humour

It’s… Alive!

/ Diane Henders / 15 Comments

According to scientists, life is nothing more than zillions of electrical impulses zapping through a lump of meat.  Plants show measurable electrical activity, too.

This makes me wonder.

If life is really just electrical impulses, are our electronic devices alive?  It would certainly explain a lot. 

I tend to talk to inanimate objects.  Sometimes with great feeling and vigour.  At high volume.  Usually involving phrases like “piece of shit”.  Lately, though, I’ve been rethinking my approach.  It all started with my car. 

Several years ago, we stayed overnight in Banff.  The temperature dropped to minus 30, and my husband went out to start the car while I waded through the checkout process in the hotel lobby.  Some time later, he shivered his way back into the lobby to inform me that the car was completely dead.  The engine wouldn’t turn over.  It didn’t even click.  It was frozen solid.

I’ve always been a pigheaded git, so I had to see for myself.  The fact that we’re still married is a testament to my husband’s tolerance. 

I slid into the driver’s seat, patted the car’s dashboard, and crooned, “Poor little car!  It’s just too cold for you, isn’t it?”  Then I turned the key.  The car started instantly.

Coincidence?  I think not.  There’s more.

We have an ancient boat-anchor of a printer.  It’s slightly younger than I am, and weighs almost as much.  It’s gradually becoming more and more temperamental, but we put up with it because I can buy the toner super-cheap on eBay, and because I have moral objections to purchasing a new duplexing colour laser printer whose toner cartridges cost more than the printer itself.

The printer moans, groans, jams, inexplicably has errors that require a restart, and frequently fails to print one or more colours.  While this has resulted in some truly interesting magenta-toned images, it’s really not all that useful.  And it’s damn frustrating when you’re trying to print under any sort of deadline.

Applying my newfound understanding of electronic sentience, I stopped swearing at it several months ago.  Instead, I pat it gently and chirp encouragement.  This has three purposes. 

Firstly, I’m sucking up to the printer just in case it’s listening.  Secondly, it keeps my blood pressure down.  And lastly, it drives my husband bonkers when the printer cooperatively spits out copy after copy for me, and then locks up solid with an insolent grinding sound as soon as he tries to print something. 

Yeah, he still swears at it.

Sadly, baby-talking the printer also makes me look like a complete moron, but what the hell, I’ve never been overendowed with dignity.  And it’s really nice when the printer works.

Do you talk to your electronics?  Do they talk back?  Are they… alive?

Die-Hard Bob Seger Fan

/ Diane Henders / 12 Comments

This past week, I was in Toronto to see Bob Seger in concert.  For me, Bob Seger has always been (and probably will always be) the complete package.  The music, the lyrics, the voice – nobody else quite measures up.

I’ve been a fan for a few decades, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen him live.  When I found out he was coming to Toronto, I bought my concert ticket and booked my flight from Calgary ASAP.  Could I afford it?  Not really.  Did I think twice about it?  Hell, no.  He’s saying that this might be his last tour, and I was willing to do whatever it took to see him.

Little did I know.

First, there was the cost of the concert ticket and the plane ticket, as well as taking four days off to get to a Tuesday-night concert on the other side of the country.  No problem.

Trying to save a bit of money, I stayed with a friend in her studio apartment.  I slept in a narrow walkway on the floor, on a makeshift bed of two cushions scavenged from the loveseat.  I’m 5’10”.  The loveseat?  About 4’6”.  But it was fine once I stuffed a chair cushion under my feet.

Her two cats had never witnessed someone sleeping on the floor.  I was thoroughly and frequently inspected.  I sleep on my back, which would be an unimportant piece of information unless you also know that the cats’ climbing tree was right beside the spot where I slept.  You don’t know the meaning of “rude awakening” until a six-pound cat drops from a great height to land on your unprotected belly at three o’clock in the morning.  Lucky thing I really like cats.

My friend kindly offered to pick me up after the concert, reasoning that it would be difficult to catch a cab downtown at that hour on a Tuesday night.  I stood at the corner of Bay Street and the Gardiner Expressway waiting for her, watching the long line of cabs whisk all the other concert-goers home.  The parking lot across the street emptied.  Soon I stood completely alone in the darkness in an unfamiliar city.  It was okay.  I only had one proposition, and he graciously took no for an answer.

On the way home, I was singled out for the “random” physical search at the airport.  Four out of the last five times I’ve flown, I’ve been chosen for this search, so I have to question the randomness of the selection process.  Normally, I’d be mildly flattered that they can’t keep their hands off my body, but… really?

I figure the Airport Authority is missing a huge customer-service opportunity here.  If I have to get groped, they should offer me a lineup of attractive security guys to choose from.  Getting felt up could at least be an enjoyable experience.

As my plane descended in Calgary, I kept glancing out the window and seeing only whiteness.  “Must be low overcast,” I said to myself.  The jolt of wheels on landing strip alerted me to the fact that there really was only whiteness out there.  A foot of snow had fallen the previous night.  I wore runners.

It was the best trip ever.

Seriously.  I loved every minute of the concert.  He put on a great show, and the joy of being there was well worth a few minor inconveniences.  I didn’t come down from my concert high (non-chemically-induced, thank-you) for days.  Hell, I’d pay good money to hear Bob Seger sing anything.  Even “Happy Birthday”.

Any other Seger fans out there?  What’s your best/worst concert experience?

Possum Panini

/ Diane Henders / 9 Comments

The other day in our staff meeting, we started talking about roadkill.  Don’t ask why.  Let’s just say that our staff meetings are rarely predictable.  The conversation devolved, not only to roadkill, but to the eating thereof. 

And Sharon blurted out “Possum panini!”

And I said, “You know, that just sounds naughty.  It’s like you’re using a euphemism for an itty-bitty possum  p…”

Subsequent embellishments on this theme left us holding our sides and weeping tears of laughter/agony.  It took awhile before we actually got back to business.

Afterwards, I started thinking about the oddities of the English language.  Some words just sound… rude.  Even if they’re not.  Lists of these have already been compiled, by people far more eloquent and twisted than I.  Just Google “words that sound dirty but aren’t”.  Hell, there’s even a Facebook group.

It’s easy to see why most of those words made the lists.  They’re pretty close to other words that generally don’t get used in polite company.  But certain “innocent” words bother me, too.  Here are a few:

Flaccid – Maybe because the “fla-” phonetic is an onomatopoeia for the sound of a limp dead fish being slapped against a hard surface?  I dunno.  The word just grosses me out.

Flabby – Probably because it’s flaccid’s cousin, but jigglier.  You know what I mean.  We’re talkin’ Jello smacked against a hard surface.  Same sound effect, different visual.

Puce – Maybe because it looks/sounds too much like “puke”?  Because it means “flea” in French?  Because it’s part of the word “prepuce”?  Because it’s necessary to wrinkle your nose when you pronounce it?  “Peeuuwss…”  So many possibilities, but it offends me on some deep level.  It seems to me that the colour it describes should be revolting snot-green, not dark brownish-purple.

Juggernaut – I haven’t a clue why, but this word just annoys me.

Scenario – Seems filled with self- importance.  It reminds me of the clichéd B-movie villain twirling his moustache and chortling.  Mustachio?  Scenario?  Maybe there’s some association there.

Indeed – I know the reason for my antipathy towards “indeed”.  A certain writer for a certain magazine uses it so frequently that I’ve developed a permanent allergy.  I’ve wanted to write a letter to the editor for about three years now, but I can’t figure out a way to do it without sounding like a wack job.  So I included it here instead.  Somehow it’s more acceptable to look like a wack job on my own blog.

Despite my hang-ups, I still use these words when necessary.  When it’s the right word, ya gotta use it.  Well, except “juggernaut”.  I draw the line at that.

What about you?  What words drive you crazy for no particular reason?  Or am I the only one with this problem?

Hangin’ in the Men’s WC

/ Diane Henders / 21 Comments

Let me tell you about my experiences lurking in men’s washrooms.  Carrying a measuring tape.

First, I have to say that men’s washrooms are (sorry, guys) disgusting.  There’s piss everywhere.  And those urinal pucks with the pubic hairs stuck in them?  Eeeuuw.

You may argue that, as a female, I should stay out of men’s washrooms, and that if I don’t like what I see in there, it’s my own damn fault.  This would be entirely true, if not for the fact that it was part of my job to be in there.  Yeah, with a measuring tape.

This was back in the dark days when I was still attempting to be an interior designer.  I’d gotten a friggin’ bachelor’s degree in it.  Thesis and all.  Trouble was, I sucked at it.  Hard.  The only reason I scraped through with the degree was because I kicked ass in all the academic subjects (the ones that dealt with real, objective facts). 

I couldn’t design my way out of a paper bag.

This wasn’t as much of an impediment as you might think.  I worked for a design firm that specialized in commercial spaces – offices, hotels, restaurants, and so forth.  A very large part of that type of work involves long, tedious hours measuring the sites and doing technical drawings.  I was excellent at that part.  And all the other designers hated it.  It was the perfect symbiotic relationship.

Which leads to me lurking in men’s washrooms carrying a measuring tape.  Because when you’re doing renovations, the whole damn place needs to be measured.

I had a system.

First, I’d hover outside the door for several minutes.  If a guy actually arrived to use the washroom, I’d ask him to scout it out for me.  I really had no desire to catch anybody with their pants down.

But usually, I was on my own.  After a decent interval, I’d knock on the door and call out.  If there was no response, I’d stick a sign on the door, “Temporarily closed – come back in 15 minutes.”

That usually worked.  But every now and then, some preoccupied guy would blow right past the sign and barrel into the washroom.  He’d usually get about half unzipped before he realized I was there.  Then there’d be this frozen deer-in-the-headlights moment, while his gaze darted between my female presence and the partially extended measuring tape in my hand.

We’d lock eyes for a second, both of us with tools half-unfurled.

Then there was usually some embarrassed mumbling, a half-assed explanation, and a hasty retreat on his part.  Sometimes they just fled without a word.  Frankly, that was more entertaining for me.  But I have a nasty streak.

While I’m on the subject, there were a couple of other things that I invariably found entertaining about washrooms.  The first was the colour scheme (excluding piss-yellow, which isn’t entertaining at all).  I was truly amazed by how many places stuck with the tried and true pink-for-girls, blue-for-boys colour scheme.  Really?  For adults?  In a business setting?

But for me, the best part was the condom dispensers.  In those fine establishments that provided this helpful service, it was always the same.  In the men’s, the condoms were always labelled “extra large” or some other turgid (or perhaps I should say tumid) adjective.

In the women’s they were always labelled “slim fit”.

I’m not even gonna go there. 

I’m just sayin’.

Anybody else got bathroom stories?  Ever walked into the wrong one by mistake?  Or on purpose?  Inquiring minds want to know.