Thanks, Technology… I Think…

October 10, 2012 / Diane Henders / 26 Comments

Fortunately, it was Thanksgiving here in Canada this past weekend. If I hadn’t been reminded of how thankful I am for all the good things in my life, I’d be seriously cranky.

The night before I left for another 1,600-mile road trip a couple of weeks ago, my computer’s USB ports died, leaving my mouse and keyboard to uselessly mourn their passing.

It’s kinda hard to use a computer when you have no input devices, but hell, no problem. It’s not like I really needed to finish my last-minute work and pack and get a million other things done before I left. Technology, you’re a real sonuvabitch sometimes.

But on the up side, I use my laptop to work remotely on my home computer when I’m travelling. It was as if nothing was wrong the whole time I was away. Thanks, technology.

When I got home, I spent the better part of a day trying to fix the ports. No luck. Sonuvabitch.

But I could still work through my laptop. Thanks, technology.

But my laptop couldn’t connect to the program I need for my invoicing. Sonuvabitch.

But that was okay. Since my motherboard was toast anyway, I decided to replace my aging computer. I could take my time building my new machine and make a graceful transition using my laptop in the mean time. Thanks, technology.

Which was a great idea… until I woke up the very next morning to discover my old computer had committed seppuku in the night and was completely dead. Not even a beep or a blinky light. Where it got that sword, I’ll never know. Sonuvabitch.

Computer seppuku. Try not to look at the bloody entrails.

But I had backups, and I had my new hardware. I could start rebuilding right away. And it was the long weekend, so I had three whole days free. Thanks, technology.

Well, sorta free. Except for the bazillion other things I’d hoped to accomplish after being away for a week. Oh, and maybe have a day or two off? Nah. Not allowed. Sonuvabitch.

Amazingly, all the Microsoft products installed beautifully and worked first try. Thanks, technology.

Unfortunately, all the other hardware and applications seemed childishly determined to assert their independence. One after the other, they:

refused to install; then
installed grudgingly after I spent hours pissing around finding solutions; after which they
promptly broke the parts of the installation that had actually been working before, so I had to go back and fix them. Again.

I spent three solid days glued to my desk, swearing until the windows melted. Sonuvabitch.

But I’m thankful beyond words that this is the only thing in my life that’s complaint-worthy. My saintly husband tolerated my savage mood with his usual graciousness and helped me buy and assemble my components. I ate Thanksgiving dinners on two different days and didn’t have to cook for either of them. I was warm and safe and well-fed and surrounded by family and friends.

Now I’m happy in my home office, doing work I (mostly) enjoy on a zippy new computer that’s (mostly) loaded. It’s all good.

Thanks, but, um, technology…? You’re still a sonuvabitch sometimes.

It looks like an angel when it’s sleeping…

P.S. I’m still reloading my RSS feeds and digging out from under my backlog, so I haven’t been by to visit my blogging buddies lately. I’ve missed you – looking forward to visiting you again soon!

Fifty Shades Of Leverage

September 26, 2012 / Diane Henders / 29 Comments

My fifth book, How Spy I Am, is finally out (phew), so of course I immediately thought of Fifty Shades of Grey.

What, you don’t see the connection? Bear with me…

First, a disclaimer: I am one of the (apparently) tiny minority that hasn’t read Fifty Shades. I likely won’t, for several reasons:

1) I read the first pages on Amazon and didn’t get swept away by it.

2) I’ve read some well-written BDSM erotic romance novels by authors whose blogs I follow, but reading was more an act of loyalty than anything else. BDSM just isn’t my flavour.

3) I almost never read any type of romance, though I make an exception for Fallen Arches – Novellas of Broken Romance over at Curmudgeon-At-Large. They make me swoon. (It’s probably because I can’t breathe between paroxysms of laughter).

So, Fifty Shades? Probably not for me.

But.

I’m impressed by the number of people who are leveraging Fifty Shades. Suddenly there are flocks of books titled “Fifty Shades of (fill in the blank)”. There’s even a website titled “What to Read After Fifty Shades”.

Love it or hate it, Fifty Shades has made a shitload of money, and everybody wants a piece (if you’ll excuse a cheap but irresistible double entendre).

So that’s it; I’m getting in on the act. After consulting Wikipedia to verify my accuracy, I’m going to tell you how my books are just like Fifty Shades of Grey:

I have male and female characters. Sometimes their relationships are complicated and fraught with sexual tension. See, just like Fifty Shades.
My protagonist is a confident middle-aged no-bullshit woman instead of an insecure college girl, but what the hell. Details. They’re both female.
My protagonist gets tied up every now and then. She never enjoys it, but hey, bondage, right?
The male character in Fifty Shades is an entrepreneur. I have a grandmother/granddaughter team who own a sex shop in a small town. Voila: entrepreneurs and sex. Double whammy.
Sex. Got that covered. My characters don’t intentionally hurt each other during the act, but that’s just a technicality.
A virgin. Hmmm. That could be a problem. Never mind, I wouldn’t want to be accused of being an exact copy.
Oho, here’s a good one: The characters in Fifty Shades communicate using a laptop. So do my characters. Score another point.
You may be thinking this is a little thin so far, but here’s the kicker: My main male character has grey eyes. Grey. And in Book 2, he ties my protagonist up and restrains her. Ha! Spike it in the end zone!

I’m sure there are many more striking similarities but I could only get so much from the wiki and I was too lazy to look up any more synopses. Nevertheless, I’m convinced my claim of sycophantic imitation is just as valid as everyone else’s.

So there you go. My books are just like Fifty Shades. And repeating “Fifty Shades” fifty times in a blog post works wonderfully for search engine optimization, too.

I anticipate that within days, book reviewers and avid readers will be calling my novels “the next Fifty Shades of Grey”. My book sales will skyrocket. The news media will grovel for interviews with me. Hollywood will call and beg to pay gazillions of dollars for the movie rights to my books.

Because I’m leveraging the power of “Fifty Shades of Grey” just like everybody else.

Or not.

Okay, I was just kidding around with the whole “Fifty Shades” schtick, but I actually have a serious request this week: I’m doing a survey on how readers like authors to sign books, and I’d really appreciate your opinion. There are only three quick questions over at http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/K3LQS9D, and I’m giving away a signed copy of the updated version of Book 1: Never Say Spy. Thanks for your help!

I Can Type With A Banana In My Hand

September 12, 2012 / Diane Henders / 28 Comments

That isn’t a euphemism, though it might be fun if it was. In case you’re wondering, I can also type with a banana in my mouth, and you can just get your mind out of the gutter right now.

I know I shouldn’t type with a banana in my hand. I’m well aware of the effects of mashed banana on the usefulness and mean-time-to-failure of keyboards.

And I learned years ago about the deleterious effects of multi-tasking when someone (no, neither Hubby nor I) cremated a chicken while watching television in the basement. Until then, I didn’t know it was possible to start with a dead chicken immersed in boiling water and end up with a half-melted pot containing a crispy black cinder.

We first detected the stench from more than a quarter-mile away. When we arrived, a thick pall of reeking smoke obscured the main floor of the house. It took days to air the place out. Nobody was happy by the end of that episode, though I’m pretty sure the chicken was past caring.

I blame the internet for my current multi-tasking disorder. Before we had internet (yes, I am that old), I had to make a concerted effort to be distracted. I had to get out of my chair, look out the window, drift down to the kitchen to graze on whatever snacks might be handy, whatever.

Now my ass takes root in my desk chair while I write, email, text, tweet, phone, check RSS feeds and surf the web. I’ve gotten so used to doing umpteen things at once, I caught myself bouncing up from the table several times during lunch to rush off and do something else. I actually had to force myself to sit in the chair and eat an uninterrupted meal. That may be a way of life for people with families, but I don’t even have kids (unless you count my puerile brain).

Some people are good at multi-tasking. I’m not. I can’t even listen to music while I’m writing.

That doesn’t stop me from trying.

The other day, I found myself in the kitchen slicing zucchini and loading it into the dehydrator. Jars were sterilizing in my canner, a big pot of jam boiled on the stove, and my laptop was open on the couch so I could work in between kitchen tasks. When the phone rang, I fired up the hands-free and carried on canning jam while occasionally zipping over to reference my laptop.

Disaster didn’t strike that time, but I could easily have poured the jam into the dehydrator, stuck zucchini slices in the laptop, and dumped the phone into boiling water. Try explaining that to the caller at the other end of the line.

I’d like to say I plan to turn over a new leaf, but it’d be a lie.

‘Scuse me, gotta go – my chicken’s overheating.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

P.S. Hell, who am I kidding? One of the great joys of life is creating filthy innuendos whenever possible. Go for it. You know you want to. And you know I’ll laugh.

Letting It All Hang Out

August 29, 2012 / Diane Henders / 32 Comments

The worst things in life sneak up on you from behind. Let me tell you a story:

Once upon a time, there was no spandex.

If you’re younger than dirt, don’t panic – those dark ages are long gone. Many regret their passing (particularly when forced to view Walmart shoppers), but you, my children, will likely never be required to live without spandex.

This story takes place very long ago, back in a primitive era when there were no cell phones, computers took up entire buildings, and people listened to things called “record albums”, which contained only about ten songs and required playback equipment approximately the size of an Austin Mini.

But the glorious light of progress dawned, and spandex was invented in 1959. Shortly thereafter, bathing suits became much safer to wear in the presence of water since, unlike the previous archaic materials, spandex didn’t sag and bag when wet.

I grew up on a farm near a backwater town in rural Manitoba, where dubious fads such as flush toilets were regarded with suspicion and adopted slowly, if at all. Clothing fashions filtered down to us approximately ten years after they were fashionable everywhere else, so I still remember the days of swimsuits without spandex. Fortunately, we did most of our swimming in the dugout on our farm, so wardrobe malfunctions resulting from saggy swimsuits were limited in the scope of their humiliation.

But when I was in my early teens, I got my first Speedo. For those of you permanently scarred by itty-bitty Speedos for men, I assure you my Speedo was a one-piece suit that covered more than most blouses and shorts cover today. It was fabulous. It fit even when it was wet.

Sadly, I didn’t get to wear it for long because I grew out of it (vertically, not horizontally as I tend to grow out of garments these days). But after I achieved my more-or-less-final adult dimensions, I bought another spandex-enriched bathing suit.

I’d also like to mention that while we weren’t exactly poor, we didn’t waste money. So that bathing suit had to last. And last. And last.

And it did. Until the fateful day when I put it on in bright light instead of a dingy change room. And when I held it up, I discovered that the network of spandex was still there… but every other fibre in the entire butt-end of the swimsuit was worn away.

I’d never noticed it before. I had no idea how many times I had paraded around at pools and beaches with my ass completely visible through spandex mesh.

After careful consideration, I decided it was better not to know.

These days, I’m much more careful. I own a new bathing suit and I wear stretchy workout shorts, but I check my rear view in the mirror frequently, if not obsessively. It’s not a particularly gratifying pastime, and it’s becoming steadily less rewarding as gravity lowers my common denominator. But at least I won’t be ambushed by anything that’s happening back there.

And I subscribe wholeheartedly to the philosophy of “cover your ass”.

Heeere, Mr. Gopher…

August 8, 2012July 30, 2020 / Diane Henders / 15 Comments

Warning: This article contains graphic descriptions from an active zone of conflict. It may be disturbing for sensitive readers.

Tensions were high as hostilities escalated this week in the West Garden. In the past two weeks of conflict, dozens of innocent carrots and potatoes have lost their lives. This week the death of two promising young head lettuce plants caused me to declare a jihad against pocket gophers.

After a brief attempt at mediation last week, negotiations broke down when the gophers walked away from the table. (It so happened the table was appetizingly laid with Warfarin, but I see no reason to let facts get in the way of a dramatic story.)

The point is, I offered the gophers the opportunity to vacate the disputed territory or die an honourable death on their own terms, and they refused to do either.

This week, I found more impudent gopher mounds and more dead vegetables. And I got serious.

I’m beginning to feel like Bill Murray in Caddyshack. I laughed when he sculpted a squirrel out of plastic explosive. I thought his deranged expression was funny.

Little did I know that this week, I’d feel that expression on my own face. And I’d be seriously wondering how he procured the C4.

However, I’d like to think I’m still slightly saner than to blow my entire garden to hell just for sake of eradicating some pocket gophers. I went with a subtler method: poison gas.

Gassing gophers was a whole new experience for me. Growing up on the farm, the rifle was always handy by the back door if we needed to get rid of animal pests. (Yes, those were the days before gun control.) So it was with trepidation that I read the warnings and instructions on the packet of innocuous-looking little cylinders.

The instructions helpfully described how to find the horseshoe-shaped mound that indicated the location of the main burrow, and provided all sorts of useful advice about the danger of burns and poison gas inhalation. Hooray.

But I was a woman on the edge. This was a Holy War. Nothing would stop me.

I found the burrow. I dug down and identified the direction of the tunnel. I donned my heavy leather gloves (to prevent burns) and ascertained the direction of the wind (to prevent gassing myself).

I test-fitted the cartridge in the tunnel to make sure I wouldn’t smother the fuse when I put it in…

And nearly shit my pants when I lit the first fuse.

You know how in the cartoons, the fuse makes this hissing, spitting noise and sprays a rooster-tail of sparks? You know how the cartoon characters get all freaked out when the flame zips along the fuse ‘way faster than they expected?

It was exactly like that.

Turns out they only guarantee a minimum of five seconds on the fuse. I spent approximately two of those seconds gaping at the smoking, spitting cylinder of death in my hand before stuffing it in the tunnel, shoving dirt over top and running like hell.

All in all, it went exactly as planned, but with a good deal more adrenaline.

I won’t know until next week whether I got him. But if I find more mounds, I’ll have no choice but to go Rambo on his ass.

So if you see a deranged-looking middle-aged woman standing out in her garden at sunrise armed with a compound bow and broadhead-tipped arrows, just smile, nod, and back away slowly.

Heeere, Mr. Gopher…

Optimism Or Idiocy?

August 1, 2012July 30, 2020 / Diane Henders / 27 Comments

This week, I’m diving into uncharted waters – again. It seems for every new situation that arises in my business or personal life, I acquire another three skills I never wanted to have. But does that make me say, “Oh, wait, I don’t know how to do that; maybe I should get some help”?

Oh, hell, no.

’Cause that would be sensible.

No, my response looks more like this: “Sure, I can do that. No problem. Is Wednesday okay?” *scuttles frantically away to research arcane topic*

Last week, I learned basic ASP programming in an afternoon. It wasn’t one of the more enjoyable afternoons I’ve ever spent, but I got my web forms working.

This week, I’ve been reading up on discretionary trusts, crash-safety specs on 2012 SUVs, and how to get rid of pocket gophers. Frankly, rodent eradication has been the most relaxing and enjoyable part of my research. Those little bastards have been decimating my carrots. Messing with my garden is a killin’ offense.

…aaaand now that I’ve invited flaming hate mail from gopher-lovers…

Most people would consider my jump-in-with-both-feet approach to be at best, a liability, and at worst, sheer idiocy. I prefer to call it “optimism”. After all, I’m living proof that too much prep time isn’t necessarily a good thing. My only colossal failures occurred after years of training and/or preparation: my first career and my first marriage.

I dated my now-ex-husband six years before I married him, and my bachelor’s degree in interior design took four years to acquire, plus the extra two years it took for me to wrangle my failing thesis through the appeals process. As long as I cheerfully disregard the delicate issue of innate competence (and I do, oh yes I do), the cause of my failure in both cases was obviously “too much preparation”.

Since those massive failures, I’ve flown by the seat of my pants for everything from becoming a computer geek to installing granite floors to developing the optimum recipe for banana bread. And everything has worked out pretty well (including my second career and second marriage).

Thank goodness for my enabler: that source of great wisdom, pure bullshit, and occasionally, useful instructions – the internet. With the internet on my side, it’s actually possible to take on a ridiculously unrealistic challenge and come out smelling, if not like a rose, at least not like a skunk cabbage.

Problem is, I’ve been cursed with an unholy combination of do-it-yourself-ism and perfectionism. I don’t just jump in and do it, I jump in and want to do it well. I expect to come out smelling like a rose.

Which brings us back to that “optimism” thing again. Some may use the word “delusional”, but… pshaw. What do they know?

I realize this approach sets me up for more colossal failures. I can sense their vile miasma hovering just behind my left shoulder. Fortunately, I’m right-handed. My plan is to keep moving so fast that failure doesn’t have a chance to catch up.

And I don’t mind if people call it idiocy – I’m happy in my delusional little world. ‘Cause it has nice granite floors…

The house Delusion built.

Driving Ms. Crazy

July 25, 2012 / Diane Henders / 29 Comments

Some days, even the simplest things get ‘way more complicated than they need to be.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, sometimes I’m convinced I’m speaking Swahili because nobody seems to grasp what I’m trying to say, no matter how many different ways I phrase it. I’m convinced it’s the Universe’s way of keeping me humble enough to summon up some charity and patience when somebody else suffers a brain/speech malfunction.

But sometimes it’s really difficult to refrain from beating my head against the nearest hard surface…

We were going to a store that had recently moved. I was driving, and my passenger (who shall remain nameless to protect the guilty) was giving me directions. I knew we were going to 9^th Avenue, but I wasn’t sure of the address.

Calgary is divided into quadrants, so there are four possible locations for any given address. Without the suffix “SW”, “SE”, “NW”, or “NE”, you’re lost. I was pretty sure the store was in one of the southern quadrants, but I didn’t know which one:

Me: “What’s the address?”

Passenger: “I don’t know the actual address, but I know where it is.”

Me: “Okay, where is it?”

Passenger: “On 9^th Avenue.”

Me: “I know it’s on 9^th Avenue, but where?”

Passenger: “Just take Bow Trail.”

Me: “I know how to get to 9^th Avenue, I want to know where I’m going once I’m on 9^th Avenue.”

Passenger: “I’ll tell you where to turn.”

Me: *suspenseful pause* “And… where will I be turning?”

Passenger: “It’ll be a left turn.”

Me: “Congratulations, you’ve given me no useful information whatsoever. Where the hell is it on 9^th Avenue?”

Passenger: “Oh! It’s at the corner of 9^th Avenue and 11^th Street.”

Me: “Southwest or Southeast?”

Passenger: *growing impatient with my obtuseness* “No! It’s on the northeast corner of 9^th Avenue and 11^th Street.”

Me: *gritting teeth* “The northeast corner of 9^th Avenue and 11^th Street Southwest or 9^th Avenue and 11^th Street Southeast?”

Passenger: “Oh…! Southwest.”

Me: *sigh*

Before you make any assumptions about gender vs. navigation skills, I’d like to point out that my passenger was male. Just sayin’.

I can’t imagine how the phrase “It’s on the northeast corner of 9^th Avenue and 11^th Street Southwest” could have become any more complicated. What should have been a five-second exchange turned into a ridiculous “Who’s On First” comedy routine.

It might have been funnier if I hadn’t been playing the part of the straight man while trying to steer my car through traffic to an unknown destination.

But it’s okay. I know with absolute certainty that within days of posting this, I’ll be the one in the passenger seat, obfuscating the directions while the driver’s blood pressure rockets into the danger zone.

Come to think of it, I seem to recall the following conversation not too long ago:

Hubby: “I’m supposed to turn left here?”

Me: “Right.”

Hubby: “Right? Shit!” *swerves over two lanes of traffic*

Me: “No, left! I meant, that’s right… that’s correct; you’re supposed to turn left… Never mind, I’m an idiot.”

Thanks, Universe. I owe ya one.

Anybody else have one of those “Who’s On First” moments lately?

P.S. I’m so pumped – my new book cover designs are finally done! Check ’em out in the “My Books” panel at the right – or bigger versions here. They should start hitting the stores in a week or two. 🙂

Evil Eyes

July 11, 2012 / Diane Henders / 27 Comments

As I mentioned in an earlier post, my mouth keeps me in trouble. I’d like to pretend it’s only my mouth that’s the problem, but now my eyes are getting into the act, too.

It started innocently enough. One day I was out for a walk when I spotted a poster advertising “CREEPFEST”.

At the time, I questioned the necessity for a festival dedicated to creeps when pretty much any ride on the C-Train qualifies as a creepfest, but, hey, what do I know? And anyway, I live a sheltered life. It might have been a film festival for horror movies or something. Later, I discovered it was actually advertising “CREEKFEST”, a family fun day down at our local Fish Creek Park.

Honest mistake.

But it got worse. I was skimming a document online when my eyeballs snagged on the phrase “making goats is the first step toward success…”

Excuse me?

Success in what, exactly? And do I really want to achieve the kind of success that requires me (or anyone for that matter) to screw goats as a first step?

When I re-read it, I discovered to my relief that the word in question was “goals”, not “goats”. But apparently, making goats was indeed the first step… down a sad and sordid path. It was only the beginning of the mutiny currently being staged by my evil eyes.

I misread a quotation: “Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes all the way to the boner”. Granted, the original quote wasn’t exactly inspirational even when read correctly, but that extra ‘r’ on the end just didn’t help the situation at all.

I misread a friend’s tweet: “Think I’ll take up lap-dancing”. I was halfway through a bottle of brain bleach before I realized the tweet actually read “Think I’ll take up tap-dancing”.

Which, frankly, was disturbing enough, but it didn’t actually warrant a brain cleanse.

Even my favourite recipe website wasn’t safe. I glanced at a recipe I’d printed, and misread the header as “cocksucker” instead of “cooks.com”. You’d think that’d be a bit of a stretch, but the “-om” was covered by another sheet of paper, so the only letters visible were “cooks.c”. And the ‘c’ and ‘o’ are quite similar in their header font.

But still. Come on, eyeballs, gimme a break here.

If one wanted to get all persnickety about this, one might argue that there’s nothing at all wrong with my eyes, and that the problem actually originates a couple of inches behind my eyeballs.

Our theoretical persnickety commentator might also add that if one has a more-than-passing familiarity with words like ‘boner’ and ‘lap-dancing’ and ‘cocksucker’, one can’t reasonably feign shock and outrage at reading them, whether or not they’re in appropriate context (if there is actually an “appropriate” context for those particular words).

And if those were the only words I’d misread, I’d have to concede the point.

But making goats?

Nope. I’ll admit to being slightly warped, but I’m not that twisted.

Maybe it’s time for reading glasses.

Cheapskate!

July 4, 2012July 30, 2020 / Diane Henders / 38 Comments

I’ve reluctantly come to accept that I’m a cheapskate.

I tend to make do with what I’ve got until it’s long past time the item was replaced. When I finally do buy a new item, I’m willing to pay for the features I need, but I refuse to pay extra for non-essentials. Like colour. (Which probably explains why I was such a resounding failure as an interior designer, but that’s another story.)

Self-help programs point out that it’s necessary to first identify and accept that you have a problem before healing can begin. My cheapskate epiphany came when I realized I’ve owned nothing but white cars since 1989.

I’ve disliked white cars since I was old enough to pronounce the words “I like the red one better”.

In 1989, I bought a well-used 1975 Dodge Dart for $1100, which was all I could afford at the time. It had one of the old 225 slant-six engines you couldn’t kill with a howitzer, and I loved that car so much that I forgave it for being white. (Plus it had sporty stripes on the sides, so it wasn’t completely white.)

When the Dart rusted away several years later, I bought a 1986 Taurus cheap at an auction because it was (again) all I could afford. It was a piece of shit. I spent more time repairing it than I did driving it. And it was white.

In 1998, I’d been divorced for a couple of years and I was back on my feet. I decided I deserved a new car. I’d never bought a vehicle off the lot before, and it was time, dammit. No more hand-me-downs. No more making do.

Off I went to the Saturn dealer to buy a new car. Any colour I wanted. Ha!

But they offered me a deal. They had a demo on sale. It was brand new except for the few hundred kilometres that had been put on by the dealership’s test drives. And they’d knock $6,000 off the price and give me an extra year’s warranty.

Yeah, you guessed it. I’m still driving it. It’s been a great car.

But it’s white.

Because I’m a cheapskate, my motorcycle helmet has a fiery red skull on the back, and there’s cabbage-rose-patterned furniture in my living room. Many would consider those patterns to be mutually exclusive. I mean, really, most people are either flaming-skull or cabbage-rose, right?

But the helmet had all these great features, and it was cheaper than the plain black one.

And really, the furniture wasn’t my fault. My mother chose the pattern. Back around 1973. That furniture has survived exposure to decades of children, cats, three different households in two provinces, and nearly 40 years of direct sun, all without fading or sagging or showing any visible signs of wear and tear. I’m pretty sure it would survive a nuclear holocaust.

It is, however, violently unfashionable. When I said “cabbage-rose”, you thought muted pinks, didn’t you? Wrong-o. The background is navy blue with poison-green leaves, and the cabbage roses are blue and orange. Big suckers, about 5” across. That furniture is so obnoxious, it even makes my fiery skull shudder.

I don’t want to spend the money right now, but some day, I’ll buy new furniture. Any colour I want. Ha!

…Is there an echo in here?

Please tell me there’s somebody else out there who makes do with not-so-perfect colours for the sake of frugality (which is a much nicer way to say ‘cheapness’).

…You Know; The “Thing”…

June 6, 2012July 30, 2020 / Diane Henders / 21 Comments

Ever notice how inanimate objects tend to acquire names? For me, it all started with Fred.

I don’t recall anyone in our family ever naming a plant or an inanimate object, so when I discovered that my ex-father-in-law (may his delightful soul rest in peace) called his houseplant “Fred”, I was bemused. Fred was a Norfolk Island Pine, and, when pressed, my father-in-law said he didn’t know why, “He just looks like a Fred.”

Being the creative sort that I am, I called every Norfolk Island Pine I subsequently encountered “Fred”. I have a Fred in my living room even as I write this:

Fred. Not the original.

And then there was Rodney. A few years ago, I was having trouble with voracious sparrows that decimated my garden peas. The instant the sprouts dared to poke above the ground, those rotten little sky-rodents would swoop in and chow down, leaving nothing but lifeless stumps behind.

So I bought a “scare owl”. For those unfamiliar with the foolish hopes and dreams of gardeners, a scare owl is a life-sized plastic owl, painted with realistic markings and fierce yellow eyes. The idea is that smaller birds identify the threatening presence of a bird of prey and flock off.

Yeah, right.

The sparrows perched beside the scare owl on the deck railing, chirping insults and taking turns shitting on its head. I promptly christened the owl “Rodney”, because, like Dangerfield, he got no respect.

I don’t usually apply permanent names to inanimate objects. They get lots of temporary names, ranging from “the thing” (as in, “…you know; the thing…” when I can’t think of the correct word on the spur of the moment) to “useless piece of shit” or other less complimentary terms that would require an f-bomb alert at the top of this post.

I will admit to occasionally addressing my cute little blue MP3 player as “my little sweetie” when I’m in a particularly fond mood. I do love my music. But if the batteries run down at the wrong moment, it’s right back to “useless piece of shit”. I’m fickle that way.

Lots of people seem to name their cars. Friends of ours named their red car ‘Scarlet’, and I had a hand in naming another friend’s new SUV ‘Lucy Blue’ (from Bob Seger’s Tales Of Lucy Blue).

Like Scarlet and Lucy Blue, it’s usually pretty easy to trace the origin of the name. Even Rodney makes sense once you hear the story. With the exception of Fred, most naming seems to have some logical basis.

Which is why I’m sure you’ll understand the moniker I applied to the desiccated cactus that’s been languishing on the corner of my desk waiting to be thrown away: