humor

I. AM. CANADIAN!

/ Diane Henders / 38 Comments

It’s interesting to be Canadian.  As a nation, we’re generally regarded as the polite, low-key, boring neighbours of the superpower south of us.  We tend to define ourselves by what we’re not, instead of by what we are, and we may get quite impassioned about the whole thing.  Especially if beer is involved.

We’ve got a lot going for us.  We’re superpowers in hockey and curling.  Our military, while pathetically undermanned, is generally respected.  We are usually laid-back and polite.  Until you get to know us.  Then we’re potty-mouths (language warning on this link).

Despite (or perhaps because of) the abundance of off-colour jokes about our national animal the beaver, we are actually quite attached to the furry buck-toothed rodent.  And every now and then, the beaver gets revenge on its detractors, though this may only happen in beer commercials.

And speaking of beer, despite my high regard for our neighbours to the south, our beer is generally much better than theirs.  I have a sneaking suspicion that most U.S. beer is just Canadian beer that’s been warm-filtered through a kidney.

We’re a nation of oddballs who are perfectly capable of starting a violently destructive riot over a hockey game, and then getting sidetracked partway through:

http://www.gettyimages.ca/detail/news-photo/riot-police-walk-in-the-street-as-a-couple-kiss-on-june-15-news-photo/116466376

After all, which is more important, a hockey game or getting lucky?  (Note:  If you are a Canadian male, this question will cause intense indecision.)

You know you’re Canadian when you put on your parka and go out to buy a Slurpee in -30 degree weather.  (If you’re not from around here, a Slurpee is a slushy drink composed of crushed ice and a soft drink).  Winter is a great time to drink Slurpees, because they don’t melt and dilute the flavouring, and your hands don’t get cold while you hold the cup because you’re already wearing mittens.

Maybe because we spend a lot of time sitting inside to avoid the cold, we’ve also contributed quite a few useful things to the world.  We’ve offered up handy-dandy stuff like insulin to treat diabetes (Banting & Best, 1922), basketball (Naismith, 1891), and the Canadarm for the space shuttle (SPAR Aerospace, 1981).

There are many reasons why I’m glad I’m Canadian, but a couple of weeks ago, we scored another notable achievement.  A Canadian stuntwoman, Jolene Van Vugt, set a new land speed record for the world’s fastest motorized toilet:  75 km/hr (46.6 mph).

http://www.globalpost.com/photo/5703220/fastesttoilet-040512

Now I’m really flushed with pride!

Oh, Balls!

/ Diane Henders / 46 Comments

The other day a conversation with a female friend turned into a roundabout discussion that began with fruit, took a rapid detour to testicles, and ended with dirty limericks.  I can’t name the friend without potentially embarrassing the innocent man whose mangoes we were discussing, but the guilty party knows who she is.  I’m pretty sure I can still hear her giggling.

Anyway, I started to wonder why limericks lend themselves so admirably to off-colour content.  Maybe it’s something about the rhyme structure.  You just never see an obscene sonnet or haiku.  (Though if you know any, feel free to enlighten me.)

Most of the limericks I know are so vile I only recite them in the wee hours of the morning at a keg party, after I’ve set my glass aside and begun to drink directly from the pitcher for the sake of efficiency.  The last time that happened was many years ago, and it’s unlikely to happen again anytime soon.

But I still consider it one of my finer achievements to make a dozen inebriated guys gag simultaneously and flee the area.  Abandoning the keg, no less.  That was some limerick.  Needless to say, I won’t be including it in this post.  I can’t afford to lose readers.

I have no idea why I retain dirty limericks on the tip of my brain for instant retrieval when I can’t remember useful information like my sister’s not-so-new-anymore phone number.  And maybe I should be concerned that I can recite three limericks about testicles without a moment’s thought.

Here are the ones that sprang immediately to mind:

There was a young man from Boston
Who drove around in an Austin.
There was room for his ass
And a gallon of gas,
But his balls hung out and he lost ‘em.

Or how about this one:

There was a young man from Devizes
Whose balls were of two different sizes.
One was so small
It was no ball at all,
But the other one won several prizes.

Or:

There was a young man from Madras
Whose balls were made out of brass.
He’d bang them together
To play stormy weather,
And lightning shot out of his ass.

Frankly, that last one never made much sense to me since I happen to know brass won’t create a spark no matter how much you bang it together, but whatever.  It makes a good rhyme.

Maybe dirty limericks are so popular because they’re easy to create (and let’s face it, a lot of people have dirty minds).  Since I happen to believe there’s always room for more bad poetry in the world, here’s my attempt:

There once was a woman from Cowtown
Whose crudity made strong men bow down.
Though they tried to harass her,
They couldn’t surpass her.
The Queen of Vulgarity’s now crown’d.

Anybody else have dirty limericks lurking top-of-mind?  Or, more shockingly, clean limericks?  Do share.

Or feel free to get creative and make up one of your own.  I dare you.

I’ve Been Married Too Long

/ Diane Henders / 31 Comments

That’s it.  My husband knows me too well.  Either I’ll have to develop an entirely new personality, or give him a good sharp rap on the head with one of our many hammers so he forgets a few of my fundamental traits.

Here’s why.

This weekend, I decided to do the spring tune-up on my car.  Swap out my snow tires for all-seasons (yes, I used my click-type torque wrench to torque the wheel nuts to spec), do an oil change, top up fluids, inspect brakes and boots and belts for wear, all that sort of thing.  And clean the car.

So I’m on my knees wielding the vacuum cleaner wand when Hubby pops his head into the garage.  The following dialogue ensues:

Him:  Oh, how nice of you to offer to vacuum my car!

Me:  Yes, startlingly nice.  In fact, unbelievably nice.  *continues vacuuming her own car*

Him:  How much do you charge?

Me:  More than you can afford.

Him:  Do you take credit?

Me:  In God we trust.  Everybody else pays cash.

I won’t bore you with the entire exchange, but in the end, I kindly offered to leave the vacuum out so it would be handy for him to vacuum his own car.  Lest you think I’m a cruel and heartless wife, I’d like to mention that I did, in fact, have a nice dinner cooking in the oven at the time.  I do try to treat him reasonably well.

Anyway, I finished up by washing my car and polishing its glass inside and out before I returned to the kitchen to finish making dinner.

The very next day, we went for a drive in his car.  About a block away from our house, he said casually, “Wow, this is the cleanest my car has been for a long time.  Except for that strip of dust on the dash I couldn’t reach.  And nobody cleaned the inside of the windshield.”

Then he leaned over and committed the most brilliantly diabolical act imaginable.  He drew his fingertip through the dust on the inside of the windshield in a criss-cross pattern right in my line of sight.

I tried.  I swear to God I tried.

I lasted for ten whole seconds before I caved.

And he looked over at me scrubbing the entire passenger side of the windshield clean, and he laughed.

I’ve been married to him for too long.

Channelling My Inner LOL

/ Diane Henders / 26 Comments

I just noticed that the acronym for Little Old Lady is LOL.  Coincidence?  I think not.  (For those who aren’t up on text abbreviations, “LOL” means “Laughing Out Loud”.)

I’m not sure whether it’s my inner LOL or whether I’m on the cutting edge of the Reduce/Reuse/Recycle movement, but I have a confession to make:  I wash plastic bags and reuse them.  I want to qualify that statement, though – I only wash bread bags.  I save and reuse plastic grocery bags, but I don’t wash them.  All other bags go to the recycling depot.

My aunt doesn’t wash bread bags.  When I mentioned it to her, she gave me a quizzical look and said, “I used to save bread bags, back when they were hard to get.  I don’t do that now, though.  You can get them anywhere.”

Um. Yeah.

So I just out-LOL’d my 85-year-old aunt.

In my defense, I’d like to point out that I bake my own bread, and it seems wasteful to buy fresh new bags, use them once, and then throw them away.  Maybe I could be more cavalier about the process if I’d gotten the bag free when I purchased something else.  But probably not.  It’s still a perfectly good bag.

Which leads me to yogurt containers.  And sour cream containers.  I keep those, too.  They’re a handy size:  they hold the exact amount that fits in my soup bowls, and they’re wonderful for freezing single portions.  But lately I’ve been struggling with the news that we’re not supposed to reuse those containers for anything.  Something about harmful chemicals leaching into our food when they get reused.  Say what?

They’re selling me a food product in a container they consider too toxic for me to continue using?

I like those plastic containers, dammit.  I like being able to drop them into my freezer without worrying about suffering a laceration on a shard of broken glass.  They’re cheap, convenient, and space-efficient.

So I went looking for some new, non-toxic plastic containers.  Turns out there’s really no such thing.  Each manufacturer touts their own “non-toxic” product while pointing accusatory fingers at the other manufacturers.  By the time you work your way around the circle, it’s obvious that either they’re all toxic, or they’re all lying.  Probably both.

I thought stainless steel was the answer, until Hubby helpfully pointed out that steel can be alloyed with a huge range of other metals, including toxic heavy metals.  “Food-grade” stainless, here I come.  But how do I know what those manufacturers put in their so-called food-grade stainless?  They’re probably lying, too.

Sigh.  Back to glass.  No, wait, some glass contains lead.  Or, hey, better still, radioactive thorium.  Woohoo!

I’ve probably washed my sour cream containers enough times by now that the toxic parts are all gone.  And I’ve got a couple of bread bags to salvage.  ‘Scuse me while I go channel my inner LOL.

Get off my lawn, you damn kids!

Toolaholics Anonymous

/ Diane Henders / 22 Comments

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

Hello, my name is Diane, and I’m a toolaholic.

I first realized I might have a problem the day I caught myself whining at my husband because he wouldn’t let me buy a hydraulic engine hoist (it was on sale, too, dammit).

Everybody needs an engine hoist.  I have an engine stand.  How am I supposed to get my engine block off the stand and back into my car without a hoist?  At the time, I rationalized it as reasonable behaviour.  But I knew I’d hit rock-bottom the day I sneaked home with a knife-sharpening kit… and hid it.

Maybe I was feeling guilty because I already have a wet-wheel sharpener for my wood-turning tools.  I’ve used it in the past, but the stone is really too coarse for my good-quality kitchen knives.  And Hubby’s diamond sharpening set doesn’t have a jig, so it’s hard to put a precise angle on the blade.  And I’ve never mastered the art of using the steel to hone knives.  And nothing drives me crazier than a dull knife.

So really, I needed a five-stone sharpening kit with a jig.

My husband is my enabler.  Sometimes he buys me tools for my birthday and for Christmas.  Sometimes he buys me tools “just because”.  Tools are the perfect gift.  They’re beautiful.  They’re shiny.  They’re powerful.  They’re practical.  I need tools.  Everybody needs tools.

I wasn’t always a toolaholic.  When I got married, I only had one set of carpentry tools, one set of kitchen tools, and one set of automotive tools.  My tools were always clean and organized and ready to use.  Hubby had a couple of sets of his own tools.  Everything should have been fine.

But.

I’m a put-it-away-er.  He’s a drop-it-where-you-used-it kinda guy.  So he misplaces tools frequently.  Then he steals mine, because “they’re easy to find”.

Yeah, because I actually put them back where they belong after using them.

Then I go to do some small job and I can’t find my goddamn-sonuvabitch-where-the-hell-are-my-fucking-TOOLS?!?

He’s a resourceful fellow with a well-developed sense of self-preservation, so he solved the problem.  Not by putting my tools back after using them.  Oh, no.  By buying me new tools when he gets in trouble.

For example, we now own at least eleven hammers.  A couple of framing hammers, a couple of ball-peens, a couple of hand sledges, and several multi-purpose claw hammers.  Oh, and a brass one for when you can’t risk striking a spark.  And a rubber one.  Plus three full-size sledgehammers of varying weights.

I still can’t find a hammer when I need one.

The same thing has happened with socket sets and screwdrivers and pliers and drill bits and oil filter wrenches.  I may have actually threatened him with death the day I couldn’t find my nice little ultra-fine flexible Japanese hand saw.  (It still hasn’t turned up, but he bought me another).

After a few years of marriage, I began to stash tools in out-of-the-way places, hoping they’d still be there the next time I needed them.  Then I started buying extra tools “just in case”.  Soon I couldn’t walk into a tool store without buying something.

So really, the tool addiction isn’t my fault.  He drove me to it.

But I can quit any time I want.

Honest.

Food Fetishes

/ 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.

Sometimes I Speak Swahili

/ Diane Henders / 29 Comments

Sometimes I speak Swahili.  It’s the only possible explanation.  Except for the fact that people who speak Swahili can’t understand me, either.  So maybe sometimes I speak a heretofore-unknown but terribly clever secret language.

Yeah, that’s gotta be it.

Has this ever happened to you?  I’m standing in front of somebody flapping my gums, and I think I’m being perfectly clear.  Then I see the glaze of bewilderment in their eyes.

I try harder.  I explain it a different way.

If they’re nice, polite people, they try really hard, too.  They frown in concentration.  They watch my lips.  They try to read my body language for a clue.  And incomprehension spreads across their faces like local anaesthetic during dental surgery.

Eventually, we give up by tacit agreement.  They nod and pretend to understand.  I nod and pretend to believe them.  We walk away frustrated, brains feeling like wrung-out sponges.

Or, if they’re not particularly polite, their eyes dart sideways before they sneak a glance at their watch and exclaim, “Geez, look at the time!  Gotta go!”  And then they flee.

Frankly, I don’t blame them.

I hate it when words fail me.  The problem is, they don’t fail me in the sense of refusing to come out of my mouth.  They fail me in the sense of refusing to come out of my brain in any kind of useful pattern.

That happened to me the other day on a blog.  I wrote a comment.  I checked the comment over and edited it, because I’m anal and that’s just what I do.  Then I posted the comment.  When the blogger replied, it seemed words had failed me again.

Written words are worse than spoken ones.  When you’re standing in front of somebody, your voice and expression and body language combine with your speech to get your message across.  But a few black squiggles on a white background can’t do that, and when I read them again, my words didn’t say what I really meant to say.  I felt like an idiot.

So I posted another comment, explaining what I’d really meant, and apologizing if I sounded like an idiot.

Then I felt like an idiot apologizing for being an idiot.  Sheesh.

Life would be so much easier if we could just do a Vulcan mind-meld.  Then we could understand each other completely, bang, in a single moment.  Imagine the time and frustration it would save.

Then again, I’m not sure anybody would want to mind-meld with me.  You really don’t want to know what’s lurking inside this skull.  Maybe Harry Potter’s Pensieve would be a better solution.  Just yank out the specific thought you want to convey and pass it on.

Hmm.  Nice idea, but I don’t know where to get a Pensieve.  Maybe I’ll just get a T-shirt that says, “I’m not really an idiot, I just sound like one sometimes.”

At least I hope it’s only sometimes.

Did any of this make sense?

Show Me Your Tool

/ Diane Henders / 28 Comments

I was struck by an epiphany the other day.  And yes, it left a nasty mark; thanks for asking.  I won’t offer to show you the mark, but the gist of the epiphany was this:  If you’re considering a serious relationship with a man, ask to see his tool first.

It’s not about size.  It’s what he does with it that counts.

If a man refuses to show you his tool, run away.  A man who has no pride in his tool isn’t even worth considering.

If he does show it to you, you can infer a lot by observing the type and condition of his tool.  In particular, get him to show you his torque wrench.  It tells you everything you need to know about him.

In the first place, owning a torque wrench indicates some automotive know-how and a willingness to get his hands dirty.  This is good.  Tread cautiously if he doesn’t own a torque wrench at all.

The cleanliness of the tool is important, but don’t generalize this statement to his box-end wrenches or sockets.  They’re meant to be ingrained with black grease.  In fact, if a guy’s box-end is too clean, watch out.  You may be dealing with a compulsive neat freak.

The torque wrench, however, is a precision instrument, so it should be relatively well-kept.  Is his tool shiny and clean, or caked with nameless grime?  If he doesn’t take care of his tool, don’t let him anywhere near you.

The type of torque wrench is also instructive.

  • Beam-Type:  A beam-type torque wrench is a solid, flexible tool that’s good enough to do most jobs.  Its owner is an easy-going guy who isn’t extravagant.  He cares enough to do the job right, but he won’t drive you insane over tiny details.
  • Click-Type:  A man with a click-type torque wrench offers you a rigid, accurate tool that’s a joy to use and handle.  He will do the job with enthusiastic precision.
  • Electronic:  Ah, the electronic torque wrench.  Yeah, it’s impressive at first glance, but does he know what to do with it?  Some guys can handle these bad boys just fine, but this can also be a sign of anal-retentive pickiness and a tendency to overcompensate.

Brand can be difficult to interpret.  If his tool is Snap-On brand, ask some pointed questions to determine whether he is, in fact, a pit rat at the local track and/or a qualified mechanic.  If the answer is yes, you can relax.  This is a guy with a high-quality tool, and he knows how to use it.  This is the way life should be.

But if he’s just a backyard mechanic, a premium brand like Snap-On could go either way.  On one hand, he might be a spendthrift who’s hung up on brands and status symbols.  On the other hand, he might have lots of money and appreciate the finer things in life.  Tough call, but consider this:  a guy with a Snap-On tool is pretty much every woman’s dream.

I have both a beam-type and a click-type, and I’m not going to speculate what that says about me.  But here’s some free advice for my male readers, too:  If you find a woman who owns any kind of torque wrench, it means she knows how to handle tools, and she’ll know how to appreciate a good one when she finds it.

You can thank me later.

I Dream Of Dillweed

/ Diane Henders / 19 Comments

Or maybe that’s “dickweed”.  Let me explain.

I’ve been sick for the past couple of weeks, but I’m all better now.  For those of you making the obvious “sick mind” jokes, just… well, yeah, okay.  I guess I can’t argue.

However, now I understand the true meaning of the phrase “fevered dreams”.  And lucky you, I’m going to share.  Hang on, ‘cause here we go:

A large group of Puritans stands silent and stock-still, all eyes fixed on me.  Men, women, and children, all garbed in sombre black with white lacy collars.  They just stare.  I don’t know why.  Their holy book is a catalogue of hand-crocheted sweater patterns.  On the front is a photo of a blonde fashion model wearing a lacy, openwork yellow sweater.

I’m not even going to try to analyze that little vignette.  But as the night wore on, my brain started to serve up coherent stories that only changed when I realized they were dreams.

The scarred, grizzled leader of a bike gang gets into my car and informs me that I will be hosting a party for the gang.  It will be a barbeque, and we discuss the menu while I drive to town to buy groceries.  They’ll have New York steaks, and I will make my famous potato salad.  Baked beans are discussed and agreed upon.  I do not find this funny.  I know as soon as the steaks are grilled to medium-rare perfection, I’ll become the evening’s entertainment.  My chances of survival are slim. Death will be merciful.

All very dark and threatening, but the dream continues:  They will bring their own beer.

Then I knew I had to be dreaming, so my brain switched scenes:

I awaken lying prone on a grey marble roof.  My drink is beside me, the glass slithering over the slippery curved edge as I open my eyes.  Sheer terror seizes me when I make a grab for my drink and realize I am hundreds of stories above the ground.  I jerk away from the edge, and irritation overcomes me.  I mutter, “Well, shit, I’m just going to throw these blankets over the edge and hope there’s nobody underneath when they hit, because I’m not climbing all the way back up here to get them.”

I must have made it down from the rooftop safely, because next thing I knew, I was a nurse.

I watch an angry-looking uniformed woman stride across the hallway, and my inner narrator dictates, “The administrator had heard about the blocked toilet ten minutes ago.  This allowed her nine and a half minutes to be furious.” 

For some reason, the narrator thinks these two sentences are sheer literary genius and must be written down at the first opportunity.  (And I just did.  Hmmm.)

Anyway, that dream went on, too:  I am one of a team of several nurses who must lift a six-hundred-pound patient.  As we gather around him, he booms, “Hell, my dick is 330 pounds alone!  It could be even bigger if I wanted.  Every day I rub it with dillweed!”

I wake with the triumphant bellow of “Dillweed!” still echoing in my mind.

Welcome to my brain.  Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

P.S.  Wanna buy some dillweed?  I hear it’s great for… well, you know.

Happy New Y… Wait, Where Are My Clothes?

/ Diane Henders / 19 Comments

It’s a sad fact that I’m long past the age when that question should be on my lips.  It’s also a sad fact that I asked myself that very question this New Year’s Eve.

I only had three pints.  Honest.  And I was home by 9 PM.

In my defense, I was fighting a cold, and I didn’t feel much like eating.  Many people would consider it unwise to start slugging down beer when one’s entire food consumption for the day has been two slices of toast, an apple, a granola bar, and some guacamole.  Apparently, I am not one of those people.

The beer was very tasty.  I had good intentions to anchor it with a pizza, but the pub cook dropped my pizza in the kitchen (no, I’m not making that up).  So they had to make it again, and by the time it arrived, I’d already downed a pint.

Let’s just say it was a very effective pint.  I strive for efficiency in all things, and in this case I outdid myself.  By the time the pizza arrived, it was far too late to act as an anchor.  All it did was bob like a pathetic dinghy in the rough swells of my second pint.

The third pint was, frankly, unnecessary.  But oh, so tasty.

At approximately 1.2 pints, I achieved the correct level of intoxication for shooting eight-ball.  Anything under a pint, and I’m trying too hard.  At the magical “optimum beer saturation level” (OBSL), pool becomes easy.  I can still triangulate with both eyeballs.  I effortlessly calculate angles, the cue feels like an extension of my own arm, and I sink balls one after the other, swaggering around the table with only a tiny bit of cockiness to clear the table and sink the eight-ball.

The problem is, it’s impossible to maintain OBSL.  Exactly one game after achieving it, it slips away again, at which point I might as well try to guide the cue ball using the Force.  ‘Cause I sure as hell can’t guide it with the cue anymore.

We rang in the New Year for St. John’s, Newfoundland at 8:30 local time (thank goodness we live in a multiple-time-zone country), and headed home.  Walking, fortunately.  At least the cold didn’t bother me.

I went upstairs to change my clothes.

I couldn’t find them.

I stumbled around the bedroom, looking in all the usual places.  Closet: Nope.  Bathroom:  Nuh-uh.  Chair in the corner:  Not there either.  At last, I discovered them cleverly hidden in plain sight, lying on the bed.  (It was dark in there.  Never mind.)

I’m a little foggy on how that could have happened, because when I know I’m going to put the same clothes on later, I usually leave them where I removed them.  The walk-in closet and the ensuite bathroom are the usual locations.  If I had actually taken off my clothes beside the bed, I’d have been mooning the neighbours.  And that was when I was sober.

I guess I’ll never know for sure.  But if the neighbours avert their eyes and snicker the next time they see me, I’ll have a pretty good idea.

Happy New Beer!