life

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!

Suitably Embarrassed

/ Diane Henders / 47 Comments

A while ago Carrie Rubin posted “My Closet Has Skeletons – Literally”, in which she offered blog awards to those brave enough to post photos of their own closet-cleanout detritus.

I can’t resist the opportunity to accumulate blogging awards and public humiliation simultaneously, so here goes…

I hate waste and clutter.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve cleaned out my closet over the years, ruthlessly culling clothes and shipping them off to charity.  If it doesn’t fit right, isn’t in style, or I haven’t worn it recently, out it goes, no matter how much I paid for it or how much I loved it at the time.

But every now and then I get caught in an embarrassing bout of hoarding.

I got this suit sometime in the late 80s or early 90s; I can’t remember.  The pants still fit, which leads me to believe that it looked just as ridiculous when I wore it regularly as it does now.  The photo fails to capture the enormous bagginess of the rear.  (The pants’ rear, not mine.  I have no ass to speak of.)

But it’s linen (the suit, I mean).  It feels wonderful and I love the colour (it’s nicer than the photo).  And, hello, it still fits twenty-odd years later.

Please excuse my geeky expressions – as I’ve noted before, I’m NOT photogenic. And I have never worn the suit in public with white socks, either. Promise.

Please excuse my geeky expressions – as I’ve noted before, I’m NOT photogenic. And I have never worn the suit in public with white socks, either. Promise.

Somehow the suit has survived all those culls even though I know:

a) it doesn’t look good on me now;

b) it probably never looked good on me;

c) it’s not fashionable;

d) it probably wasn’t fashionable when I wore it;

e) the probability of it ever becoming fashionable is roughly on par with the probability of Oprah hiring me as her fashion consultant; and

f) even if it did become fashionable again, I probably wouldn’t wear it because, let’s face it, it doesn’t look good on me.

So I tried it on, snickered, got Hubby to snap those incriminating photos… and then tenderly tucked it back into my closet.

I’m embarrassed.

Hubby is my exact opposite.

He putters happily around his man-cave surrounded by his “stuff”. He’s completely unfazed by the knowledge that he’ll likely never need, use, or even look at 90% of the stuff he’s hoarding.  He might need it someday, and that’s good enough for him.

And I acknowledge the wisdom of his approach every time I throw something away and then discover I need it two days after the garbage truck has come and gone.

But I can’t overcome my need to organize and throw away.  Except for my linen suit.

I prefer to call this “loyalty”, not “irrational hoarding”.

Are you a thrower-outer or a pack rat?  And please tell me I’m not the only one clinging to an unsuitable, unflattering, useless item…

P.S. I’m still in Manitoba this week, and I thought I’d offer you folks in southern climes a small opportunity to gloat.  Welcome to mid-April in southern Canada:

Yes, this is unusual even for us.

And it’s snowing again today. Yes, this is unusual even for us.

Boot To The Head

/ Diane Henders / 33 Comments

I have an embarrassing confession to make.  But first, a bit of background information:

You may recall I mentioned getting hit during a sparring session a couple of weeks ago.  Thanks to everyone for the good wishes; my eye is back to normal now except for a bit of blurriness and a few festive sparkles remaining in my peripheral vision.  The doc has assured me it will clear and that my retina is now no more likely to detach than before I got hit, so I’m cleared for takeoff again.

However.

A few days ago, Hubby sent me this:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9g1Z3V0QBpg&feature=youtu.be

The soundtrack (excluding Unchained Melody) is from a Canadian comedy troupe called The Frantics*, from their 1987 album titled “Boot To The Head”.  The performers are martial artists, and the skit was put on at a martial arts convention in 2008.

Needless to say, I laughed my ass off.

Those guys were just clowning around, but the truth is I can’t approach that level of skill even when I’m trying my best.

Apparently I have some rare learning disability that prevents me from putting on my hand wraps correctly even after being shown repeatedly.  My striking and blocking technique could be matched by an inebriated orangutan, but the orangutan would be more graceful.  Every minute or two, I have to stop and gasp for breath until my heart rate slows to panicked-gerbil range.

The sad truth is that I punched myself in the eye.

I had my guard up, with my face tucked down safely behind my upraised fists.  I was supposed to be sparring with my trainer, which actually meant that he danced around me taunting, “Hit me, go on, hit your trainer!” while he dodged my wild swings, laughing and sticking out his tongue and doing everything but wiggling his ears.

(I’d like to note that he’s a big guy with a much longer reach than me.  And he’s an experienced fighter.   And about 20 years younger.  This disclaimer is just a feeble attempt to retain a few shreds of my tattered dignity. Now back to our regular programming…)

He was tapping my guard approximately as fast as a boxer hitting a speed bag:  whap-whap-whap-whap-whap.  While he laughed.  And dodged.  And made faces.

I started to laugh, too.  And I didn’t hold my guard strongly enough.  And he hit my left hand.  And my glove flew back and I punched myself in the eye.

I hardly felt it.  I’m so focused when I’m sparring that I don’t feel much pain until afterward anyway, but this didn’t even leave a mark.  If it had been anywhere else on my body, I wouldn’t have noticed it at all – that’s how lightly he was hitting.

But apparently the angle was perfect, and the next morning I was off to the eye doctor with floaters and bright flashes and blurry vision.

Just goes to show that I’m unlikely to achieve my life’s ambition, which is to NOT die of my own stupidity.

But “injured in a sparring accident” makes me sound like a badass if you don’t know the inconvenient truth.  Maybe that’s why Hubby also sent me this in the same email:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vaVtSES6esQ&feature=youtu.be

At least I prefer to think that’s why he sent it…

Anybody else suffer klutzy sports moments?  Please tell me I’m not the only one.

* * *

I’ve set this up to post automatically since I’m on the road today – another 800-mile marathon across the prairies, woohoo!  (No, I’m not being facetious; I love the drive.)  But I won’t have time to respond to comments today, so I’ll catch up tomorrow instead.  “See” you then…

*The Frantics were best known for their song, “Boot To The Head”, to which they added new and different rants at each live show:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZljpTx_tJ78&feature=youtu.be

Covering My Ass

/ Diane Henders / 29 Comments

I expend a great deal of effort just trying to cover my ass.

I mentioned my disastrous bathing suit debacle in an earlier post, and at the time I noted that I’m very careful about my rear view these days.

Not careful enough, apparently.

The other day I bent over to retrieve something from the bottom of the fridge, and Hubby said, “Oh, nice look.”

With a feeling of impending doom, I said, “Thanks.  Um… what exactly do you mean…?”

Sure enough, the yoga pants that are my daily office uniform had succumbed to the pressure.  It wasn’t noticeable as long as I stood upright, but as soon as I bent over, there was my ass for all the world to see through the dreaded transparent spandex mesh.  (No, the pants weren’t Lululemon – check out notquiteold’s funny Yoga Porn post for more on that.)

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised.  Ever since I was a kid, the butt-end of my pants was always the first to go.  All the other kids wore through the knees, but my jeans were perfect in every way… except for the patches on the rear.

I once wore out the backside of a new-ish pair of jeans in one day, but that was a special case – I was shingling a roof and I didn’t have knee pads.  When my knees gave out I finished the job shuffling along on my butt, which was a bad idea in many respects.  Quite apart from damage to clothing, if you’ve ever installed asphalt shingles, you know about those nasty little spiky bits that stick into your flesh like needles.  Try extracting those from areas you can’t really see without a mirror and some uncomfortable contortions.

But getting back to the point…

A couple of years ago I tore a muscle kickboxing.  A muscle in an uncomfortable and embarrassing place:   right at the top of my hamstring.

Which is polite way to say “my ass”.

I didn’t go for physiotherapy.  I just couldn’t bring myself to beg my (young male) physiotherapist to rub my butt.  Worse still, to pay my young male physiotherapist to rub my butt.  It just smacked of desperate cougar-dom.

Anyway, the muscle gradually healed on its own, but it still gives me trouble occasionally.  In the past few months it’s been sore.  I’ve been ignoring it because, hell, if I woke up one morning and nothing hurt, I’d check the obituaries to make sure I hadn’t died in the night.

But eventually it occurred to me that perhaps there was an underlying cause.

Sure enough, when I had a close look at the desk chair I’d been sitting in for the past three years, there was absolutely no padding left in the seat.  It was just a bum-shaped fabric-covered bowl with solid (and extremely hard) wood underneath.

Which probably explains the destruction of my yoga pants, mercilessly grinding between the unyielding bones of my ass and the unyielding seat of my chair.

Now I have a new chair and new yoga pants, but I know I’m solving the wrong problem here.

Anybody know where I can get a new butt?

* * *

P.S. Thanks to everybody for your concern over my eye. (For those who didn’t hear, I got hit kickboxing on Sunday and spent most of Monday waiting to find out if I might end up with a detached retina. I wasn’t even fighting; it was just a stupid accident during an easy sparring session.)  Everything seems fine so far – my eye is still a little achy and scratchy, but my vision is back to normal and the doc has cleared me for easy workouts.  But no kickboxing for a while.  *sigh*

Just Like A Normal Person

/ Diane Henders / 28 Comments

This has been a seriously weird week for me.  For the first time in three years, I don’t have anything to write.

That’s not to say I don’t have work in progress; I do.  I’ve begun planning Book 7 of my series, and Book 6, “A Spy For A Spy” is with my editors.  My next blog compilation, “Definitely Inappropriate” is scheduled for mid-May.

But this week, there wasn’t any actual writing to be done for any of those projects.

I don’t know what to do with myself.  Seven days a week I’m up between six and six-thirty and at my desk by eight, cup of tea in hand.  I usually stay submerged until ten o’clock at night, with occasional breaks for meals and meetings and family/social responsibilities and workouts at the gym.

But this week, I’ve been dealing with my business email and bookkeeping, reading the news and a few blog posts, and then wandering aimlessly away from the computer by nine or ten AM because there’s nothing left to do.

I’ve read eight books in three days.  I’ve baked bread and cookies and made granola and three kinds of soup in addition to our usual meals.  I’ve listened to music and done some sewing and gone to the gym and gone for walks.  I’ve done jigsaw puzzles online and surfed YouTube for hours, digging out obscure Dr. Hook videos from the 70s.

I’ve planned a trip and organized the tools I’ll need to install a hardwood floor at my step-mom’s house in April.  I’ve worked on marketing campaigns for my books.  I’ve cut Hubby’s hair (yes, he asked me to – I’m not quite desperate enough to force him into something like that).  I’ve even *gasp* watched a couple of movies.

And I’ve left the house and actually interacted with other human beings, too.  I went to a car show and a blues jam and to the pub with friends.

Even after all that, I’m still wandering around like a lost soul.  I keep trailing back to the computer in case some important task has materialized while I was gone.

I guess this is what it’s like to be “normal”.  I’m doing my best to relax into it, but I have a sense of impending doom.  I feel as though I’ve forgotten to do something really, really important and soon disaster will strike because of my negligence.

It reminds me of one of my trips to the doctor many years ago.  After a battery of lung-function tests, the specialist smiled at me and said, “You act just like a normal person.”

I said, “Can I get that in writing?”

But on later reflection, I realized he hadn’t actually said I was normal.  He only said I fake it convincingly.

So I’m faking it for all I’m worth this week, but normalcy clearly doesn’t suit me.  I can hardly wait to go back to communing with the voices in my head for hours a day.

If I was a normal person, I might be worried about that…

Is anybody else living a “normal” life?  Tell me, what’s it like?

* * *

Woohoo!  The cover for Book 6 is ready!  Check it out on my Books page.

I Don’t Get No Respect

/ Diane Henders / 45 Comments

As I mentioned a few weeks ago, I’ve been feeling under-respected lately.  And the more I think about it, the more I realize it’s not just a recent thing.

In school, I was known as the smart kid in the class.  Anybody who’s ever been a kid knows that “smart” is not a highly-regarded quality in the schoolyard.  Fortunately I was also a jock so I didn’t suffer too badly, but it was a relief to go on to university where “smart” would get some respect.

Little did I know.

I actually wanted to go into engineering, but my parents convinced me that a) I shouldn’t neglect my artistic side; b) my brother was already in engineering and I shouldn’t compete; and c) interior design would be a better career for me because when I got married and had a family, I could make the house look nice for my husband.

As wince-worthy as that advice is now, it was well-meant at the time and like the dutiful daughter I was, I followed it.

Interior design was not a good fit.  *cue uproarious laughter at the understatement of the century*

I was really good at the technical side.  I totally sucked at the design part.

Whenever somebody asked me what I did for a living, I cringed.  When I told them, their instant reaction was to pat me on the head and tell me how nice and girly it was for me to make houses pretty.

I spent far too much time explaining that no; interior decorators only pick pretty colours.  Interior designers take a brutal four-year university bachelor’s degree, draft plans and construction details for walls, casework, and millwork, know the ins and outs of building codes and fire codes, supervise construction sites, and administer complex project tenders and contracts.  And they pick pretty colours.

Unless they’re me.  Then they get one of the other designers to pick pretty colours for them.

After twelve excruciating years, I switched to IT, which suited me much better.  You’d think that would garner some respect, but it turns out that announcing you’re a computer geek stops conversations dead.  People’s eyes dart sideways, they mumble, “I don’t know anything about computers”, and then they flee.

You’d think I was trying to engage them in a rousing discussion about PPPoE protocol or something.

Okay, fine.  So now I’m an author.

When I tell people that, they recoil as if I’d just stuck my hand down my pants and started smiling and humming.  Usually they mutter something to the effect of “Oh, God, another author” and flee.

Or they pat me on the head and tell me how nice and girly it is for me to write pretty little romances.

Uh.

Have you seen my books?

So I give up.  From now on when people ask me what I do, I’m going to tell them I’m a cannibalistic serial killer.  And that they’re looking particularly tasty today.

They’ll still flee, but at least I’ll get a laugh out of it.

Anybody else getting respect for their career?  Please… tell me what it’s like…

* * *

Many thanks to Shree over at Heartsongs for nominating me for the Liebster and One Lovely Blog awards!  To (kinda) fulfill the requirements of the awards, here’s a link to a couple of posts with obscure facts about me, and please pop over to visit my favourite bloggers – they’re in the blogroll at the right.  Thanks!

Stand Back: Brain Farts!

/ Diane Henders / 40 Comments

My brain has apparently been eating ‘way too many beans lately.  The brain farts are getting embarrassing.

The past few weeks I’ve been totally immersed in finishing Book 6 in the Never Say Spy series.  Who knew fiction writing could cause such nasty brain flatulence?  Must be all the fibre in the pages.

The other night I slid into bed and Hubby said, “Oh, are you finished in the bathroom already?”

I stared at him blankly for a moment.  No, I wasn’t wondering ‘Who are you and what are you doing in my bed?’  I wake up in the middle of the night to do that.  Seriously.  It’s the weirdest feeling.

But getting on with the story…

I realized I’d completely forgotten to wash my face and brush my teeth.  So I got out of bed, went to the bathroom… and put on deodorant.

Shortly thereafter, I had a session with my muay thai trainer.  I’ve been going to the gym regularly for quite a few years, and when I realize it’s time to go I often leap up from my computer without fully disengaging my brain.  (Yes, actually, that is quite painful.  Thanks for asking.)  So before I leave home,  I perform a short ritual similar to the Catholic “Spectacles-Testicles-Wallet-And-Watch” to confirm that I have my shorts, running shoes, gym card, and hair elastic.

Knowing I’d be distracted that day, I took extra care , double-checking to make sure I had everything before I left.  So I arrived, full of pride, with the four things on my checklist.  But… without my hand wraps, boxing gloves, water bottle, or shin guards.  Smooth.  Very smooth.

Several days later, I booked an appointment with my accountant.  I had just completed a marathon 14-hour writing session the previous day and I was coming into the home stretch with the final chapters.  I knew I was going to be distracted.

I repeated the appointment time to myself and to Hubby several times, beginning two days prior to the appointment.  I put the appointment in my computer calendar with a popup reminder and an audible alarm.  The night before, I reminded myself again:  “Appointment at 11:00 AM tomorrow.”  The morning of the appointment, I got out of bed and reminded myself, “I have to get up from the computer at 10:00 AM to get ready for my meeting.”

When I looked at the clock next, it was 11:15.  Much grovelling ensued.

You’d think I’d have learned my lesson.  But no.

Only a few hours later, I was heading out to the gym.  Not because I’d remembered it; simply because it’s muscle memory after all these years.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve arrived at the gym and begun my workout only to wake up and go, “Shit, I didn’t feel like doing this today.  I was going to skip it…”

Anyway, I was getting changed before I left home and I forgot to put on my bra.  Fortunately the bathroom is upstairs, and by the time I got downstairs it had become uncomfortably obvious that I wasn’t being supported in the manner to which I am accustomed.

My final draft should be finished and out to my editors/beta readers this week, after which I’ll be able to return to a state that passes for normalcy (at least for me).  I shudder to think what other gaffes I may commit in the interim.

I think it’s time to get a T-shirt: “ Beware:  Brain Farts.  Keep back 15m.”

Anybody else suffer from brain flatulence?  And please tell me I’m not the only one who wakes up wondering “Who are you and what are you doing in my bed?”

* * *

I’m doing another Goodreads giveaway this week:  Two signed copies of Never Say Spy are up for grabs.  Follow this link to enter the contest!

I’m Losing It…

/ Diane Henders / 43 Comments

*F-BOMB ALERT* – CONTAINS (more) COARSE LANGUAGE (than usual)

Motorcycle season is still a few months away, but I think it might be time to get out my boots and leathers anyway.  In the past couple of weeks, I’ve been referred to as “dear”, “little”, and “girl”.  I’m in serious danger of losing my badass self-image.

Note I said “self-image”.  In reality, I’m probably more good-ass than badass, but I’m a loyal and happy resident of the state of delusion.  I like it here.  I’m staying as long as I can.

My image crisis started in a restaurant in Parksville, BC.  The ten-year-old (okay, fine, maybe she was eighteen) waitress called me “dear”.  Repeatedly.  Just like the group of sweet little old ladies beside me.  Granted, I don’t know if they actually were sweet.  I couldn’t overhear their conversation, so maybe they were swearing like sailors and swapping stories of their latest sexual conquests.  I kinda hope so.

But the point is, she called me “dear”.

And just like Rodney Dangerfield, I don’t get no respect.  Later at the airport baggage carousel, I was waiting for my luggage when a guy pushed past and stood right in front of me.

Hey, buddy, am I fucking invisible?

I wistfully contemplated giving him a nice solid elbow strike to the back of the head, but I had a feeling my apparent invisibility wouldn’t fool the security cameras.

Then “little” and “girl” got thrown at me at the gym.  At 5’10” and 48 years old, neither of those words have applied to me for a very long time.  I’m willing to concede that “little” might have been a comparative term since it was used by my muay thai instructor, who’s over six feet of muscle.  It wasn’t like I was going to argue with him.

But then I was waiting behind a couple of guys at the security gate to the change rooms, and one turned to the other and said, “Let the girl go first.”

I glanced around just to be sure, but I was the only female in the vicinity.  What the hell was that?  “The girl”?  Reminded me of the “good” old days, when the boss used to say, “I’ll have my girl do it.”

Just to be clear, I’m not necessarily offended by being called a girl.  In fact, one of my most treasured compliments was one I overheard a couple of years ago when I was at a show & shine (outdoor classic car show, for those who aren’t car nuts).  I was checking out a 1970 Challenger with the 426 big-block when I overheard a guy behind me:  “There’s a girl over by the car that just makes you wanna…”  His more politically correct companion interrupted with the words, “…go over and say hello.”

I checked surreptitiously, but again, I was the only female in the vicinity.  At 46, I took it as a high compliment, cheerfully ignoring the possibility that I might have misinterpreted his sentence structure and it was actually the car that made him wanna.  Hey, I don’t judge.  There were lots of cars there that made me wanna.

But I digress.  My point is, short of starting to spew f-bombs publicly (and as I mentioned before, I’m too Canadian to do that), I need to find a way to polish up my badass image.

Wonder if the gym’s dress code allows boots and leathers?

Skipping Down Memory Lane

/ Diane Henders / 48 Comments

I have the strangest selective memory of anyone I know.  It usually plays back as smoothly as a good LP (kids, look that up). I have a few minor pops and crackles, but it’s generally fine.

And then suddenly my needle skips a track.

I can effortlessly spout off all my credit card numbers with expiry dates and PINs.  I even remember my very first Mastercard number from nearly 30 years ago.  If you’re interested in the value of pi to 9 digits accuracy or the torque spec for my lug nuts or my grandparents’ phone number from the late 1960s, they’re instantly retrievable.  I also know all my business and personal bank account numbers, PINs and access codes… except one.

For reasons known only to my brain, that one bank account number won’t stick.  Usually I can look at a number a few times and it’s effortlessly stored, but no matter how many times I try to memorize that one, it just won’t stay with me.

I take a pill for acid reflux every night.  Literally within minutes of swallowing it, I forget I’ve taken it.  So I’ve developed a system.  I take the pill, and then I eat a cracker.  I can never remember taking the pill, but I always remember eating the cracker.  Don’t ask me why it works, but it does.  I’m afraid to question it.

And then there are the not-so-shared memories.  One of my siblings will begin, “Do you remember when…”

I don’t.  Ever.

And it’s not just obscure reminiscences.  A few years ago, the conversation turned to grade school, and somebody (I can’t remember who, go figure) asked me, “Do you remember when you beat up (name redacted to protect the guilty)?”

I didn’t.

The guy in question was four years older and twice my size, and apparently I got in trouble.  You’d think something like that would’ve stuck in my mind, but I have absolutely no recollection of it (though I’ll proudly claim the victory just on general principles).

My dad once said, “While everybody else is still thinking about it, Diane’s already got it done.”  I took it as a compliment, but the truth is I’m not exceptionally industrious or dedicated.  I get things done simply because if I don’t do them as soon as they’re mentioned, I’ll forget about them completely.

I generally retain names with no trouble, but every now and then one vanishes, never to return.  I remember that my orthopedic surgeon’s first name is Kevin, even though I have never addressed him as Kevin or heard anyone else call him Kevin.  I saw it once on his office door, and I’ll know it forever more.  His last name escapes me despite the fact that I’ve referenced it repeatedly on various medical records for years.  I know it’s a common name that starts with ‘H’.  Every time I look it up, I think, “Aha.  Now I’ll remember it!”

I don’t.

Back in my interior design days, I once swore I’d never visited a building.  The drawing notations indicated I’d done the site measurement, but I was positive I’d never been there.  Until I stood in the lobby and went, “Oh.  Yeah…”

It’s a good thing I like surprises because with a memory like mine, I get lots of them.

Anybody else have a wonky memory?