More Beaver!

November 9, 2011September 14, 2012 / Diane Henders / 14 Comments

A couple of weeks ago, one of our senators caused a kerfuffle when she took verbal potshots at our national animal, the beaver. Calling it a “dentally defective rat” and a “toothy tyrant”, she suggested that we should change our national animal to the “noble” and much more photogenic polar bear. Righteous indignation and off-colour jokes abounded.

According to the online poll at CBC, 78.54% of respondents thought the beaver should stay. Comments sections were overwhelmed by thousands of responses. Most of the male writers stated a particular fondness for beavers, though many accidentally omitted the ‘s’. A mere oversight, I’m sure. Female respondents in general tended to exhort the good senator to leave their beavers alone.

In keeping with the typical ugliness of celebrity confrontations, the love lives of the contenders were brought into question, too. Many observed that polar bears will pretty much screw anything that moves, while beavers mate for life, thereby cementing the beaver’s reputation as a morally superior mammal. (No word on the senator’s love life at this time.)

To add to the mud-flinging, photos worthy of the most sordid tabloids were posted, showing a frowsy beaver with a deranged expression, contrasted with a soft-focus photo of a snowy-white, perfectly-groomed polar bear. In retaliation, the polar bear’s weight problem was identified and cruelly ridiculed.

Almost as cruelly ridiculed was the senator herself. The general consensus was that we should keep the beaver and ditch the senate.

In other news, I noticed an article about farmers hunting beavers to save their land from the destructive flooding caused by dams. No eyebrows were raised over this article, though. It’s not exactly news that much time, energy, and money is expended in the hunt for beaver. Or, um… beavers.

P.S. I’m still with my step-mom while she undergoes chemo this week, so I may be slow in responding to comments, and I might not make it around to comment on my favourite blogs. I’m still thinking of you, though. Thanks for visiting!

Ooooo, Scary!

November 2, 2011 / Diane Henders / 8 Comments

Since Halloween was this week, “scary” has been on my mind. It was definitely on my mind when I looked in the mirror this morning, but that’s another story.

“Scary” is such a versatile word. Halloween costumes are good-scary. Haunted houses and ghost stories are creepy-good-scary. Politicians are scary in a stomach-churning, “eeeuw-I-don’t-want-to-think-about-it” way.

There’s exciting-scary, when you’re hurtling down a black-diamond ski run and you catch an edge and almost lose it but you don’t, and the adrenaline slams into your veins and you let out a whoop and haul ass to the bottom grinning like a maniac.

There’s the detached sort of scary you get when you’re airborne immediately after parting company with your dirt bike or slipping on the stairs. It’s that short moment that takes approximately forever to experience, and your brain has exactly enough time to say in calm and reasonable tones, “Oh, shit, this is really going to hurt!”

And then there’s scary-scary. The kind of scary that makes your heart pound and your hands sweat. The kind of scary that makes you drop your shoulder like a defensive tackle and fling little old ladies in all directions as you bull your way through the lineup to get to the toilet before you shit your pants.

Well, maybe not really. And anyway, that only happened once. Don’t bug me.

My point is, even though “scary” is technically defined as a bad thing, we search it out in so many ways. When I was a kid, I always wanted to be something scary for Halloween. Some people would argue that I achieved “scary” on a regular basis, but they may be exaggerating. Though I do have a vivid memory of my mother saying, “Try not to be so… ferocious.” It wasn’t even Halloween.

But I never wanted to be a clown or a princess or a ballerina. I wanted to be a pirate, a headless person, or some other horrifying apparition. I wanted to make people shiver in abject terror. Note the clenched fist and fearsome grimace. I was seven at the time, and my sword was tinfoil-covered cardboard. I wanted a bigger, scarier sword, but cardboard wasn’t to be wasted and tinfoil was expensive.

When I got old enough to understand real fear, “scary” lost some of its attraction. But still, in fiction and movies, we have to have a dose of scary, or the storyline just seems flat. It makes me wonder if cave men sat around telling scary stories, too, or whether they had enough “scary” in their lives without making any up.

What is it about that burst of adrenaline? Maybe it’s the relief afterward. Maybe it’s the bragging rights when you’re sitting in the pub telling the story with a cold one in your hand, and your friends shiver and exclaim and laugh in all the right places.

I don’t know. All I know is, it’s my corporate yearend, and I have to wade through my financial records again. That’s a whole different kind of scary. And that story isn’t going to hold anybody enthralled at the pub, either.

P.S. I’ll be with my step-mom for the next week or two while she starts her chemo treatments, so I may be slow in responding to comments, and I might not make it around to comment on my favourite blogs. I’m still thinking of you, though. Thanks for visiting!

PANIC!! …Nah.

October 26, 2011 / Diane Henders / 19 Comments

It’s funny how the bloggers I follow seem to read each other’s minds. This past week, there have been all kinds of posts about stress, panic, and overwhelm. So what the hell, I’ll get in on it, too.

Panic is an interesting critter. It starts out as, “Oh, crap, I forgot the candles for hubby’s birthday cake”, and instantly morphs into, “Oh-my-God-I’m-such-a-loser-my-husband-will-divorce-me-my-friends-will-hate-me-I’ll-end-up-dying-broken-and-alone-in-a-rat-infested-cardboard-box-under-a-bridge”.

Whoa, say what? That’s good stuff. If I could pour that into an engine, I could blow the doors off some top-fuel dragsters. Zero to insanity in under a second.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not joking about real panic attacks*. But our everyday “panic situations”? Yeah, I’m joking about them. They’re an overrated pastime.

This was inspired by the “Everybody PANIC!” post over at Visiting Reality. Thanks, Linda!

And since Charles Gulotta over at Mostly Bright Ideas reminded me he wants another flow chart (and he just did a stressed-out post, too)… voilà: here’s another scary glimpse into the inner workings of my brain.

Charles, this one’s for you.

Is It Time To Panic Yet?

*If you’ve ever had a real panic attack, you know that on a 0 – 10 Funny Scale, panic attacks are about a -50. A word of advice from someone who’s been there: If you have panic attacks, find yourself a medical professional who specializes in cognitive therapy. You’re not crazy, you’re not a coward, and you’re not weak. Your brain just took a wrong turn down the logic-path and ended up in the “Oh-shit-I’m-about-to-be-eaten-by-something-big-with-sharp-teeth” parking lot. Trouble is, it gets in the habit of taking that shortcut, and the longer you let it do that, the longer it takes to break the habit. And yes, it is possible to stop having panic attacks, it just takes a while. Go take care of it. Soonest. Not kidding. Okay, I’m getting off my soapbox now.

Delusions Of Competence

October 19, 2011October 19, 2011 / Diane Henders / 13 Comments

When I was a kid, I was an obnoxious little know-it-all. This probably explains why I was slightly less popular than herpes.

After a few years, I figured out that nobody likes obnoxious little know-it-alls, but by then it was too late. When you go to school in a small town, your position in the clique hierarchy is established at an early age. It’s probably just as well. I never did get over being a know-it-all; now I just try not to be obnoxious about it. Sometimes I even succeed.

My main problem is that I’m blessed with an overabundance of what I prefer to call “optimism”. This characteristic leads me to believe I can tackle just about anything, and that I can probably have it done before lunch.

It doesn’t seem to matter if I’ve never done it before. I research it a bit and then decide, “Ah, how hard can it be?” The internet has only made things worse. “How-to” videos are my evil enabler.

This has led to a few spectacular successes, a surprising number of acceptable results, and an occasional disaster. Fortunately, I’ve never decided to try brain surgery or air traffic control.

But with age comes wisdom. Back in the old days, I’d jump right in, secure in the knowledge that “I can do it”. Now, I’m much more mature and measured in my approach. Now I jump in hoping I can do it.

Maybe I’m solving the wrong problem here.

I’m not incapable of learning from my mistakes, though. One of my more valuable life lessons arrived as an epiphany in the dressing room at the clothing store: Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should. Sometimes I even remember to apply this wisdom before enthusiastically plunging into another ill-conceived scheme. (Another lesson from the dressing room: spandex should be issued only to those in possession of a current and valid Fashion Police Spandex Permit. But I digress.)

Lately, I’ve been thinking about this “optimism” trait more than usual. My first book hit Amazon.com last week. Three more will be up within the next five weeks. I’d like to point out that, unlike my usual reckless approach, I did actually spend a lot of time learning to write before inflicting my books on the unsuspecting public. But there’s still some little part of me that wonders if this is one of those projects that’s doomed to ignominious failure.

Telling people I’ve written novels makes me feel the same kind of defiant discomfort as if I was admitting I wore adult diapers. (I don’t, by the way. Just sayin’.) There’s the certain knowledge that it’s not a shameful thing, but it’s also slightly embarrassing to admit I spend a great deal of my time interacting with imaginary people. It tarnishes my know-it-all image when people realize I’m spewing pure, unadulterated bullshit.

On the upside, my “optimism” shows me a happy world in which people actually buy my books and enjoy them. Guess I’ll have to wait and see.

I’m hoping for spectacular success. Before lunch, if possible.

P.S. October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. Since my step-mom is dealing with breast cancer right now, I thought I’d share this video with its delightfully, um, solid message. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VsyE2rCW71o&feature=youtu.be (Sorry, guys, this one only has eye candy for the ladies. I’ll let you know if I find a counterpart for prostate cancer awareness.)

Neanderthal Behaviour

October 12, 2011 / Diane Henders / 26 Comments

My husband thinks I’m a Neanderthal. I’m pretty sure he’s right.

The first time he brought this up, I shrugged and nodded. The dictionary definition of neanderthal (uncapitalized) includes descriptors like “primitive, unenlightened barbarian”. Since I was in the process of licking the steak juice off my plate and had belched audibly a few minutes before, I could hardly argue.

But he wasn’t slamming my table manners, even though I deserved it. (Did I ever mention that my husband is the most tolerant human being on the face of the earth? The man deserves a medal for putting up with me.)

Turns out he meant Neanderthal with a capital N. As in, “an extinct member of the Homo genus known from Pleistocene specimens found in Europe and parts of western and central Asia”, according to Wikipedia.

Neanderthals have been in the news quite a bit lately. Scientists are beginning to think they (Neanderthals, not scientists) got freaky with so-called “modern man” (homo sapiens) ‘way back when. Apparently, with the exception of Africans, everybody has at least 1 to 4 percent Neanderthal DNA. Researchers postulate that it might be a lot more for some of us. Like me, for instance.

What are a few Neanderthal traits? Red hair. Well, yeah.

Heavy bone structure. When I went in for my baseline bone density exam about 7 years ago, the tech told me I had the hips of a 21-year-old. So Hubby gets bragging rights for cavorting with a 21-year-old. Or at least parts thereof. Which actually sounds pretty creepy when you say it that way.

Particularly strong arms and hands. Um, yeah. I tore some ligaments in my wrist a few years ago. After two years of disuse followed by surgery, my grip strength was measured during physio, and it was at the lower end of average… if I was a man. Off the charts for a woman. I haven’t had it re-measured since I’ve recovered. Hmmm.

More evidence: Hubby and I never share illnesses. We sleep in the same bed, exchange spit on a regular basis, and don’t make any effort to avoid each other if one of us is sick. If he gets a cold or a flu, I won’t get it. And vice versa. He maintains that this is because he’s “modern man”, and I’m Neanderthal.

And then there’s the whole plate-licking, belching behaviour, along with the fact that I subscribe to the “Knock its horns off, wipe its ass, and chase it once across the grill” method of barbeque. (Wish I knew where that quote came from). Although I don’t want to have to apologize to my food when I eat it, I definitely prefer my steaks on the bloody side.

The good news is, Neanderthals weren’t as dumb as we initially thought. Their brains were as large or larger than homo sapiens, and they probably had language and engaged in social rituals. Obviously, I didn’t get the “social rituals” part of the DNA, but there’s hope.

The evidence is pretty strong. So the next time I see the headline “Did Neanderthals have sex with modern man?”, I guess my only correct response is, “Hell, yeah. Every chance I get.”

Maybe that’s why he puts up with me.

Any Neanderthals swinging in your family tree?

A Scholarly Treatise On The Care And Feeding Of Your Pet Author

October 5, 2011 / Diane Henders / 14 Comments

Authors can be lovable and agreeable family pets. Most are easily housebroken, though some may exhibit a disturbing tendency to piddle while absorbed in a particularly difficult bit of plotting or worldbuilding. This is not a sign of aggression. It is simply inattentiveness on the part of your author. Gently but firmly insist that they take regular potty breaks, or, if this proves ineffective, place an adult diaper on the chair before they sit. The author is unlikely to notice or object.

Authors are territorial by nature. It is important to nip this behaviour in the bud. Your author must learn that he or she is part of the household, and as such, must share the domain with the rest of the family. However, your author will be happier and more relaxed if you allow him or her to have a “safe zone”. If possible, provide your author with a small desk, and refrain from disturbing the area unless absolutely necessary.

Your author may begin to show possessiveness toward other areas of the house, usually by leaving behind droppings such as laptops, pens, papers, and so on. If this happens, immediately remove the droppings, clean the area thoroughly, and relocate the droppings to the author’s safe zone. Your author will soon learn that leaving droppings outside their own territory is unacceptable behaviour.

As with any pet, it is important for you to be vigilant about your author’s diet. Authors will gobble almost any food they encounter in an effort to return to their safe zone and resume their natural writing behaviour as quickly as possible. Be strict. Your author’s health depends on it. Although an unhealthy diet may seem harmless when your author is young, you will ultimately pay the price in medical bills as your author ages.

Regular exercise is important, too, but sadly, most authors resist almost any form of fresh air or exercise. Some authors may be enticed to exercise if offered rewards such as the opportunity to work out with attractive and scantily-clad members of the opposite sex, however, this is by no means a sure-fire method.

Some owners report that they have successfully induced their authors to exercise by running away with the liquor bottle, forcing the author to chase them in order to retrieve it, but this strategy may ultimately result in hostile or aggressive behaviour on the part of your author. This is an area in which you must apply your own creativity to find the best solution.

Many laypersons consider authors to be nocturnal creatures, but in fact, authors are capable of wakefulness at any hour of the day or night. If the clicking of the keyboard disturbs your sleep at night, or if your author sleeps through important daytime events, it is possible to gradually adjust your author’s sleep rhythm to one that is more compatible with your household.

Begin by determining your author’s favourite treats. These may include food, alcohol, or sexual favours, but be cautious in your use of the latter. Nobody likes an overly-affectionate author, and many authors are incapable of the level of judgement required to discern appropriate public behaviour.

Regardless of the type of treat you choose, you must begin the conditioning process up to one-half hour before you want your author to retire for the night. Gently direct your author’s attention to the treat (remember, it may be dangerous to startle an author who is deeply involved in writing behaviour).

Once you have engaged your author’s attention, lure him or her into the bedroom with the treat. Then allow your author to enjoy the treat. If your author tries to leave the bedroom afterward, offer subsequent treats until the author loses consciousness or falls asleep. Repeat every night for at least twenty-one days, or until the new habit is established. Note: This method is only successful if you withhold the treat at all other times.

The keys to the entire training process are patience, firmness, and consistency. Though keeping an author may seem an arduous chore at first blush, your efforts will ultimately be rewarded with long years of loyalty and affection, dedications in obscure books, and occasionally, royalties.

News: I’m so excited! I’ve got the cover art for my first four books, and the planned release date for the Kindle version of NEVER SAY SPY is October 15 (hopefully all versions will be released that day, but will know more soon). Covers and book blurbs are here.

I’m A Hoer

September 14, 2011September 14, 2011 / Diane Henders / 19 Comments

I admit it. I’m a hoer. Now that the weather is beginning to cool off, I’ll soon pack it in for the winter, because it’s pretty much a fair-weather pastime for me. But most nice warm days in the summer, you can find me by the side of the road, waving at all the passing cars.

A few weeks ago, I even caused an accident because drivers were gawking at me. That’s no mean achievement, when you consider the fact that I was out in the middle of nowhere, and the average traffic load on that road is about one car an hour.

I’m talking, of course, about hoeing my garden. Wait, what were you thinking…?

And before you ask, no, I wasn’t wearing anything gawk-worthy. Quite the opposite, in fact. Dirty, baggy jeans and T-shirt, with a too-big long-sleeved shirt over top, along with my white Stetson (I’m from Calgary, I can get away with it) and a pair of geeky sunglasses.

I have a big vegetable garden by the side of the road at our acreage outside town. I don’t know what the protocol is these days, but when I grew up in the country, you waved to passing cars, whether you knew the driver or not. So I waved, as usual.

Apparently, the two drivers were lost, and the one in front decided to stop and ask for directions at the same time as the one behind turned to wave at me.

Seconds later, there was a crash, and then I was gawping like an idiot at the sight of two cars mashed together on an abandoned gravel road in the middle of nowhere. Pandemonium ensued as one of the passengers went into hysterics.

I’ve never actually witnessed hysterics in real life. If I get a Chrysler suppository or some other unpleasant shock, I’m more the ‘swear-loudly-and-hit-something’ type. So observing hysterics first-hand was… enlightening.

Fortunately, nobody was hurt, the drivers apparently remained friends, and the two cars limped off into the sunset. I think I heard one of the drivers mutter something about giving up and going home. I stood there, hoe in hand, feeling vaguely guilty about the whole thing.

I’ve heard that hoeing is a dangerous undertaking, and now I understand why. So if you happen to pass a badly-dressed middle-aged woman working in her garden in the country, please don’t be offended if I don’t wave.

Just throw money. I’m a hoer, after all.

Toilet Trepidation: Number Two

August 24, 2011 / Diane Henders / 15 Comments

Warning: If you have a weak stomach, don’t read this. Come back next week instead. I promise not to tell any gross stories then.

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Last week, I mentioned a few reasons for my troubled relationship with toilets. I have more.

You may think that having to use an ancient outhouse in childhood would be enough to leave me with an antipathy toward outhouses. Not so. That came later.

When I was a teenager, I volunteered at a children’s summer camp in the Lake of the Woods area around Kenora, Ontario. I’m not exactly sure why I did this, because kids in large numbers tend to make me run screaming. Fortunately, I was the archery director, not a counsellor. My only responsibility was to keep the archery equipment repaired and prevent the kids from shooting each other. Or us.

One day, I was sitting with a few of the counsellors when a six-year-old dashed up to us, screaming the words of doom: “Shawna’s down the biffy hole!”

A volley of sidelong glances between the camp staff, accompanied by mutters of, “Not MY kid.”

The unfortunate soul who was responsible for Shawna rushed to the scene of the disaster. I heard about it later, and that was as close as I cared to come.

Apparently, Shawna had dropped a candy down the hole. She wanted to see if she could see the candy. Don’t ask me why. The logic of kids eludes me. But it was dark down there, so she got her flashlight. Apparently Shawna had grip issues or something, because she dropped the flashlight as well.

Horrified that she’d lost her father’s new flashlight, she delegated one of her six-year-old friends to hold her by the ankles while she retrieved the flashlight. Guess the other kid had grip issues, too.

On the up side, I think Shawna must have had a pretty good life since then. Getting dropped head-first into a pile of shit is probably about the worst thing that’s going to happen in her lifetime. Nice to get that out of the way early.

And speaking of getting things out of the way…

Many moons ago, I lived in residence at Tache Hall at the University of Manitoba. Communal bathrooms were down the hall. About once a week, I’d find an enormous mound cresting out of the water in the toilet bowl. I’m not sure whether the Phantom Shitter didn’t know how to flush, or whether he/she was simply so proud of the pile that they wanted the rest of us to be able to admire it, too.

Or, what do I know? Maybe it was a team effort. There were some sick puppies living there.

I used to have a recurring dream. In my dream, I needed to go to the bathroom. But every bathroom I found had something terribly wrong with it. I couldn’t find the toilets. Or the toilets were overflowing. Or the cubicle walls ended at knee-height. Or I started to use the toilet and discovered that it was leaking all over me. It was an utterly repulsive dream.

When I looked it up on a dream-interpretation site, it said toilets are symbolic of expressing or repressing emotions, or that these types of dreams might have indicated I was afraid of what people thought of me. Or something.

I’m not so sure.

I think it was probably just a flashback.

Anybody else have that dream?

Toilet Trepidation: Number One

August 17, 2011 / Diane Henders / 16 Comments

Warning: This is a post about toilets and related, um, issues. If you’re easily grossed out, stop reading now.
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I have an uneasy relationship with toilets. I suspect I’m alone in this.

Most people probably don’t think about toilets much, unless they’re plumbers or poor souls engaged in a frantic search for facilities. But all my life, I’ve been dogged by ambivalent relationships with toilets.

When I was a kid, we didn’t have indoor plumbing. Our outhouse was of the deluxe variety: a two-holer, with one big hole and one little hole, side by side. The tiny sliding window was real glass, and the wooden seat had been worn satin-smooth by countless contacts with Henders bums since 1905.

At night and in the winter, we used a pail in the basement. If you think this sounds revolting and unsanitary, you’re absolutely right. But it was better than having an arctic gale whistling up the crack of your ass. At forty below, exposed skin freezes in minutes. Just sayin’.

When we eventually got a flush toilet, I was awed. It was so white and fresh. When you inevitably dropped something that splashed, your butt got sprinkled with clean water, not somebody else’s pee. And it never filled up so that your backside dipped into the contents…

Sorry, I’ll stop now.

Anyway, the flush toilet was love at first sight, followed by a long interval of quiet but sincere appreciation.

Many years later, ambivalence returned. Our house has three toilets. The plumber who originally installed them was clearly a moron. The flanges that hold the toilet were all installed incorrectly, so every single one of them cracked.

For the uninitiated, this means that sewage leaks out at the base of the toilet. Slowly. Under the flooring, so you can’t see it. So that by the time you discover it, the floor is rotten and reeking. After all the repairing and replacing was finished, I wasn’t feeling quite so warm and fuzzy about flush toilets anymore.

Then came the radish debacle.

Food occasionally migrates to the back of our fridge to die. When I discover it, I dispose of it according to its composition. Anything liquid or squishy goes down the toilet. My husband observed this process, but apparently failed to grasp the initial “classification of composition” phase.

So, the day he discovered decomposing radishes in the fridge, he flushed them. Problem is, decomposing radishes aren’t liquid or squishy. They’re firm and round, with a slimy outer shell.

They wedged themselves into the toilet trap and refused to move. A plumber’s snake was useless, because it worked its way between the slippery spheres and dislodged nothing. In the end, we had to remove the toilet (we’d had a lot of practice by then), and take it outside so we could turn it upside down and pull/shake the radishes free.

We were quite tired of removing and reinstalling toilets at that point, so we did what any self-respecting geeks would do: we tested the system before reinstalling it.

We set the toilet upright on a couple of two-by-fours in the driveway, filled the tank, and flushed. Just as our new neighbours went by.

They didn’t let us explain. For some reason they still keep to themselves. I don’t get it.

Any other toilet stories out there?

But wait, I have more. Stay tuned for “Toilet Trepidation: Number Two”, coming next week. Not for the faint of heart.

Confessions of an Undercounter Lurker

August 10, 2011August 10, 2011 / Diane Henders / 18 Comments

I’m an ice cream addict, and my nephew recently offered to let me hide under the Dairy Queen counter so he could feed me any treats he’d made wrong. Little did he know that lurking under counters is not a new activity for me. (And I didn’t enlighten him. There are some things a fifteen-year-old doesn’t need to know.)

If you’d told me twenty years ago that I’d spend a substantial amount of time on my knees under co-workers’ desks, I’d probably have slapped you. And a few years later, I’d have had to apologize. Because I ended up doing exactly that.

Wait a minute. If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, not exactly that. Jeez.

For a lot of years, the joke around the office was, “If you can’t find Diane, look under your desk”. I was working as a network administrator, and I spent far too much time hunched under desks, connecting and disconnecting various computer-related plugs and cables.

Aside from the carnivorous dust bunnies, I didn’t mind having to crawl around on the floor frequently. I hate dressing up, and it gave me an excuse to never wear a skirt to work (or any particularly nice clothes, for that matter).

And it was peaceful down there. Nice and dark and quiet. Sometimes it was tempting to just hole up for the day and spout incomprehensible technical jargon if challenged. Kind of like a deranged techno-troglodyte: “Back! Back, I say! Or I’ll ping your IP ‘til your CAT5 sizzles like an electrocuted snake! I’ll FDISK your drive ‘til it can’t find its FAT with both hands! RAM! FAP! Buwahahaha!”

I can’t understand why my coworkers always seemed… wary.

I’ve actually hidden under a desk to avoid people, too. I prefer to call it “a clever strategic decision”, not “cowardice”, but you can form your own judgement.

I was hiding from my ex-husband. Who had just encountered my brand-new boyfriend at the door to my house. There was a dog and a bag of cherries involved. Let’s just say it was complicated.

I couldn’t decide whether it would be worse to make an appearance and potentially exacerbate the situation, or to get caught huddling under my desk. How do you explain hiding like a kid, when you’re thirty-three years old? “Um, I just dropped something…” Ten minutes ago, when the doorbell rang for the first time. Yeah, right.

Anyway, I didn’t get caught, both the dog and the cherries ended up where they belonged, and both males departed unscathed, if not unruffled. I like to think I made the right decision on that one.

I’m going to skip the Dairy Queen gig, though. Wouldn’t want this undercounter thing to become a habit.

Any other lurkers out there?

Update:

As Charles points out in the comments, you can’t just leave a situation with an ex-husband, new boyfriend, a dog, and a bag of cherries without explanation. So go for it. Use your imagination, and drop your best explanation of “what *might* have been” in the comments below. I’ll pick a winner next Wednesday and send out a (probably not so) magnificent prize.