humour

Is There A 12-Step Program For That?

/ Diane Henders / 55 Comments

My name is Diane, and I’m here to confess my addiction.  No, not my addiction to tools.  This is a different addiction altogether.

I can withstand it for long stretches of time, but it always drags me under in the end.  The high is ecstatic.  Then comes the slow sobering, followed by guilt and shame.  After that comes the steely resolve to do better, and sometimes I vanquish the demons for a while.

But sooner or later, I succumb again.  The longest I’ve ever stayed clean was several years.  I really thought I’d beaten it that time.

I was wrong.

I’m talking, of course, about Costco.  I gave up my membership years ago, but in a weak moment I asked one of my friends to take me this past weekend.  It wasn’t the ugliest relapse I’ve ever had, but it proved that I am and always will be an addict.

For those unfamiliar with Costco, it’s a wholesale-style outlet that sells everything from food to electronics to furniture to clothing.  In gigantic bulk quantities.  Usually at lower-than-retail prices, and occasionally at screaming discounts.

I have a five-pound tin of baking powder I bought at Costco over fifteen years ago.  It’s still good… but it’s also still half-full.  In another fifteen years, I might actually finish it.  I have half-gallon jugs of onion powder and cinnamon that date back to that period, too.  There’s something about large quantities of food that I just can’t resist.

Maybe it’s because my dad was a child of the 1930s Depression years.  Nothing was ever wasted in our household.  The tiniest scraps of food were saved and incorporated into the next meal, and staple foods were purchased in bulk to get the best discounts.

So I harbour two horribly conflicting attitudes toward groceries:  Large quantities are magnificent; and: Waste nothing.

You can see my problem with Costco.  They have large quantities!  Of everything!  What could be better than five pounds of chocolate chips for the price of two?  Three water bottles for the price of one?  More toilet paper than you can fit in your car?

It’s magnificent, I tell you!

When I walk into their cavernous building, my pulse races and the demons begin their seductive chorus:  “Look how much there is.  And for such a cheap price!  It’s an excellent buy!  Large quantities are magnificent!”

Euphoria seizes me and I buy.  And buy.

Then I get home and realize what I’ve done.  Yes, I scored a case of my favourite Ataulfo mangoes for a fabulous discount.  But Hubby doesn’t like mangoes, and I can only eat so many of them before they rot.

Guilt and anxiety kick in.  I must waste nothing!  I must eat mangoes morning, noon, and night!

I managed to avoid gross excesses this time.  I bought what I needed and could use within the foreseeable future.  (Except for the water bottles – I needed one, not three.  But hey, it’s not like they’re going to go bad, right?)

And I split that giant package of cheese curds with my friend, so it was a good buy.

Really.

I think I’m improving.

Maybe I should go back again this week just to be sure…

Happiness Is A Warm Gun

/ Diane Henders / 43 Comments

I’m worried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until a mere 18 hours later.

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

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

email

What the hell are the chances of that?

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

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

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

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

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

I’m Amused

/ Diane Henders / 32 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

Flash Fiction: Afoul Play (On Words)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I swallowed hard and peered through the dimness.

“Light it!  Light the torch!”

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

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

“Rick!  Ohmigod, Rick!”

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

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

Which would mean I was awake to start with…

Which means I was sleeping…

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

I’m Not A Cunning Linguist

/ Diane Henders / 32 Comments

By now you’re probably all familiar with my tendency to misread words.  But if you’re relatively new to my blog, you may not have read about the fact that I also tend to misspeak – often with embarrassing results.

A while ago I was getting ready to buy groceries in preparation for houseguests, and I called to ask what type of milk I should buy.  When informed that 1% was the concentration of choice, I blurted out, “Oh, that’s new.  Phill and Michael were always the homo guys.”

For the record, they’re both confirmed heterosexuals.  And I think I’ll say ‘whole homogenized milk’ instead of ‘homo’ from now on.

Some time later, I was enthusing to my friends about the Calgary International Blues Festival.  I go just about every year to soak up the sunshine, beer, and blues music.  It’s a long day outdoors and if one remains properly hydrated (or beer-drated, as the case may be), nature calls frequently.

If you attend by yourself, you have to decide whether to temporarily abandon your stuff while you sneak off to pee, or else haul everything with you into the cramped and increasingly icky porta-potties.  In music-festival euphoria, most people choose to trust their neighbours.

Last year, a photographer sat near me.  When he asked, I cheerfully agreed to watch over his camera gear while he did what needed to be done.  After a long day and multiple trips, he charmingly bought me a CD in thanks for my onerous duties.

Expounding to my audience at the pub later, I summed up the preceding paragraphs as follows:  “He asked me to watch his equipment while he peed”.

After a couple of beats of silence followed by uproarious laughter, one of my smartass friends asked, “Did you hold it for him, too?  No wonder he bought you a CD.”

I’m not the only one in the family with linguistic (or lingual) issues.  A couple of days ago, my sister and I were talking about her upcoming budget presentation at the Christian radio station where she works.  And this came out of her mouth:  “…that may vary depending on what the fucktuations…”

We both burst out laughing.

And I told her, “If you try to discuss income fluctuations in your meeting, you’re either going to say ‘what the fucktuations’ or you’re going to start giggling uncontrollably.  Either way you’re doomed.”

My sister also coined one of my favourite non-words:  ‘depissitate’.  She was describing miserable rainy weather that was starting to clear, and her tongue got tangled between ‘precipitate’ and ‘dissipate’.  And the phrase ‘It’s starting to depissitate’ was born:  The perfect way to describe a sleety rain shower.

It’s nice to know that she and I share the same language difficulties.  Or, as she once accidentally said when describing a different trait that runs in the family (I can’t even remember what the trait was now)…  “It’s a genital thing.”

To this day, the word ‘congenital’ makes me snicker. And I never use it.  ‘Cause I know if I do, it’ll come out as ‘genital’.

I’m just not a cunning linguist.

* * *

Many thanks to my good-natured sister and the radio station where she works for giving me permission to publish this.  As she said herself, ‘what the fucktuations’ was just too good not to share.

Alien Butt Sensors

/ Diane Henders / 40 Comments

They’re invisible, but I know they’re there.

I’m not sure how or when they were installed, but there are hidden pressure sensors under every toilet seat in the house, as well as on my office chair.  It’s the only possible explanation.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve just nicely settled myself on the throne when the phone rings.  In fact, it happens so frequently that it’s a standing (sorry, couldn’t resist) joke with one of my friends.  She calls; I’m in the bathroom.

Every.  Single.  Time.

This makes it sound as though a) I have continence problems and therefore spend a considerable amount of time ensconced in the holy of holies; or b) she phones me far too often.

Neither is true.  I won’t lower myself (sorry again) to discussing my bathroom habits here, other than to say:  normal.  And it’s rare for her to phone me more than once a week.

So I’m convinced that she somehow knows when I’m in the john.

It’s far too creepy to consider that she might actually be the culprit responsible for the butt sensors, so I prefer to believe they were installed by some advanced alien race that is capable of invisibility and possesses both the technology to broadcast telepathic signals of unlimited range, and the malevolence to torture me by broadcasting “Phone Diane” every time I shit… er, sit.

And the bastards didn’t stop with the toilet seats, either.

The sensor on my office chair is an extremely specialized model; probably some advanced prototype they’re developing exclusively for sales to telemarketers, politicians, and meddling relatives.

It doesn’t just register pressure and react the way the toilet-seat model does.  No, this one is far more diabolical.

It also taps into my brainwaves.

It doesn’t react when I’m doing something boring and tedious and I’d love to be interrupted.  Oh, hell no.  I can spend all bloody day writing computer training workbooks with nary a peep, but within ten seconds of achieving the zen-like bliss of uninterrupted writing … I’ll be interrupted.

It’s obviously programmed with a complicated algorithm that constantly sifts through the detritus of my mind, measuring my exact degree of concentration and commitment to the task at hand.  When I achieve some critical pre-determined level, the butt sensor psychically broadcasts “Interrupt Diane using any method necessary, immediately”.

Phone calls are easiest, but in a pinch they’ll induce Hubby to choose that exact moment to ask a not-very-important but time-consuming question.  Or the courier will show up with delivery that needs a signature.  A sudden loud noise and/or cry of distress from somewhere in the house is always a winner.  Or there’s the tried-and-true method of having somebody crash into my parked
half-ton and ring the doorbell to report the accident.

That may sound far-fetched, but don’t laugh – it’s happened five times.  I don’t know how anyone can fail to see a big red truck in their rear-view mirror, so the aliens must make my truck momentarily invisible, too.

I guess it could be worse.  In the big picture, interruptions are only an annoyance.  At least the aliens don’t seem interested in my body cavities.

Unless there’s something about those butt sensors that I really don’t want to know about…

I’ll Tell You What’s Normal…

/ Diane Henders / 32 Comments

I spend my days skating on the edge of normalcy.  So far I’ve been able to avoid unwelcome attention, but that’s due more to good luck than good management.  I can get away with my quirks as long as I live in a nice neighbourhood and shower frequently, but put me on a park bench after a hard workout, and somebody’s gonna call the loony-catchers.

This was brought home to me the other day when Hubby was driving and I was sitting in the passenger seat writing dialogue in my head as usual.  He glanced over and said, “Writing again, aren’t you?”

I shook myself back to reality and asked, “How did you know?”

“Easy.  You had that thousand-yard stare.”

I have what I prefer to call an “expressive” face.  What this really means is that there’s a near-one-hundred-percent probability that if someone snaps a picture, I’ll look moronic.  Sometimes when I’m absorbed in planning or writing a particularly intense scene, I can feel my face twisting into expressions of fear, anger, or whatever.

Add that to the fact that I almost never know the date and often take two tries to correctly identify the day of the week, and I’m concerned that if I ever get hospitalized and asked orientation questions, they’ll lock me up permanently.

So in the interests of retaining my freedom, I decided it might be smart to write a short primer on what constitutes normal behaviour for me.  At least it’ll provide a basis for the authorities to shrug and say, “Yeah, she’s always been like that.  We probably don’t need to lock her up yet.”

So here goes:

  • It is normal for me not to know the day/date.  If I’m travelling, I may not always get the city/province right on the first try, either.
  • It is normal for me to lapse into an apparently catatonic state during which my eye movements mimic REM sleep and my face assumes various inappropriate expressions.  It’s also normal for me to be irritated when summarily roused from this state.
  • It is normal for me to suddenly and inexplicably groan, slap my forehead, and rush to my office to type madly for minutes or hours. This may happen at any time of the day or night, and includes bolting upright out of an apparently sound sleep and scurrying away to type in the wee hours.

With hallmarks like these, it may be difficult to determine what is abnormal behaviour for me, so here’s a handy list of danger signs.

I need professional help if:

  • I turn down the opportunity to go to a nice restaurant or a blues jam or a drag race.
  • I fail to fondle fabric when walking through a fabric store.
  • There’s a garden available and I don’t plant something.
  • I take my car in for an oil change instead of doing it myself.
  • I don’t bake when it’s cloudy/raining/snowing… unless I’m reading or writing (those activities trump baking).
  • I pass up an opportunity to shoot a handgun, rifle, shotgun, bow, slingshot, or any other projectile weapon.
  • I walk past an unassembled jigsaw puzzle.
  • I don’t dissolve into a revolting pile of sappy mush at the sight of kittens.
  • I spill beer.  That’s a danger sign in itself, but if I don’t show extreme remorse afterward, it’s already too late – I’m beyond help.

What are your danger signs?

We’re All Free! And Naked!

/ Diane Henders / 34 Comments

Peer pressure is a terrible thing.  I’ve been successfully resisting it for months, but my resolve has slowly eroded under the relentless burden of my readers’ expectations.  So here it is; the post you’ve (apparently) all been waiting for:  “We’re All Free!  And Naked!”

Don’t look at me like that.  Hell, I don’t know what I’m talking about, either.

“We’re all free! and naked!” has been the top search phrase that has brought people to my blog ever since I posted “We’re All Naked” back in January.  (If you’ve just arrived here because you searched “We’re all free! and naked!”, I’ll apologize in advance – “We’re All Naked” does include a link to some mostly-obscured YouTube nudity, but unless you’re turned on by drunk hairy naked guys singing scatological lyrics, it’s probably not what you’re looking for.)

Back to the topic at hand:  Since January, “We’re all free! and naked!” has brought people here four times more often than my next most popular search term (my name).  And every week, the numbers keep going up.

I ignored the phenomenon for several months, afraid of what I might find if I delved into it too deeply.  I assumed it was just a temporary aberration, but it’s still there.  Still far and away the top search phrase that brings people to my blog.

When I finally gathered sufficient courage to search it myself, the search engines only returned a link to my own post, “We’re All Naked”.  So what the hell is everybody looking for?  I know I hold the dubious distinction of being the top search engine result for “Polar Bear Sex Club”, but at least I did actually use those words.

‘Free and naked’, not so much.  But it’s gotta be something pretty specific.  Even the punctuation is the same, over and over and over.

So if you got here by searching “We’re All Free!  And Naked!”, I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.  If you’re looking for nudie pictures, you’ll be sorely disappointed.  (Though probably not as disappointed as if I’d actually posted some.  Trust me, you don’t want to see that.)

My books have some hot scenes in them, but somehow I suspect that’s not what you’re looking for, either.

If you’re looking for support for a cause, I’m all for freedom and I have no particular objection to nudity, unless it’s my own nudity.  In that case, I have to apply all sorts of caveats involving protection from sunshine, rain, snow, wind, bug bites, allergy-producing plants, prickly foliage, splintery wood, hot/cold/sharp objects, overly interested observers, and a plethora of other conditions that essentially limit my nudity to “indoors in privacy”.

Anyway, if you’re one of the folks who came looking for something else, and if you’re still reading, I’m sorry you didn’t find what you’re looking for.  But welcome anyway.  Who knows, if you look around here a bit, you might get a chuckle or two for your trouble.

And please tell me what you were really looking for.  If that many people are searching for it, it must be good.

Hope you find it…

Feeling Crabby?

/ Diane Henders / 42 Comments

Six months ago one of my blogging buddies, Carrie Rubin, wrote a post about gross things she’s found in her food.  But after commenting with a list of the various disgusting things I’ve discovered on my plate, it occurred to me that perhaps I’d shared too much.

Which got me thinking about other instances of inappropriate sharing I’ve witnessed over the years.  I’m not talking about inappropriate verbal sharing; I’m talking about sharing physical objects that really, really should be one-person items.

I know little kids tend to be cavalier about swapping bacteria, but I generally prefer to think adults know better.

Not so.

I was sitting at an ice cream shop one day when I spotted a prosperous-looking middle-aged lady sitting in her prosperous-looking car with her small yappy terrier.  Okay, nothing surprising in that scene.

Until she licked her ice cream cone, held it out for the dog to lick, took a few more licks herself, shared it with the dog again… you get the picture.

Lady!  Seriously?!?  Do you know where that dog’s tongue has been?  No?

Let me tell you:

(To those with weak stomachs:  You’ll want to skip this paragraph.)  First he licked his balls.  Then he found some dead, partially-decomposed animal and nibbled that.  Then a while later, he found the shit from some other dog who’d also nibbled said partially-decomposed animal, and he ate that dog’s shit.  Now you’re licking the same ice cream cone.

‘Scuse me while I hurl.

Some time later, I was staggered all over again by an incident at my gym.

I pay extra to use the adults-only change room, since large groups of children fill me with an intense need to run screaming (and not in the “running for fitness” sense). One of the perks of the membership is being allowed to leave your swimsuit hanging to dry in the change room.  So I went for a swim and then left my swimsuit on its peg.

When I went back a couple of days later, somebody had stolen it.  I can’t imagine why, ’cause if you can afford to pay extra for the adult change room, you can probably afford a new swimsuit.

But I ask you:  Would you wear a stranger’s swimsuit?  Even if you were totally broke?

I was flabbergasted.  Then grossed out.  Then annoyed.  I would’ve loved to post the following note:

To the person who stole my swimsuit, one word: 

CRABS!

But maybe that’s why the gym doesn’t allow its members to post notices on the bulletin board.  And besides, it would have been really embarrassing if I’d gotten caught.

Anybody else got stories of inappropriate sharing?

P.S. I wrote this six months ago, and last week I decided it would be today’s post.  A few days later another blogging buddy, Murr Brewster, posted The Brazilians Killed The Lice.  What are the chances that we’d both mention a tasteful topic like crabs in the same week?  Obviously great minds think alike.

Crack Popcorn

/ Diane Henders / 46 Comments

As I mentioned in a previous post, I’ve been married to my husband for too long.  He knows all my weak spots.

A couple of nights ago at supper, he asked if I wanted to watch an episode of Castle that evening.  I almost never watch TV, but occasionally he suggests a show he thinks I’ll like, and I’ll watch a few episodes with him.  I’ve seen quite a few episodes of Castle over the years, so I knew I’d be entertained.

But I was busy (as usual), and I just don’t enjoy watching TV that much.  So I offered a noncommittal response and retreated to my office to commune with my computer.

A couple of hours later, he employed the most potent form of persuasion in his arsenal.

He made popcorn.

There are a few scents I’m reasonably certain would raise me from my deathbed.  Popcorn is one of them.  Hell, for popcorn, I’d come back from beyond the grave.

Needless to say, we watched the show.

I don’t know what it is about popcorn.  I can’t resist it.  Even the horrible super-salted petroleum-coated crap they sell in theatres draws me like a ball-bearing to a magnet.  I know it’s so salty my mouth will feel like the Sahara Desert the next day.  I know I won’t finish even the smallest bag.  I know that bag contains an entire day’s allotment of calories and enough saturated, hydrogenated, and/or trans fat to harden every artery I own.  But I have to buy it, and the first few mouthfuls are pure greasy heaven.

There must be pheromones in it.  Or crack.  Or something.

But I’m pretty sure it’s only a Pavlovian response.  I love the smell of popcorn because I anticipate the enjoyment of eating it.  I wouldn’t want to smell it all day long.

That got me thinking about scents I find completely irresistible, and it’s a very odd list.  Here the top ten things I’d happily smell for hours, in no particular order:

  1. Moist garden soil
  2. Leather
  3. Lilacs
  4. Sun-ripened strawberries
  5. Gun oil and/or gunpowder
  6. Balsam poplar
  7. Vinegar
  8. Engine oil and warm rubber
  9. Fresh-cut cedar or pine
  10. Line-dried sheets

Any of these scents will make me halt wherever I am, inhaling until my lungs are stretched to capacity.  If nobody’s looking, I’ll creep closer and closer, sniffing like a bloodhound on uppers and trying not to drool like one.  If I could find perfume that smelled like any of these things, I’d roll in it.

So perhaps it’s not coincidence that Hubby likes to garden, wears a leather jacket, brings me lilacs and fresh strawberries from the back yard, enjoys shooting and fireworks and camping and tinkering with cars, douses his french fries with vinegar, and owns two chainsaws.

Now if he’d just do the laundry and hang the sheets outside, he’d be perfect…

What scents do you find irresistible?

* * *

I’m celebrating the release of A Spy For A Spy!  If you happen to be in the Calgary area the evening of May 9, please stop by and see me at The Owl’s Nest Books & Gifts, 815A – 49 Avenue SW, Calgary, AB, Canada, between 5:30 and 8:00 PM.  We’ll have sips and nibbles, and I’ll be doing a short reading and Q&A session at 7:00.  Hope to see you there!