humour

I’m Only An Idiot. Whew.

/ Diane Henders / 46 Comments

A while ago, I discovered I’m an idiot.  That was a relief.

Let me explain…

I’m not exactly a gym rat, but I work out a few times a week.  I enjoy competing against myself, in a laissez-faire sort of way.  If I don’t do anything stronger or faster, I don’t worry about it too much, and when I do hit a milestone, I’m pumped.  (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)

But on days when I really underperform, I can’t help feeling a little bummed.  That happened to me a while ago – I’d been keeping track of my running times, so I knew roughly what interval I should be hitting.  Then I ran a lap and stared in disbelief at my stopwatch, panting and wheezing like steam engine.  It was twice my previous time.  What a wimp.

Then the hypoxia subsided and I realized my earlier intervals had been half laps.  Oops.  So I wasn’t a wimp; I was just an idiot.  Whew.

The reverse happened last week.  I hurt my ankle kickboxing a while ago, so I’ve been doing my cardio on an exercise bike instead of running.  I do the random program for half an hour, and crank the intensity up to 10 so I’m working close to my maximum on the peaks.  (Sadly, this sounds more hardcore than it actually is – the top setting is 25.  But “cranked it up to 10” sounds good…)

Once the program starts, I turn my brain off and just go for it.  Last week, my half hour slipped away before I knew it, and I was coming into the final three minutes smugly congratulating myself because my workout had felt so easy.  At last, I was making progress!  I was a hero!

Until I looked closely at the screen for the first time, and realized I’d set the intensity to 9 instead of 10.

So I wasn’t a hero; just an idiot.  Oops.  Not so much of a relief.

But sometimes I really do get to be a hero.  I love working out when I’m travelling, because just about everywhere is closer to sea level than Calgary.  I get down into that nice, oxygen-rich environment, and I am a superhero at the gym!  I can run farther, faster, work out harder!  It’s fabulous!  (A side benefit is that I can drink twice as much beer at sea level before I feel the effects, so I look like a superhero in the pub afterward, too… but I’m pretty sure Marvel Comics isn’t going to be introducing “Middle-Aged Six-Pack Lady” anytime soon.)

Occasionally, I also get a belly laugh from my workouts.  The last time I worked out at a hotel fitness centre, I was doing my thing when a guy passed through on his way to some other equipment.

And he stared at me.  So I stared back.

So the guy holds eye contact, cracks off a long, rip-roaring fart, and then stumbles over a weight machine, still staring.

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that.  I suppose it would have been correct to return the compliment, but I lacked the necessary resources at the time.  There’s never a bean burrito handy when you need one.

I laughed myself silly after he left, though.  I guess that’s what they call a “core workout”.

At least I wasn’t the idiot that time.  Whew.

* * *

Postscript: Yesterday when I walked into the gym I encountered an elderly man on his way out.  He shot me a big grin, and with a heavy accent proclaimed, “Kickboxing!” 

I’m not sure whether I was looking like a hero or an idiot when he saw me kickboxing, but it made my day.

* * *

P.P.S. One of my blogging buddies, Charles Gulotta, has launched a line of everyday greeting cards that address the in-between-occasions of life with his usual quirky sense of humour.  Check them out here if you could use a chuckle!

P.P.P.S Another one of my blogging buddies, Tom Merriman, just made me a superhero for real!  (Well, kinda for real… as real as cyberspace ever gets…)  Check out Middle-Aged Six-Pack Lady here:  http://wellheregoes.wordpress.com/2014/08/17/the-middle-aged-six-pack-lady/

Movember Moustache Monikers

/ Diane Henders / 31 Comments

Hey, guys, it’s Movember!

I love Movember because it’s a light-hearted way to start conversations about an uncomfortable topic for most guys:  prostate/testicular cancer and mental health.  Too many of my male friends and family have dealt (or are dealing) with prostate cancer or depression, so promoting awareness is important to me.

(Okay, I’ll admit it.  I also love Movember because I have a penchant for men with moustaches.  It’s really a win-win for me.)

Last year I did a full month of posts supporting the Movember movement, so this year I’m dialling it back to one post (or maybe two – not sure yet).  But just to kick things off, I’d like to reiterate some important advice I offered last year: check out ‘Mo’ Advice For Movember’ for a female perspective on which mo’ to grow. (Hint:  Please don’t grow a Kitty-Cat.  Just… don’t, okay?)

This year I planned to write a post on all the many reasons why I love male facial hair, but it turns out most of my reasons are X-rated.  I realize most people don’t expect good taste or restraint from me, but there is such a thing as ‘too much information’, so I scrapped that idea.

You’re welcome.

Instead, I decided to use this as an opportunity for intellectual growth.  So in the spirit of high-minded scholarliness, I offer you some of my favourite moustache monikers:

moustache monikers

On a serious note, to all my male readers:  Guys, please take care of yourselves.  If you’re having trouble with anger or depression, asking for help is a sign of strength, not weakness.  And please get your checkups.  Remember, earlier is easier.

Here are some resources:

Symptoms, risk factors, triggers, and treatments for depression in men

What is the prostate gland and how does it work?

What to expect during a prostate examination

And last but not least:  Guys – remember to use good nutiquette!

* * *

Over to you!  Moustaches:  love ‘em or hate ‘em?

* * *

Woohoo!  Cover art is done for Book 7, ‘Spy, Spy Away’!  Check it out!

Bass Ackwards

/ Diane Henders / 33 Comments

The other day I was watching the sunrise in the west when it occurred to me that I do a lot of things ass backwards.

I should clarify that I wasn’t watching the sun rise in the west.  Just the sunrise.  Contrary to certain unkind (if perceptive) speculation, I do actually live on the same planet as everybody else.

It’s just that our house is oriented southwest/northeast on a bit of a slope, so the actual rising of the sun in the east is obscured by the houses behind us but we have a nice view of the mountains from our second floor to the west.

If you look west instead of east at sunrise on a clear day, you’ll see that as the sun rises (or as the world turns, if you want to be technically correct… but I’ve never been a soap opera fan), the shadow of the earth crosses the sky from east to west.  The rays of the rising sun form a pink band that chases the dark blue away, sinking lower and lower on the western horizon as the sun comes up.  When the pink band crosses the snowy mountains, they glow like fire.  It’s all over in a few short minutes, and I love to watch it.

But watching the sunrise in the west makes me backwards to the rest of the world, which is apparently my natural state.  This phenomenon has been brought to my attention a couple times in the past few weeks.

I’m right-handed.  Strongly right-handed.  Always have been.

Except I’ve always dealt cards with my left.  And I recently discovered I coil electrical cords to my left.  I didn’t realize it until Hubby and I butted heads over it.  (Well, I butted heads.  He’s the most tolerant guy on the face of the earth.)

There’s an easy way to coil cords neatly; you just add a little half-twist with each wrap.  In fact, Hubby’s the one who taught me that.  Which is why I was cursing the snarled-up disaster I discovered the last time I went to use the back yard extension cord.  I confronted him:  “What the hell is this?  You’re the one who taught me how to coil cords properly!”

And he said, “I did coil it properly, but it just twisted up in my hands.”

That’s when we discovered that I coil cords left-handed, which meant his right-handed half-twist made it into a full twist and a hell of mess.

He taught me how to tie a bowline knot long ago, too.  And I did it correctly for a while, but then I forgot and had to figure it out again on my own.  I still tie a perfectly secure bowline, but now it’s backwards.

When you think about it, “ass backwards” should mean my ass is to the back.  Which would mean I’m actually facing forward and going the right way.

I’m just going to cling to that interpretation.  I like it here in my own little world.

I’m off to watch the sunrise in the west now…

What Was IN That Salad?!?

/ Diane Henders / 28 Comments

So, the other night I was gambling in Vegas with James Spader and a couple of Klingon women in 70s-style fun-fur maxi coats.

Then things got weird.

As I noted in I Dream Of Dillweed, I usually don’t remember my dreams unless I’m sick.  Well, physically sick.  Let’s not get into the delicate issue of mental health.

But the other night I had this vivid dream, and James Spader was in it.  I have no idea why; I haven’t watched TV for years, and the last thing I saw him in was Boston Legal.  Also, though he’s a fine actor, if I was going to dream of an actor there are lots of others I’d prefer to meet in my dreams, ifyaknowwhatImean.

The Klingon women made sense… I guess.  I’ve been a Star Trek fan pretty much all my life, but Klingon women aren’t really my type.  Though they could have been Klingon men in drag.  It’s hard to tell with Klingons.  Either way, they weren’t doing it for me.

Also, I was winning in Vegas, which is weird in itself.  I was playing video poker (my game of choice, so that was normal).  But the machine was spitting out real coins, which doesn’t happen anymore.  And I was chortling and stuffing the coins into the capacious pockets of the white painter’s coveralls I wore.

That was all fine until I got the Superhero Distress Call.  I thought my blogging buddy Tom was the only one who has an inner superhero, but apparently I do, too.  Sadly, she seems a little on the incompetent side.

In the first place, I got my cape on backward.  Which actually turned out to be a good thing because I’d forgotten to put on the rest of my superhero suit, so I was running down the sidewalk holding the cape closed over my bare ass.

But that started to make sense when I arrived at Superhero Central a few moments later, and it turned out I had the clumsiest superhero suit ever invented.

All the other superheroes were suited up and leaping into flight, and I was still struggling to pull my suit out of the storage locker.  It was stuck underneath its belt, which consisted of a bunch of heavy diving weights strung together on aircraft cable.

I was still trying to yank it free when the Bad Guy launched himself into the air from a black spiderweb trampoline.  (The Bad Guy was dressed like Robin from the old Batman comics, except he wore black gloves.  That actually makes a bit of sense, because I’ve always thought Robin was disturbing anyway.)

Fortunately, one of the other superheroes realized I was in trouble and came back to rescue me.  And he was a handsome superhero, too, which was nice.  In fact, he looked remarkably the way I picture John Kane, one of the characters in my books – no surprise, since I’ve been writing my fingers to the bone the last couple of weeks.

Problem was, he didn’t do anything useful; he just jammed a Cone Of Silence (anybody remember that from Get Smart?) over our heads.  And then I woke up.

Earlier that evening at the pub I had eaten what they called a “California Salad”:  Mixed greens with Brie, spiced roasted pecans, sliced apples… and laced with much-too-sweet cranberry sauce.  And no, I didn’t dream that, though I kinda wish I had – the cranberry sauce was gross.

But now I wonder what else was in there…

Semi-Defective

/ Diane Henders / 23 Comments

Lately my brain has been semi-defective.  It works most of the time, but every now and then it shorts out, leaving me standing there wondering what the hell I’d intended to do moments ago.  Or I go to do one thing and end up doing something else entirely.

I hope it’s because I’m in the final intense writing phase of Book 7 and all my spare brain power is used up.  I really hope it’s not permanent.  And I really, really hope aliens didn’t sneak into my bedroom while I was asleep and swap out my brain for a substandard model.  ‘Cause everybody knows there’s a big market for good used brains around Halloween, so it would make sense to manufacture some cheaper semi-defective ones.

I mean, really, there are lots of things that are apparently manufactured to be intentionally inferior.

Take cotton swabs, for example – one of my pet peeves.  Any time I buy a generic brand, one end of the swab has a nice soft cotton tip and the other end is a hard plastic stick with a few shreds of cotton adhering to it, just enough to blunt the edges so it doesn’t actually slice the inside of my ear to pieces.

(Don’t bother reprimanding me for sticking cotton swabs in my ears.  I know I’m not supposed to, but I’m a rebel.  Sometimes I go out doors marked ‘In Only’.  Sometimes I drink milk that’s a day past its ‘Best Before’ date.  So sticking cotton swabs in my ears?  I laugh in the face of danger!  Ha-ha!)

Anyway…

If Q-Tips® can make cotton swabs with nice soft cotton tips on both ends, why are all generic cotton swabs semi-defective?  Do aliens open up every single package and remove the cotton from one end of each swab?

Or is there a special cut-rate supplier for semi-defective manufacturing equipment?

I imagine the following sales pitch from SemDef Corporation:  “Yeah, you could buy a machine that actually works, but for half the price, you can have a machine that only works half the time.  Is that a deal or what?”

Which actually explains a lot about the generic food market, too.  You know what I mean.  If you buy Cheerios®, you get yummy Cheerios®.  If you buy generic oatie-o cereal, you get something that tastes like the cardboard box it’s packed in.

It has the same ingredient list.  There’s no sawdust or wallpaper paste in there.  Not even the leftover cotton from the semi-defective swabs.  So that means either they’ve somehow managed to screw up a simple recipe past the point of recognition, OR…

…SemDef also sells substandard food products:  “Why spend extra money for top quality oats?  For half the price, you can get oats that have been left out in the rain for a few days.  All you have to do is scrape off the mouldy bits and ignore the grasshopper corpses, and you’re all set.  Really, you’re going to process them past the point of recognition anyway.  Who’ll know?”

Okay, I just grossed myself out.

And I’ve created a rambling blog post that connects cotton swabs, aliens, breakfast cereal, and grasshoppers.  Yet another sabotage by my semi-defective brain.

Damn those aliens anyway.

Home Free

/ Diane Henders / 24 Comments

I made it!

As I mentioned a couple of months ago, I was worried I might be on a no-fly list somewhere.  (That would be a “don’t-let-this-woman-on-an-airplane” list; not a list that prohibits flies from being in my presence.  I’d be delighted to get on an actual no-fly list – then I wouldn’t need fly diapers.)

Anyway, it turns out I’m on neither of those lists.  Last week I successfully completed a trip to Las Vegas to attend a wedding.  I even had fun.

The last time I flew to the States was about eight years ago, and the U.S. Customs guards, while not exactly hostile, were definitely Not Friendly.  Thanks to sponge toffee, I have issues with authority figures at the best of times, so slinking into a foreign country under the disapproving stare of Uncle Sam was a traumatic experience for me.  And I hadn’t even been doing anything remotely suspicious at the time.

This time, with my guilty browser history searing my conscience, I was distinctly anxious.

What if they turned me away and wouldn’t let me get on the plane?  Or worse, what if they didn’t turn me away, and instead dragged me off to an interrogation room, never to be seen or heard from again?

Clearing airport security has been a worrisome experience for me ever since they stepped up the screening requirements.  My waist pouch always contains a number of items that are either overtly weapons (jackknives), or could be construed as such by paranoid security personnel (nail file, screwdrivers, a vial of hand sanitizer, etc.)

So every time I fly, one of the items on my to-do-before-I-leave list is to audit my waist pouch.  Problem is, I have a lot of crap stuffed in there, and I either forget it or overlook it.  Twice, they’ve confiscated corkscrews from me; once it was scissors.  Each time, they write down my name on an ominous-looking list, and then give me the hairy eyeball until I shrivel to the size of a garden gnome and creep away trembling.

This time, as usual, I wrote “Take out weapons” on my to-do list, and then immediately glanced over my shoulder to see if Big Brother was watching.  Honest, I meant “take weapons out of waist pouch”, not “lay out weapons to be packed and smuggled aboard”.

To my surprise, everything went without a hitch in the Calgary airport.  The border guard barely glanced at me; I hadn’t forgotten to remove that stick of dynamite from my waist pouch; and amazingly, I wasn’t even selected for the “random” physical search (for which I’m chosen ninety percent of the time).

Coming home, Vegas airport security took some more nudie pics of me (I should have asked them for copies, come to think of it), but they didn’t tell me to bend over and pick up the soap, for which I was profoundly grateful.  Once I had removed my epidermis and superficial musculature and tucked it all into the little plastic bin to be X-rayed, it was clear sailing all the way.

Customs on the Canadian side lifted an amused eyebrow at my $20 declaration, and that was that.  Home free.

Little did they know I’d cleverly smuggled a prohibited item across the border:  a living creature carrying a communicable disease.

Yeah, I caught a cold while I was there.

But other than that, it was a perfect trip.

They Lied. As Usual.

/ Diane Henders / 25 Comments

Calgary’s location in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains makes the weather so changeable, it’s virtually impossible to predict.  In fact, the stats show our weather forecasts achieve approximately 40% accuracy.  So we use this easy rule of thumb:

weather

Today they promised sunny and 15 (that’s 59 for you Fahrenheit folks).  It’s 9 (48F), windy, cloudy, and spitting rain.  But the other thing you’ll always hear about our weather is “If you don’t like the weather, stick around for 10 minutes”.  It’s early in the day – there’s still hope…

Colour Me Psychotic

/ Diane Henders / 45 Comments

Even though I’ve mostly recovered from my ill-fated career as an interior designer, I’m still fascinated with colour.  You’ve got to be impressed by the way something that simple can drive people to the brink of psychosis.

This isn’t just my usual hyperbole – studies show that while most people become agitated and anxious when enclosed in a bright red room, individuals with some forms of psychosis actually become calmer when surrounded by such an “angry” colour.  (I’m not going to speculate on the meaning behind the bright orange-red walls in the last interior design office where I worked.  They were probably trying to tell me something.)

But my favourite form of colour psychosis can be observed in paint stores.  I’ve seen couples nearly come to blows over whether their walls should be painted “Prairie Light” or “Paper Lantern” – two off-white swatches that look slightly different when held side by side, but will in fact be indistinguishable once the entire room is painted.

Maybe that’s why I never did well as an interior designer – I could clearly discern the differences between the colours; I just couldn’t discern any reason why it mattered.  If I painted their living room without telling them, that couple would never be able to tell which paint colour I’d used, and within a few months they wouldn’t remember either of the names anyway.

I don’t understand why paint manufacturers give their colours such ambiguous names.  What colour is “Wayside Inn” anyway?  Red?  Brown?  White?  And who’s going to remember it when it’s time to buy more paint?

They need more memorable names, like the one my dad used to describe an unpleasant murky brownish green:  “Shitbrindle”.  (My dad never used vulgar language.  Ever.  This is another example of colour psychosis.)

Or my step-mom’s name for that particularly nasty shade of green that was popular in the 70s:  “Goat-Vomit Green”.  Or my neighbour’s comment when he first laid eyes on the nice bronzy yellow I’d chosen for our entry walls:  “Baby Shit”.  (Da Blog Fodder more tastefully names it “Calf Scour”, which is essentially the same thing but you have to be a farmer to get the joke.)

There’s even an (unintentional) app for generating memorable paint names.  Here are my favourite autocorrect colour translations from DamnYouAutocorrect:

Fuchsia = Fuckweasel

Persian Red = Period Red

European Sunrise = Effervescent Shitstain

Smoky Ridge = Smoker’s Teeth

Periwinkle = Period Tinkle or Pussywrinkled

Any time I’m out with my friends, somebody is sure to point at a fuchsia blouse and whisper “fuckweasel”.  And seriously, who wouldn’t want their walls painted with “Effervescent Shitstain”?

I think the paint manufacturers are missing out on a huge untapped market here.  They should print up their swatches with the colour formula on the back, and skip the naming entirely.  Then they could maintain a database where they record the colour names their customers provide.

‘Cause let’s face it, you’ll probably forget “St. George Island”, but “Atomic Vomit Green” will stay in your brain forever.

Here’s my attempt at naming a few colours. C’mon and play – any other suggestions?

Hooker’s Lips

Hooker’s Lips

Month-Old Bread

Month-Old Bread

Baby’s Bum

Baby’s Bum

Don’t Let Dad Barbeque

Don’t Let Dad Barbeque

Radioactive Algae

Radioactive Algae

Shouldn't Have Eaten That Burrito

Bad Burrito