It’s Like Fishing, But Without The Beer

December 12, 2012 / Diane Henders / 33 Comments

The Christmas shopping frenzy is upon us, and I’m observing the usual gender division. The women are out in the malls snagging the perfect gift for everyone. The men are at home watching TV and telling themselves they have lots of time.

On Christmas Eve the tables will turn, and throngs of empty-eyed men will wander the mall ten minutes before closing, reeking of desperation and despair.

And at midnight outside a convenience store, two men will wrestle over the last pine-scented air freshener because it’s Christmas-tree-shaped and therefore vaguely appropriate as a Christmas gift, and they will ask themselves, “Why do women do this?”

Well, it’s like fishing.

If you’re starving and you have to catch a fish in order to survive, it’s not fun; it’s work.

But if you’re fishing for the fun of it, there’s no greater joy than being out on the lake just tossing in your line. You might not catch anything; you might catch and release; you might catch a tasty fish you’ll enjoy for supper that evening; or you might catch the biggest Holy-Shit-Look-At-The-Size-Of-That-Mother trophy fish of all time.

It doesn’t really matter. It’s all about the process. And the bragging rights. And your buddies. And the beer.

Some guys would happily go fishing every day, even though their freezer is full and they’ll probably end up throwing away some of the fish. Some women would happily go shopping every day, even though their closet is full and the clothes will probably be out of style before they get around to wearing them.

Recreational shopping is extremely similar to the actual process of fishing. We cruise the mall, dipping into the places where our quarry is most likely to lurk. But sometimes the shopping gods turn their backs, and there’s nothing worth buying despite our skill and patience (no catch).

Other times, we reel in lovely things that are perfect in every way, but we don’t buy (catch and release).

Sometimes, we choose to take that tasty item home.

And every now and then, we score the most amazing deeply-discounted, absolutely perfect article that will be discussed with awe among our peers forever more. The great grandmammy of bargains. The holy grail.

Like fishing, there’s much discussion of the one that got away. Right size, right price, wrong colour. Screaming deal, sublime colour, wrong size. The almost-perfection of the item increases with each telling, inspiring heartfelt commiseration from our buddies.

Here’s where the comparison begins to break down for me, though. Most women are just as happy in a crowded mall as most guys are out on the lake. I’m not. The act of shopping simply isn’t rewarding enough for me to put up with a crowd. I’ll pay for an item or I’ll engage in a fistfight for the item, but I refuse to do both. I suspect most guys feel the same.

But that problem could be easily solved.

What malls really need is beer. A mall-wide liquor permit, so you could wander around with a cold one in your hand. They could set up beer-and-snack kiosks here and there, and put nice little stands next to the changing rooms so you could put your beer down without fear of spillage when you went in to try on clothes.

With a reward like that, I bet even the guys would shop early and often.

Am I right?

Bro Bulletin – Questions Of Doom: #4

November 28, 2012 / Diane Henders / 27 Comments

For the month of Movember, I’ve been supporting my Mo’ Bros by offering a few helpful insights into the female mind. This is the last of the Movember Questions of Doom series.

* * *

QOD #4: Do you like this casserole?

Getting this one wrong probably won’t kill you, but there’s still a pretty high potential for long-term misery. Possible answers:

“Yes” – I hope you really do like it, ‘cause you’re gonna get it every second week from now until doomsday.

“It’s okay, but I wouldn’t want it every year.” – This one never fails to get a laugh at our house, but don’t try it unless you’re really sure about her sense of humour. (Note: Her sense of humour may vary considerably from day to day. Better not chance it.)

“No” – You know the drill. Icy silence and/or tears and/or wild accusations of “You don’t appreciate anything I do”. And you aren’t going to be getting any for a good long time. You know I’m not talking about casserole.

Best Answer: “Wow, this is really different. Where did you get the recipe?” – Try not to gag while you say this. Pretend avid interest in the answer and immediately guide the conversation in another direction. Examples:

If she says it’s her Aunt Mary’s recipe: “How is Aunt Mary, anyway?” (Note: If the answer is “dead”, you’re in deep shit, but at least the casserole conversation is probably over.)

If she says she found it in a cookbook/magazine/online: Make sure you sound enthusiastic: “Really. Wow, you should try some of their other recipes, too. Hey, did I tell you about…”

Good luck, bro. You’re gonna need it.

And because this is the last Bro Bulletin in the Movember series, here’s a bonus QOD:

Bonus QOD: Did you make that doctor’s appointment yet?

Sorry, guys, there’s only one correct answer to this: “Yes, dear.”

* * *

Movember Moment: Guys, if you haven’t done it already, go and get your prostate checked. A few moments of discomfort are well worth the relief of knowing you’re fine; or, worst-case scenario, the sooner they find a problem, the more easily it can be dealt with.

And if you’re feeling despairing or anxious; if you’re self-destructive or you can’t control your temper, please talk to your doctor.

There’s no shame in asking for help. If you had computer problems, you wouldn’t just put up with it and hope it’d get better, and you wouldn’t feel inadequate if you couldn’t fix it yourself (and you know how badly it can turn out if you try).

Please treat yourself at least as well as you treat your computer. We Mo’ Sistas want to keep you around, happy and healthy, for a long time.

So go make that appointment.

Please? For me? *bats big brown eyes*

P.S. Thanks to Le Clown for starting Bloggers for Movember. In support of the cause, I’m donating half the November royalties from my paperback and e-book sales from all channels to the Cancer Society. Only two days left – please spread the word!

Bro Bulletin – Questions Of Doom: #3

November 21, 2012 / Diane Henders / 24 Comments

For the month of Movember, I’m supporting my Mo’ Bros by offering a few helpful insights into the female mind. Welcome to the third instalment of the Questions of Doom series.

* * *

Ah, you guys thought you were getting the hang of QODs, didn’t you? I’ve got news for you: we’ve only been dealing with easy yes-or-no QODs until now. Let’s try a tougher one: the multiple-choice QOD.

I don’t mean to support gender stereotypes here, but the truth is I don’t personally know any households where the male does the bulk of the cooking. Guys, if you do, you’ve already got this one nailed. See you next week.

QOD #3: What do you want for dinner?

A seemingly innocuous question, isn’t it? What could possibly go wrong? Watch and learn…

Bad Answer: “I don’t know, what do you want?” – This may seem like a safe response, but it’ll blow up in your face. She’ll likely echo, “I don’t know, what do you want?” Lather, rinse, repeat.

If you’re the passive-aggressive type, this may be strangely satisfying, but she’ll end up irritated, and you’ll probably end up eating something you don’t like.

Worse Answer: “I don’t care. Just cook something.” – Oooh. Ouch. If that ever heals, it’s gonna leave one hell of a mark.

Here’s what she just heard: “I don’t care (about any of your trivial problems. It’s your responsibility as the subordinate spouse to) just cook something.”

That’s why she’s screaming at you and/or slamming pots and pans around in the kitchen loudly enough to drown out the TV no matter how high you turn the volume. You’re not gonna like what she cooks tonight.

In fact, if you have any sense of self-preservation at all, you’ll surreptitiously feed it to the dog (particularly if she fixes you a “special” plate but lets the kids serve themselves out of the communal dishes).

And if you’re hoping to get lucky tonight, go buy a lottery ticket. The odds are better.

Iffy Answer: “I love your (insert food item here). Let’s have that.” – On the face of it, this sounds like the perfect answer. You figure you’re golden because you just solved the problem and complimented her cooking at the same time. You’re probably right…

Unless the food item in question is difficult and time-consuming to make and she’s exhausted, with ten minutes to get food on the table before the kids start chewing the table legs.

If she starts yelling about how inconsiderate you are, that’s why. Just hunker down and take it. It was a good try.

Safe Answer: “Hmm, how about beef? Chicken? Pork? Fish? Sausages? Omelette? Haggis? Fava beans…?” – Just keep guessing. As long as you look like you’re participating, you’re safe. It’s like soothing an angry dog – steady, calm tones and no sudden moves. If you stop, she’ll rip you apart.

It’s not about actually solving the problem here – she may or may not accept any of your suggestions. It’s about “contributing”. When she thinks you’ve contributed enough, she’ll give you that little smile and headshake that says, “Poor foolish man, you’re just so helpless without me.” Then she’ll go into the kitchen and make a nice meal. You’ll enjoy it.

No, let me be really clear about that: You WILL enjoy it.

Better Answer: “Forget cooking tonight. I’ll take you out to dinner/order in.” – Very smooth. Very smart. Hubby uses this one so frequently, I call him “The Plastic Chef”. With a credit card in his hand, the man can cook anything. This is one of the reasons why he has so many brownie points built up, I couldn’t yell at him even if I wanted to.

Best Answer EVER: “You work so hard – you deserve a break. Here, put your feet up. Here’s a nice glass of wine. You just relax while I cook you a gourmet meal and clean it all up afterward.” – Yeah, I know. It’s okay, I couldn’t keep a straight face for that one, either. But a woman can dream…

* * *

Movember Moment: Jeez, no wonder guys get freaked out about prostate exams – I can’t believe how much bullshit I found on the internet. It’s not that big a deal. Here’s what to expect.

P.S. Thanks to Le Clown for starting Bloggers for Movember. In support of the cause, I’ll donate half the November royalties from my paperback and e-book sales from all channels to the Cancer Society. Please spread the word!

Bro Bulletin – Questions Of Doom: #1

November 7, 2012 / Diane Henders / 12 Comments

For the month of Movember, I’m supporting my Mo’ Bros by offering a few helpful insights into the female mind. Welcome to the Questions of Doom series.

A QOD is an unanswerable and highly dangerous question posed by your wife/significant other. I’m going to teach you how to escape some common QODs (more or less) unscathed.

* * *

Note: There are many reasons why I’ve never asked this question myself (not the least of which is that I wear a dress approximately once every five years). But trust me, guys, I can help you.

QOD #1: Does this dress make me look fat?

If you’ve ever been hit with this question, you understand the devastating consequences of the wrong answer. Hint: Both “yes” and “no” are the wrong answer.

Let’s review:

“Yes” – So, so wrong. Expect tears, anger, and possibly flying objects. Don’t expect to get laid any time in the foreseeable future. And maybe you should wear a cup. This ain’t pretty, but if you just want to get the whole thing over with, it’s definitely quick.

“No” – This is also the wrong answer. She doesn’t believe you. She argues: “Yes, it does. You’re just saying that.”

It doesn’t matter what you say at this point. Keep insisting “no”, and she still won’t believe you, you’ll get annoyed, and then she’ll call you an insensitive jerk. But switch to “yes” and you’re totally doomed. See consequences above, plus now she thinks you’re a weaselly liar into the bargain.

Best Answer: “You look hot in everything. Grrr.” – Accompany this with a kiss, and you might get away scot-free. But remember, you’re going for distraction here. A peck on the cheek isn’t gonna cut it. Just like pulling a punch, a quick lip bump is only going to piss off its recipient.

Go for the gusto. Kiss her as if you haven’t seen a woman in ten years.

In the beyond-your-wildest-dreams scenario, she says, “Grrr yourself, big fella.” Nature takes its course, and you end up too busy mattress dancing to go to the stupid event you were dressing for the in the first place. But don’t get your hopes (or anything else) up for that.

In the best case scenario, she finishes getting dressed with a smile on her face. (You didn’t really expect to get lucky at this stage, did you? She’s focused on getting dressed. But your chances are looking pretty good for some action later if you play your cards right.)

Worst case scenario, she relents and changes the question to, “But do you like the blue one or the black one better?”

Danger, Will Robinson! This is a trick question.

You probably already know that “I don’t care, just put on something and let’s go” is the wrong answer. But do not, under any circumstances, breathe a sigh of relief and choose a dress. That will start the whole process all over again.

The only correct answer is, “The (pick a dress randomly) one makes your boobs/ass/legs look amazing. Grrr.”

Repeat as needed.

You can thank me later. (But if you score, I don’t want details.)

Movember Moment: Depression is one of the most common mental health issues men face. Guys, if you think you may be depressed, see your doctor – don’t wait. The sooner you start working on it, the sooner you’ll start to feel better. Here’s a description of symptoms, risk factors, triggers, and treatments for depression in men.

Boom. Splat.

October 24, 2012October 28, 2012 / Diane Henders / 30 Comments

That’s the sound of my brain exploding.

You may recall my computer died a couple of weeks ago. The reload went pretty well, until… *cue ominous music* …I loaded a new(er) version of my accounting software.

It crashed. Even my geek skills couldn’t persuade it to work, so I phoned and waded through the usual labyrinth. Why do companies choose automated telephone systems?

“Hey, let’s take customers who are already frustrated by our product and irritate the shit out of them by making them respond to ten minutes of increasingly obscure menu choices before putting them on hold.”

“Ooh, good idea! And let’s set it up so if they press the wrong number they have to hang up and start again.”

“Right on. Should we play music specifically designed to promote speechless rage?”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea, but I think we should intersperse it with monotone assurances of how important their call is to us.”

“All in favour?”

“AYE!” *roars of demonic laughter*

I finally got through to a human being. In India. Obviously I missed a point in the decision-making process:

“Let’s route the call to someone with a tenuous grasp of English, an unintelligible accent, and absolutely no hands-on experience with the product. Both the now-frothing customer and the poor underpaid bastard in India should suffer as much as possible.”

“Support” refused to help me unless I a) paid for the call; or b) bought the 2013 software. After reflection, I bought the new software, comforting myself that it was probably good to get the latest version anyway.

I installed it… and discovered it’s impossible to update contact names. Call me crazy, but wouldn’t it be a good idea to direct invoices to the person who’ll actually approve them?

I called India again. When I finally vanquished the automated menu, the support guy put me on hold for several minutes while he searched for my customer ID.

He couldn’t find it despite the three numbers I supplied from my receipt.

He told me I’d have to pay for the call. After a terse conversation and some deep breathing on my part, he finally unearthed evidence of my purchase(!) and agreed to help me.

Apparently the definition of ‘help’ was lost in translation.

I explained the problem. He put me on hold for several minutes while he consulted his helpdesk database before coming back with a completely unrelated answer.

I explained again. Hold. Another unrelated answer.

Repeat six times until he grasps the problem.

Then he put me on hold for several more minutes before trying to get me to change the invoice template. That would solve the problem for the one invoice I’d called about… but completely mess up the umpty-thousand other invoices in the system.

I (not-so-)patiently explained to him how his product works.

Hold.

Repeat until I bleed from the eyes.

An hour later, I gave up and requested a case number so I could try another day.

Hold for ten minutes. Then he came back with another useless attempt at a solution.

Slow, distinct enunciation: “Just. Give. Me. A. Case. Number.”

Hold for five more minutes. He finally spouted a (probably random) number, and I hung up.

I got a survey from the company. The first question was ‘Were you satisfied with your recent technical support call?’ When I chose ‘No’, their next question was ‘Please explain why your issue was not resolved.’

Boom. Splat.

Uh… I dunno… maybe because your support system sucks?

I never did complete the survey. I just couldn’t get past that question. Can anybody help me out with an appropriate answer?

P.S. I can’t believe I forgot to mention this last week: Curmudgeon-at-Large wrote a fabulous Fallen Arches post, “Corned Beef on Spy“. It’s hilarious in its own right, but if you’ve read my books, you’ll get the ~~satire~~ (Updated: Oops! That should’ve been “parody” – I just looked it up) immediately. I laughed my ass off. Go. Enjoy! (C-a-L, I’m sorry for my brain fart – thanks again for honouring me with your wit.)

Don’t Even Think Of Snatching My Ass

October 17, 2012 / Diane Henders / 35 Comments

In a previous post, I speculated that my tendency to misread words and phrases might be merely a matter of needing reading glasses. I was wrong.

I got the reading glasses. Now it has become embarrassingly obvious that the problem exists in the central processor, not the input devices.

Back in the summer when the Olympics were on, I glanced at a headline and read “Art Irritating Life at London’s Olympics”. My interest piqued, I clicked over to the headline, only to discover that instead of a controversial article on modern art, it was a rather bland discourse about “Art Imitating Life”. Quite disappointing.

A few days later, I roared with laughter when I discovered what I thought was the ultimate truth in advertising: the disclaimer “Errors and Omissions Expected” on a law firm website. Sadly, it was just the standard cover-your-ass statement “Errors and Omissions Excepted”. I still think it’d be more truthful the other way around, but perhaps I’m cynical.

I was pumped when I saw “Vulgarity – The Difference Between the Amateur and the Professional”. I thought, “At last, someone is recognizing the value of my most pronounced personality trait!”

But no, it was merely a product of my childish hope. When I looked at it more closely, it actually read “Maturity”, not “Vulgarity”.

Well, shit. As this whole example illustrates, there’s no danger of anyone ever identifying maturity as one of my principal qualities.

Speaking of childishness, I also misread a local business name as “Dopey Repro” instead of Copy Repro. And if you have any OPA restaurants in your area, you may be interested to know that their tagline (according to my twisted brain) is “Fat Cheek”, not “Eat Greek”.

But honestly, I don’t think that one was really my fault. I only glanced at it, and at this angle the font is hard to read, don’t you think?

OPA! FAT CHEEK (You know I’m right)

I’m pretty sure my next slip-up was one of those Freudian things. I almost never watch TV, but I’d just been forced to watch some of what I sincerely hope was a particularly sub-standard talk show. I survived, but I was thoroughly traumatized by the prodigious and willful stupidity of the moderator. I won’t even get started on the apparent intellectual capacity of the participants.

Shortly thereafter, I read “Psychological Vomit” in a headline. It didn’t surprise me in the least. In fact, I was pretty sure that was what I’d just witnessed.

Closer inspection revealed that the headline actually read “Psychological Portrait”. But I’m sticking with my original reading. What I saw on that talk show was either psychological vomit or psychological explosive diarrhea. In either case, I needed a shower afterward. You don’t want to get any of that stuff on you.

All this was crowned by the blog spam I got today. It promised, “I’ll immediately snatch your ass”.

Oh, yeah? Well, go ahead and try, buddy, but you’d better get your insurance paid up first.

The spammer escaped my misguided wrath when I re-read the sentence and realized the comment actually read “snatch your rss”.

Which still seems a little off-colour, but it’s probably just because I tend to avoid using the word “snatch”, in an attempt to avoid awkward misunderstandings.

So… have you read anything interesting lately?

Creepy Stalker Here

October 3, 2012 / Diane Henders / 26 Comments

As I’ve mentioned here and here, there’s convincing evidence that I’m a sociopath. But a few days ago, an unsettling thought bobbed to the scummy surface of the cesspit that is my mind: Maybe I’m also a creepy stalker.

I mean, really, what’s the difference between a close friend and a stalker?

Close friends know your likes and dislikes, have a pretty good idea of your schedules and habits, call you frequently, and show up regularly to spend time with you.

So do creepy stalkers.

The more I think about it, the more I wonder. Social skills aren’t really my best thing. I fake them well enough for short periods, but then I scuttle back to my hidey-hole and hunker down behind my computer to converse with (at best) people I know only through a few typed words on my screen and (at worst) imaginary characters in my books.

I do this for days and weeks on end. I go out to the pub once a week for a beer and some conversation with real human beings, but that’s about it. If I wasn’t married, I’d probably go for days without human interaction, so it’s not like I’m really socially aware.

How many times can I call somebody before I’m officially being creepy? If they don’t call back, does it mean they’re just busy or forgetful? Or does it mean they’re screening their calls and thinking, “Oh, God, it’s Diane again. She’s so creepy. I’m going to pretend I’m dead.”

Problem is, most people are too polite to tell me to buzz off. I tend to take people at face value and I’m disinclined to obsess over the emotional temperature of everyone I meet, so I don’t really know whether they’re genuinely glad to see me or if they give a whole-body shudder and take six showers after I leave.

I think it’s probably a good sign if they return my calls, unless they’re calling to decline my last ten invitations and tell me they’re going to be busy until the year 2045. But that only happened with the last three people I called, so it’s not really statistically significant, right?

Maybe the restraining order is a clue, though. More analysis is required.

Last week I was at an all-you-can-eat restaurant where each table had a little cylinder that was green on one end and red on the other. As long as you wanted more, you left the green end up, and they kept bringing food. Red-end-up stopped the whole thing.

That’s what I need: a signalling system. Green means “it’s all good”, yellow means “you’re starting to creep me out”, and red means “stay away from me, you nutball freak”.

That system probably wouldn’t catch on, though. It seems most people actually prefer a little ambiguity in their relationships.

I guess the upside of all this is that sociopaths generally disregard the feelings of others. Maybe this isn’t such a burning question for me after all.

So… wanna go for a beer tonight?

How about tomorrow?

Friday’s good for me, too…

I’m Probably A Sociopath: Exhibit B

July 18, 2012 / Diane Henders / 30 Comments

A couple of weeks ago, I concluded I was probably a sociopath. Just in case more evidence was needed, this photo from my living room provides the confirmation:

Photographic evidence: Exhibit B

According to Wikipedia, a diagnosis of sociopathy can be made if the subject exhibits at least three of six hallmarks. Let’s look at them individually, shall we?

Items 1 and 2:

Callous unconcern for the feelings of others.
Gross and persistent attitude of irresponsibility and disregard for social norms, rules, and obligations.

The fact that I harbour this furniture in my living room definitely qualifies me for both items (and probably also for an emergency decorating intervention). Anyone who cares about the feelings of others or the norms of society would never force another human being to witness that fabric pattern. But I kinda like it. It’s… bold. Yeah, that’s the word I was looking for. Bold.

Item 3: Incapacity to maintain enduring relationships, though having no difficulty in establishing them.

I thought I’d be able to weasel out of diagnosis when I read this. I have no problem with relationships. So there.

But then came…

Item 4: Very low tolerance to frustration and a low threshold for discharge of aggression, including violence.

Um… well, yeah, I get frustrated sometimes. Who doesn’t? And yeah, I kickbox, but that’s not really violent, is it? I mean, it’s not like I’m whacking little old ladies in the streets, right? Just because I go downstairs and kick the hell out of my 270-lb bag when I’m having a bad day doesn’t mean I’m violent. And really, “low threshold for discharge of aggression” is such a subjective thing. “Low” compared to what? Kickboxing is just a healthy outlet for my frustration.

Item 5: Incapacity to experience guilt or to profit from experience, particularly punishment.

I figured I was home free when I read the first part. I’ve got lots of guilt. I tend to ignore it, but I definitely have it, so that’s gotta count for something. But then there’s the ‘inability to profit from experience/punishment’ part. Being a fiction writer is pretty much indistinguishable from punishment sometimes. And apparently I haven’t learned much from it, ‘cause I keep on writing.

Item 6: Markedly prone to blame others or to offer plausible rationalizations for the behavior that has brought the person into conflict with society.

Oh shit, rationalizations. But that thing about the kickboxing wasn’t really a rationalization, was it? That previous sentence wasn’t a rationalization, either. I’m pretty sure about that. And anyway, my mother picked out the furniture. So it’s not really my fault…

Oops, rationalization and blame.

The wiki also helpfully notes, “There may be persistent irritability as an associated feature.”

“Irritability”? Come on, seriously? Do you know anybody who doesn’t get irritated sometimes? That really pisses me off!

I mean… um… never mind.

So I’m five out of six, with bonus points for irritability. That might worry me if I didn’t have a gross and persistent disregard for social norms.

And I just can’t seem to feel guilty about that…

I’m Disturbed

June 27, 2012July 30, 2020 / Diane Henders / 34 Comments

Okay, stop laughing. I realize you already know I’m disturbed. What I meant was: I’m bothered. Alarmed. Perturbed. Ruffled. Unnerved. (Yeah, and addicted to my thesaurus, but that’s a post for another day.)

Why?

Last week I was walking past a transit bus shelter near our house. Some discarded packaging lay on the bench inside. Apparently one of our fine upstanding citizens considered himself* too important in the grand scheme of things to dump the wrapping in the garbage can only a few feet away.

But that wasn’t what rattled my cage. No, it was far more subtle and sinister. As I neared the shelter, I caught sight of the label on the packaging: “MACHETE”.

Ooookay.

So tell me. If you needed to go out and buy a machete…

Now don’t get ahead of me; I don’t have issues with the need for a machete, even in a large urban area like Calgary. A machete is a perfectly valid purchase. It’s a tool. Hell, I have one. It’s under the bed… Um, never mind.

Kidding. I’m kidding, already! (It’s actually by the back door.)

Anyhow, I’m not arguing the need for a machete. And I realize not everyone who requires a machete necessarily owns a car. In fact, there’s a logical argument for the possibility that if he could afford a car, he’d probably buy a chainsaw. Or a katana, I guess, depending on whether he planned to cut down rampant underbrush or unwanted neighbours.

But my question is: Why would he take it out of the package before boarding the bus?

And if you were the bus driver, would you seriously consider stopping to pick up some machete-toting dude?

“Oh, well, he’s carrying a big honkin’ sword that’s capable of cutting my bus in half with a single stroke, but that’s okay. He probably needs it to chop his compost. Gardeners are nice people. I’m sure it’ll be fine…”

Yeah, right.

Here in Canada, it’s not technically illegal to carry a machete, or any kind of bladed tool other than automatic knives like switchblades. I’ve personally schlepped a pair of axes down the sidewalk in small-town Manitoba without raising too many eyebrows (long story).

But since our laws also contain handy-dandy catch-phrases that prohibit “weapons dangerous to the public peace”, I’m thinking our proud new machete owner might have some ’splainin’ to do unless there was a patch of jungle near the bus shelter. I didn’t see one, but maybe our intrepid machete-master cleared it before I arrived.

So let’s think about this for a moment. I prefer to believe our transit bus drivers possess a modicum of common sense. I’d like to think they wouldn’t allow some machete-wielding freak to get on their bus. It’s enlightened self-interest if nothing else.

But if there had been a kerfuffle of any sort, I would have read it in the news. We’re a tough bunch of rednecks around here, but I’m pretty sure a machete on a transit bus would rate a couple of lines near the back of the paper. But no. Nothing.

So somewhere in our fair city, there’s a guy who thinks it’s a good idea to carry an unsheathed machete on a transit bus. And there’s a bus driver who’s okay with that.

I’m disturbed.

And I think I’ll bring my machete the next time I take the bus. ’Cause one machete-wielding freak obviously isn’t enough for this town.

***

*Note: For brevity, I used masculine gender throughout. I’m perfectly willing to acknowledge the culprit may have been female. Heaven knows there are days…

I’m Probably A Sociopath: Exhibit A

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

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

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

Photographic evidence: Exhibit A

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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