hadn’t taken off on impulse on a five-day canoe trip with a couple of friends.

In retrospect, it probably would have been better if I’d told somebody I was going. And the trip could have been improved if we hadn’t ended up stranded for two days at our pickup point. And it might have been nice if my ride back hadn’t dumped me ‘way the hell out in the Mission Industrial area of Winnipeg. Without money or a map. On a Sunday. I’m still not sure what I did to piss him off. But hey, you can’t have everything. The canoeing part was great.

Those who know me have given up daring me to eat unusual foods. If it qualifies as food somewhere in the world, I’ve probably already tried it. Or I’m willing to try it. If you dare me.

And don’t bother daring me to eat non-food items. I’ve probably already done that, too. My childhood experiment with the coloured chalk comes vividly (pun intended) to mind.

And let’s not forget jumping off the highest object you can find. Fortunately for my bones, I grew up in the part of Manitoba that’s as flat as piss on a platter. The best I managed was a twelve-foot drop off one of the lifeguard towers at Grand Beach. No, not into the water. That would’ve been smart.

To this day, I’m unable to sneak up a flight of stairs, because it sounds like somebody is enthusiastically popping bubble wrap under both of my kneecaps. But at least I’m not afraid of heights.

What’s best (or worst) thing you ever did on a dare?