life

I Like Young Guys

/ Diane Henders / 46 Comments

Fortunately, my husband is extremely tolerant and secure.  I had just gotten back from an appointment with my young male massage therapist when I announced, “I like young guys!”

Hubby grinned, said, “Yeah, and…?”, and waited for the explanation I hastened to supply.

I mean, I do like young guys; what’s not to like?  But I didn’t exactly mean it the way it came out.  What I meant was, as an old(er) woman with a brain that refuses to accept that I’m not twenty anymore, it’s really nice to work with my young male martial arts trainer, my young male massage therapist, and (when necessary) my young male physiotherapist.

Because they don’t give me any bullshit about how I shouldn’t be kickboxing, or I shouldn’t be shooting, or I should back off on my weights, or whatever.

My middle-aged GP was horrified when I told her I was kickboxing.  She issued me a prescription for a topical anti-inflammatory along with a severe admonition to quit.  While she was at it, she suggested I go a little easier on my weightlifting, too.

The surgeon who fixed the torn ligaments in my wrist a few years ago eyed me cynically and told me if I was going to kickbox, he’d see me in his office begging him to fuse my wrist in another few years.

I know they’re probably right; I just don’t want to hear it.

What the hell, I could get hit by a bus next week.  Then I’d be lying there dying in the road, all pissed off because I didn’t need those joints after all and I could’ve been kickboxing all along.

So instead of going to the doctor this time, I went to my massage therapist.  He listened to my description of my various aches and pains and said, “But do you like kickboxing?”  And when I said ‘Oh hell yeah’, he said, “Okay, you’re getting pain because your muscles are imbalanced here, here, and here.  Here’s how to fix that…”

He gave me exercises, stretches, a massage that made me writhe in agony but feel better afterward, and most importantly, encouragement.

My martial arts trainer does the same.  “Okay, you can’t bend your wrists.  That’s all right, you can do this on your knuckles.  Okay, you can’t kick today, so instead you’re going to learn two ways to break a guy’s arm and three ways to choke him.  And here are a couple of submission holds.”

I love these guys!

No, they aren’t irresponsible.  They’re professionals.  They make sure I understand the potential consequences of my actions… and when they realize I’m going for it, they cheer me on and find ways to make it happen.  They totally understand the ‘Go hard or go home’ mentality.

In a few years, I might look back on this and say “What the hell was I thinking?  I’m in constant pain now because I was a moron who didn’t have the brains to quit while she was ahead.”

But maybe not.  Maybe I’ll just grin.

Anybody else doing things you’ll regret later?

We’re All Naked

/ Diane Henders / 27 Comments

Ever since I had my giggle over the dick pic I found on the internet a few weeks ago, I’ve been thinking about nudity.  Yeah, welcome to my brain.  Sorry about that.

Due to the mysterious workings of the universe, last week I coincidentally discovered another instance of nudity that made me laugh myself silly(er).

I’m a Dr. Hook fan from away back.  ‘Waaaaay back in the 1970s.  Back when they were Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show, doing raunch ‘n’ roll that bore no resemblance whatsoever to their later mainstream hits.

So I was tremendously amused to find an old video of the Hook boys shit-faced, stark naked, and performing some “blues”.  *Warning for those who missed the words “stark naked” in the previous sentence:  Although the nether regions of the video are (mostly) blanked out, this link is NOT SAFE FOR WORK… or any other place where someone might be offended by the sight of drunk naked guys improvising scatological lyrics.

Which, admittedly, may prove rather limiting.

However.

After I picked myself up off the floor and dried my tears of laughter, I started thinking.  Is it funnier because they’re naked?  Hell, yeah.  Imagine the same video with clothes.  Funny, but not as over-the-top hilarious.

Why do we humans arbitrarily designate certain areas of our bodies as “Not To Be Revealed”?  Why are those areas considered so offensive that you can get arrested for showing them?  And why do some of us laugh when the naughty bits get accidentally exposed, while others are horrified?  (Unless the bits in question are exposed in Art, in which case we all stand around nodding seriously and looking constipated.)

Don’t get me wrong, I understand the practical advantages to covering up.  Those probably became agonizingly apparent the first time primitive man tried to step over a thorn bush.

But how did ‘Ow!  I’m gonna wrap some mastodon hide around that’ become ‘Don’t show that or you’re going to jail’?

Who decided nudity was “obscene”?  After all, as Sam the Eagle points out in one of my favourite Muppets skits, we’re all naked.  And aside from minor variations in size, shape, and colour, it’s pretty much a case of ‘If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all’.

Maybe it’s because we humans are such perverse creatures.  Tell us we can’t have something, and we’ll immediately devote huge amounts of time and energy to obtaining it.

So maybe the simple fact that we usually keep our goodies covered makes it that much more fun (or shocking, depending on your attitude) to sneak a peek.  Though by logical extension, that would mean most Canadians should faint at the sight of any exposed skin, since we’re pretty much bundled up eight months out of the year.

I dunno.  I guess, like some grown-up version of the “telephone” game we used to play as kids, somehow the message got garbled from ‘You don’t usually see that’ to ‘You shouldn’t see that’.  It would be interesting to see how long it would take for our taboos to melt away if nudity was more widespread.

So you folks down in the tropics give it a try and let me know how it goes, okay?  ‘Cause it’s still winter here, and it’ll be at least three months before I get my first forbidden glimpse of naked arms.

* * *

Why does our society make such a big deal of nudity?  Why are naked marble sculptures considered “art” but naked magazine photos are considered “pornography”? 

Or, if you’re not so much into the philosophical discussion:  Have you been to a place where nudity is acceptable/expected?

Ho-Ho-Hum

/ Diane Henders / 20 Comments

Christmas is over, and I’ve completed my annual pilgrimage to the mall.

No, not for Boxing Day shopping.  I don’t care if it’s “80% off, everything must go”.  I’ll cheerfully pay twice as much in January if it means I get to avoid anything resembling a retail outlet for the next week.

On the contrary, I engaged in a personal and private ritual I’ve upheld for the last fourteen years, ever since we moved into our house a few blocks away from the mall.

Each year, on Christmas Day, I stroll over to the mall to stand in awe and wonder, contemplating the grand sweep of empty parking lot.

Quite apart from the fact that wide-open spaces make me happy, I also enjoy the knowledge that it’s one day out of the year when most people get the day off.

I know there are lots of people still toiling behind the scenes.  Our wonderful police and emergency services are working harder than ever while the rest of us, freed from our common-sense work routines, rush around making sure we do as many life-threatening things as possible.  Meanwhile, our transit keeps moving and our communications systems keep talking and our passenger planes keep flying.

I’m thankful for all the people in essential services who keep our world running regardless of religious or secular holidays.

But the convenience stores were hard at it on Christmas Day, too.  Since when did it become “essential” for us to have immediate access to a bottle of pop or a pack of smokes?

Cue grumpy old woman:  ‘Way back when, there were no convenience stores (at least not in our neck of the woods).  All the stores were closed two days a week – always Sunday, and either Saturday or Monday.  Nobody died from potato-chip deprivation.

Granted, it was a little inconvenient if we were baking and we ran out of eggs or milk or something, but we planned ahead.  We kept enough on hand, and in the worst-case scenario, we did without.  After all, it was only a couple of days.

*gasp*

I know; it was primitive.

It was also… relaxing.

Don’t get me wrong, I take advantage of seven-day-a-week shopping like everybody else.  We all lead busy lives, and it’s great to be able to just pop in and grab what I need whenever I think of it.

It’s just that I like the idea of taking a break sometimes.  Forget “holy” days – nobody can agree on those anyway.  But wouldn’t it be nice to set aside a handful of days a year when everybody calls a halt?

I expect there would be an uproar from retailers and consumers and probably even workers at the mere suggestion that malls could close occasionally.  I won’t be surprised if very soon the Christmas Day closure becomes a thing of the past, too.

So, while it lasts, I go and enjoy the empty parking lot.

Slow down.  Take a breath.

Ho-ho-hum.

—————–

P.S. I’m giving away two signed copies of Never Say Spy over on Goodreads – the contest closes Jan. 1/13.  Pop on over if you’re interested!

End Of The World

/ Diane Henders / 35 Comments

Well, dang.  I’m still here.  Guess I’ll have to pay those Christmas bills after all.

It’s the official day of the end of the world and so far there’s no big bang or big flush or big pffftttt or whatever.  I’m a little unclear about whether the world was supposed to end last night at the stroke of midnight or tonight at the stroke of midnight, though, so maybe there’s still time.

And anyway, the Mayans weren’t specific about what time zone they were using.  Maybe the end of the world will creep around the globe following the time zones.  Just in case, I’m going to keep an eye on my blogging buddy AquaTom over in the UK.  He’s having an End of the World blog party today, so if he goes dark, I’ll know what’s coming.

You, too, can receive this special advance warning… or just pop over and to say hi.  Tom asked his readers to spread the word, so please consider this your invitation to the End of the World Party:

Come join the End Of The World party over at AquaTom Mansion

Come join the End Of The World party over at AquaTom Mansion

Tom suggested a few writing challenges to bring to the party, namely “The fun side to a bad hair day”, “Dashing through the snow”, and/or “The passing of time”, so here goes:

Bad Hair Day…

For me, a “bad hair day” is virtually indistinguishable from a “good hair day”.  I wash it and let it dry, and it always looks more or less the same.  I’m not sure whether that’s “good” or “bad”, but I’m trying to imagine what a truly “bad hair day” would be like.

I think Medusa must’ve had some seriously bad hair days.  I’ve never tried to wash a snake, but I suspect they wouldn’t be cooperative.  They probably wouldn’t take kindly to curlers, either.  And imagine the disasters on date night.  Even if she could find a guy who was smart enough not to look her in the face and turn to stone, even a simple kiss would be an exercise in frustration:  “No, no!  Bad, bad hair!  Stop biting the nice man!  Wait, come back, honey; they didn’t mean it!”

No wonder she was cranky.

* * *

Dashing Through The Snow…

When I was a teenager, I strapped on my cross-country skis one cold, clear night and dashed out across the pristine whiteness surrounding our farm.  Skiing was easy across the smooth, flat fields.  The moon was full and so brilliant that my shadow undulated along beside me.  The squeak of snow under my skis was the only sound.  It was breathtaking.

It was also stupid.

It was minus 30 degrees Celsius, and even though I’d put on my warm down jacket, I was only wearing blue jeans on my legs.  You may have heard the expression “freezing one’s ass”.  I did.  Along with my thighs.

To this day, if the temperature dips below minus 10, I have to wear ski pants because of the damaged circulation in those areas.  Not quite the delightful experience most people envision when singing “dashing through the snow”.  But…

With The Passing Of Time…

I’ve forgiven my teenage stupidity, and I still enjoy the lovely memory of that bright, silent night.  And hey, at the end of the world, that’s what counts, right?

Happy Apocalypse!

Blood Pressure And ShrinkyDinks

/ Diane Henders / 22 Comments

Every now and then I see things that tickle my funnybone.  Here are a few of the latest winners:

I found this sign beside a supermarket pharmacy.

I found this sign beside a supermarket pharmacy.

Thanks, but no thanks.  I’ve got more than enough blood pressure of my own after waiting in the interminable lineup.

* * *

I think somebody needed to look at this a little more closely before they approved the decal.

I think somebody needed to look at this a little more closely before they approved the decal.

Is it just me, or does that say “Stop quality driving”?  I think their cause has been widely adopted in Calgary.  Ain’t no quality driving here.

* * *

Saw this at the mall: “Elevator temporally out of order”

Saw this at the mall: “Elevator temporally out of order”

I guess it kept arriving before it left.  Or wait, is there a Tardis in there?  Ha, I knew Dr. Who would have to update his look eventually!

* * *

This next photo confronted me on a news page.  (I added the discreet black box just for your sakes, my dear readers.  If you prefer the full monty, I’ll send you the unaltered version in a plain brown wrapper… for a price.  That’s called “monetizing your blog”.)

Just like the Sesame Street song, “One of these things is not like the others…”

Just like the Sesame Street song, “One of these things is not like the others…”

There was just so much about the first glance that made me laugh:

  1. It’s a staid and proper news site (note the seriousness of the other four items).  Business and finance, world politics.  And it had a gratuitous dick on it.  *snickers like a ten-year-old*
  2. When you look at it closely… (No, look at the background.  Stop trying to peek under the black box.) …there are several women standing around in dresses1.  How often do you see a guy hanging his junk out full spread-eagle in a public place?  Without getting arrested, I mean.
  3. It’s “Most Popular” and “Recommended”.  Guys, imagine the prestige of having your manhood voted “Most Popular”.  I don’t seem to recall that particular honour being bestowed in our graduating class – I think we just had a plain old valedictorian.  But ours was a little backwater school, so what did we know?
  4. And… just in case you didn’t realize what you were looking at, they labelled it.  In big red letters:  “The penis”.  Dang, I never would’ve figured that out on my own.  But then again, maybe they felt clarification was necessary.  Having seen the unaltered photo, I can only conclude that it must have been chilly that day.

* * *

Or maybe their model had been using this product (which I found in the Michaels craft store, in case you’re looking for last-minute gift ideas):

I couldn’t even hold the camera still, I was laughing so hard.

I couldn’t even hold the camera still, I was laughing so hard.

* * *

Would you buy ShrinkyDinks?  Who/what was voted “Most Popular” in your graduating class?  Am I the only one who snickered childishly at the misplaced dick pic?

________________

1The women were my first clue, triggering a vague recollection from my years of studying art history.  I didn’t recognize it at first glance but it’s actually a photo of a statue, which changes everything.  As we all know, marble dicks (regardless of inappropriate camera angles and cropping) are Art, and therefore Not To Be Sniggered At.  If I had known, I would’ve treated the subject with due respect.  Probably.

But it was still pretty funny that it popped up (*snicker*) on the news site after I’d snapped the ShrinkyDinks only days before.

It’s Like Fishing, But Without The Beer

/ Diane Henders / 33 Comments

The Christmas shopping frenzy is upon us, and I’m observing the usual gender division.  The women are out in the malls snagging the perfect gift for everyone.  The men are at home watching TV and telling themselves they have lots of time.

On Christmas Eve the tables will turn, and throngs of empty-eyed men will wander the mall ten minutes before closing, reeking of desperation and despair.

And at midnight outside a convenience store, two men will wrestle over the last pine-scented air freshener because it’s Christmas-tree-shaped and therefore vaguely appropriate as a Christmas gift, and they will ask themselves, “Why do women do this?”

Well, it’s like fishing.

If you’re starving and you have to catch a fish in order to survive, it’s not fun; it’s work.

But if you’re fishing for the fun of it, there’s no greater joy than being out on the lake just tossing in your line.  You might not catch anything; you might catch and release; you might catch a tasty fish you’ll enjoy for supper that evening; or you might catch the biggest Holy-Shit-Look-At-The-Size-Of-That-Mother trophy fish of all time.

It doesn’t really matter.  It’s all about the process.  And the bragging rights.  And your buddies.  And the beer.

Some guys would happily go fishing every day, even though their freezer is full and they’ll probably end up throwing away some of the fish.  Some women would happily go shopping every day, even though their closet is full and the clothes will probably be out of style before they get around to wearing them.

Recreational shopping is extremely similar to the actual process of fishing.  We cruise the mall, dipping into the places where our quarry is most likely to lurk.  But sometimes the shopping gods turn their backs, and there’s nothing worth buying despite our skill and patience (no catch).

Other times, we reel in lovely things that are perfect in every way, but we don’t buy (catch and release).

Sometimes, we choose to take that tasty item home.

And every now and then, we score the most amazing deeply-discounted, absolutely perfect article that will be discussed with awe among our peers forever more.  The great grandmammy of bargains.  The holy grail.

Like fishing, there’s much discussion of the one that got away.  Right size, right price, wrong colour.  Screaming deal, sublime colour, wrong size.  The almost-perfection of the item increases with each telling, inspiring heartfelt commiseration from our buddies.

Here’s where the comparison begins to break down for me, though.  Most women are just as happy in a crowded mall as most guys are out on the lake.  I’m not.  The act of shopping simply isn’t rewarding enough for me to put up with a crowd.  I’ll pay for an item or I’ll engage in a fistfight for the item, but I refuse to do both.  I suspect most guys feel the same.

But that problem could be easily solved.

What malls really need is beer.  A mall-wide liquor permit, so you could wander around with a cold one in your hand.  They could set up beer-and-snack kiosks here and there, and put nice little stands next to the changing rooms so you could put your beer down without fear of spillage when you went in to try on clothes.

With a reward like that, I bet even the guys would shop early and often.

Am I right?

It’s Complicated…

/ Diane Henders / 33 Comments

Last week, I couldn’t decide what to eat for lunch until I looked at the weather forecast.  It wasn’t even as simple as needing to know what the current weather conditions were.  No, I needed a forecast.

On the weekend, we had discussed going to a swanky restaurant near our place on Tuesday night.  But on Monday, the weatherman forecasted a nice, warm, sunny Tuesday.  Prime opportunity to put up the Christmas lights when Hubby got home from work.

No, not so he could put up the Christmas lights; so he could hold the ladder while I put up the lights.  I’m taller than he is, and he’s afraid of heights.  I’m okay with heights, but I’m afraid of ladders unless he’s holding them.  We’re a team.

So I decided to cook a pot of stew Tuesday night so we wouldn’t have to run around trying to get the lights up before rushing off to our dinner reservation.  We agreed to go out Wednesday night instead.

But Tuesday’s forecast was wrong.  The temperature dropped steadily, a bone-cutting wind blew in from the east, and snow sifted down.  We lost interest in putting up the lights, but we ate at home and stuck with our plans for Wednesday.

Until evening, when we discovered it was supposed to dump snow overnight.  So we decided to wait and see what Wednesday morning was like before making the final decision on dinner.  Neither of us has any particular fear of driving in the snow; after all, we’re Canadian.  We’d have to confine our outings to ten minutes in August if we were afraid of driving in the snow.

But it’s annoying to fight the idiot drivers, so we tend not to actively seek out snow-driving.

Fast-forward (or, in the case of this blog post, “drag agonizingly toward an obscure but hopefully imminent conclusion”) to Wednesday noon.

I went downstairs for lunch, opened the fridge door, and realized that the only thing worth eating was the leftover stew.  Fine… except that there was enough stew for two.

So if we weren’t going out, it would make more sense for me to make something else and save the leftover stew for supper.  But if we were going out, I could eat the stew for lunch, go out for dinner1, and then eat stew again for Thursday’s lunch.

Only one catch:  It was snowing lightly.  If it was going to dump snow, we’d probably want to stay home.  If it was going to hold off until after supper, we’d probably go.  Time to check the weather forecast.

Heavy snowfall warning.

Guess I’ll make something for lunch…

Phone rings.

Hubby says, “Let’s go out tonight.  It’s going to snow, so the restaurant won’t be too busy.”

*facepalm*

———————-

1Note:  I grew up in the country.  ‘Breakfast’ was in the morning, ‘dinner’ was at noon, ‘lunch’ was at four o’clock, and ‘supper’ was at six.  Then I got out into the big world and discovered that urbanites referred to the noon meal as ‘lunch’, the six o’clock meal as ‘dinner’, and there was no four o’clock meal!  City dwellers are sick bastards.  So now I usually call ‘dinner’ ‘lunch’, and ‘supper’ ‘supper’, unless I’m going out for ‘dinner’…

Have I confused you yet?  What do you call your meals?  (And why are you trying to slap me?)

Bro Bulletin – Questions Of Doom: #4

/ Diane Henders / 27 Comments

For the month of Movember, I’ve been supporting my Mo’ Bros by offering a few helpful insights into the female mind.  This is the last of the Movember Questions of Doom series.

* * *

QOD #4:  Do you like this casserole?

Getting this one wrong probably won’t kill you, but there’s still a pretty high potential for long-term misery.  Possible answers:

“Yes” – I hope you really do like it, ‘cause you’re gonna get it every second week from now until doomsday.

“It’s okay, but I wouldn’t want it every year.” – This one never fails to get a laugh at our house, but don’t try it unless you’re really sure about her sense of humour.  (Note: Her sense of humour may vary considerably from day to day.  Better not chance it.)

“No” – You know the drill.  Icy silence and/or tears and/or wild accusations of “You don’t appreciate anything I do”.  And you aren’t going to be getting any for a good long time.  You know I’m not talking about casserole.

Best Answer:  “Wow, this is really different.  Where did you get the recipe?” – Try not to gag while you say this.  Pretend avid interest in the answer and immediately guide the conversation in another direction.  Examples:

If she says it’s her Aunt Mary’s recipe:  “How is Aunt Mary, anyway?”  (Note:  If the answer is “dead”, you’re in deep shit, but at least the casserole conversation is probably over.)

If she says she found it in a cookbook/magazine/online:  Make sure you sound enthusiastic:  “Really.  Wow, you should try some of their other recipes, too.  Hey, did I tell you about…”

Good luck, bro.  You’re gonna need it.

And because this is the last Bro Bulletin in the Movember series, here’s a bonus QOD:

Bonus QOD:  Did you make that doctor’s appointment yet?

Sorry, guys, there’s only one correct answer to this:  “Yes, dear.”

* * *

Movember Moment:  Guys, if you haven’t done it already, go and get your prostate checked.  A few moments of discomfort are well worth the relief of knowing you’re fine; or, worst-case scenario, the sooner they find a problem, the more easily it can be dealt with.

And if you’re feeling despairing or anxious; if you’re self-destructive or you can’t control your temper, please talk to your doctor.

There’s no shame in asking for help.  If you had computer problems, you wouldn’t just put up with it and hope it’d get better, and you wouldn’t feel inadequate if you couldn’t fix it yourself (and you know how badly it can turn out if you try).

Please treat yourself at least as well as you treat your computer.  We Mo’ Sistas want to keep you around, happy and healthy, for a long time.

So go make that appointment.

Please? For me? *bats big brown eyes*

P.S. Thanks to Le Clown for starting Bloggers for Movember. In support of the cause, I’m donating half the November royalties from my paperback and e-book sales from all channels to the Cancer Society. Only two days left – please spread the word!

Bro Bulletin – Questions Of Doom: #3

/ Diane Henders / 24 Comments

For the month of Movember, I’m supporting my Mo’ Bros by offering a few helpful insights into the female mind.  Welcome to the third instalment of the Questions of Doom series. 

* * *

Ah, you guys thought you were getting the hang of QODs, didn’t you?  I’ve got news for you:  we’ve only been dealing with easy yes-or-no QODs until now.  Let’s try a tougher one:  the multiple-choice QOD.

I don’t mean to support gender stereotypes here, but the truth is I don’t personally know any households where the male does the bulk of the cooking.  Guys, if you do, you’ve already got this one nailed.  See you next week.

QOD #3:  What do you want for dinner?

A seemingly innocuous question, isn’t it?  What could possibly go wrong?  Watch and learn…

Bad Answer:  “I don’t know, what do you want?” – This may seem like a safe response, but it’ll blow up in your face.  She’ll likely echo, “I don’t know, what do you want?”  Lather, rinse, repeat.

If you’re the passive-aggressive type, this may be strangely satisfying, but she’ll end up irritated, and you’ll probably end up eating something you don’t like.

Worse Answer:  “I don’t care.  Just cook something.” – Oooh.  Ouch.  If that ever heals, it’s gonna leave one hell of a mark.

Here’s what she just heard:  “I don’t care (about any of your trivial problems.  It’s your responsibility as the subordinate spouse to) just cook something.”

That’s why she’s screaming at you and/or slamming pots and pans around in the kitchen loudly enough to drown out the TV no matter how high you turn the volume.  You’re not gonna like what she cooks tonight.

In fact, if you have any sense of self-preservation at all, you’ll surreptitiously feed it to the dog (particularly if she fixes you a “special” plate but lets the kids serve themselves out of the communal dishes).

And if you’re hoping to get lucky tonight, go buy a lottery ticket.  The odds are better.

Iffy Answer:  “I love your (insert food item here).  Let’s have that.” – On the face of it, this sounds like the perfect answer.  You figure you’re golden because you just solved the problem and complimented her cooking at the same time.  You’re probably right…

Unless the food item in question is difficult and time-consuming to make and she’s exhausted, with ten minutes to get food on the table before the kids start chewing the table legs.

If she starts yelling about how inconsiderate you are, that’s why.  Just hunker down and take it.  It was a good try.

Safe Answer:  “Hmm, how about beef?  Chicken?  Pork?  Fish?  Sausages?  Omelette?  Haggis?  Fava beans…?” – Just keep guessing.  As long as you look like you’re participating, you’re safe.  It’s like soothing an angry dog – steady, calm tones and no sudden moves.  If you stop, she’ll rip you apart.

It’s not about actually solving the problem here – she may or may not accept any of your suggestions.  It’s about “contributing”.  When she thinks you’ve contributed enough, she’ll give you that little smile and headshake that says, “Poor foolish man, you’re just so helpless without me.”  Then she’ll go into the kitchen and make a nice meal.  You’ll enjoy it.

No, let me be really clear about that:  You WILL enjoy it.

Better Answer:  “Forget cooking tonight.  I’ll take you out to dinner/order in.” – Very smooth.  Very smart.  Hubby uses this one so frequently, I call him “The Plastic Chef”.  With a credit card in his hand, the man can cook anything.  This is one of the reasons why he has so many brownie points built up, I couldn’t yell at him even if I wanted to.

Best Answer EVER:  “You work so hard – you deserve a break.  Here, put your feet up.  Here’s a nice glass of wine.  You just relax while I cook you a gourmet meal and clean it all up afterward.” – Yeah, I know.  It’s okay, I couldn’t keep a straight face for that one, either.  But a woman can dream…

* * *

Movember Moment:  Jeez, no wonder guys get freaked out about prostate exams – I can’t believe how much bullshit I found on the internet.  It’s not that big a deal.  Here’s what to expect.

P.S. Thanks to Le Clown for starting Bloggers for Movember. In support of the cause, I’ll donate half the November royalties from my paperback and e-book sales from all channels to the Cancer Society. Please spread the word!

Bro Bulletin – Questions Of Doom: #2

/ Diane Henders / 14 Comments

For the month of Movember, I’m supporting my Mo’ Bros by offering a few helpful insights into the female mind.  This is the second instalment of the Questions of Doom series. 

* * *

(Note:  Ladies, this strategy can work for you, too.  Change the pronouns, substitute “tool” for “jewellery”, and you’re away to the races.)

QOD #2:  Did you just buy yourself a new fill-in-the-blank (FITB)?  *Scowls, hands on hips*

Oh, bro.  Buddy.  You screwed up big.  You got busted holding a new FITB and she’s mad, for one of two reasons:

  1. Money’s tight and now you won’t be able to afford groceries/coats for the kids/a family trip; or
  2. You bought something nice for yourself and nothing for her.

If it’s #1, well, don’t be a shithead.  Return the FITB and go buy coats for your kids.

But it’s probably #2.  So here we go:

Bad Answer:  “Yes” – Depending on her temperament, you’ll get:

  1. No nookie for the foreseeable future; AND
  2. Icy silence; or
  3. Increasingly hostile questions like “How much did it cost?” and “Why do you need a new FITB when you’ve already got a perfectly good one?” etc., followed by icy silence; or
  4. Increasingly hostile questions followed by berserk yelling and/or tears and/or flying objects, followed by icy silence.

Worse Answer:  “No” – I don’t mean to be critical, but “no” is a really dumb choice.  You’re standing there with a brand new FITB in your hand.  The tags are still hanging off it.  You know you’re lying.  Worse still, she knows you’re lying, and now you’re insulting her intelligence, too.  See consequences of “yes” above.  Times ten.

So how do you save yourself?  Okay, guys, I want to make it clear that I don’t support lying to your significant other.  In the first place, it’s slimy, and in the second place, it’ll come back to bite you in the ass sooner or later.

But in the spirit of Movember, I’m going to cut you some slack, ‘cause what I’m about to suggest isn’t the blackest of lies.  It’s more like a retroactive truth, if you do it right.

The following solution can make you look like a hero, but it’s complex, dangerous, expensive, and requires some acting skill.  It’s probably easier to just return the FITB, or else let her chew your nuts off and get it over with.

You still want to know?  Okay…

Best Answer:

Step 1:  “Oh, I was hoping you wouldn’t see this until (tonight/tomorrow/whenever the stores are open next).” 

You already look guilty as hell, but try to add a bit of disappointment to your expression.  She knows the first part of that statement is absolutely true, but she’s slightly confused by the second part.  This moment of uncertainty buys you time for:

Step 2:  “I know (occasion) is coming up, so I picked out the perfect gift for you, but I didn’t want to buy it until I knew it was exactly what you wanted.  And I bought this FITB for myself because you’re always saying I’m hard to buy for.”

This is the dangerous part.  She’s pretty damn sure you’re lying, but the lure of “the perfect gift” is slowing her reflexes.  This also assumes you’re within a month or so of some mutual gift-giving occasion.

Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and an anniversary are possibilities for the “occasion”, but if you’re desperate and imaginative, you could whip out something plausible but unverifiable.  Try an obscurity like “the seventh anniversary of the first day I realized I was in love with you”.

Just remember, if you mention it once, it’s forever graven in her memory.  Now you’re on the hook for another gift-giving occasion every year.  How much do you really want that FITB, anyway?

That much?  Seriously?  Okay, then…

Step 3:  Rush her to the jewellery store* and point randomly at something.

Any jewellery will do.  Feign as much enthusiasm as possible, but do not utter the words ‘It’s you’.  It’s not.  No matter what you choose, she’ll want something different.  This is just a decoy.

Step 4:  “I picked this one, but I want it to be perfect, so if you’d rather have something else…”

Suck it up, buddy, ‘cause this is where it gets expensive.  Grit your teeth, smile, and buy whatever she chooses.  I warned you it’d probably be easier to just take your punishment.

Step 5:  Buy her another gift when the actual gift-giving occasion rolls around.

This is a crucial step.  It covers your ass in case she knew you were full of shit earlier but she was willing to play along because she got a nice piece of jewellery out of it.

However, if she actually bought your act earlier, this makes you a hero.  When she says “I thought we exchanged FITBs earlier”, tell her, “I know, but I couldn’t resist buying you this”.

Kiss. Cuddle.  Get laid.  Nicely done, bro.

And next time, hide the damn FITB until you can honestly answer, “No, I’ve had it for months.”

*Note to Hubby:  Don’t try this on me.  Jewellery doesn’t cut it.  I want tools.  What, that shiny set in my trunk?  No, I’ve had that for months.

Movember Moment:  Okay, let’s start with the basics:  What is the prostate gland and how does it work?

P.S. Thanks to Le Clown for starting Bloggers for Movember, and thanks to everyone who weighed in with support for me on the weekend.  I’m feeling much better now about donating half the November royalties from my paperback and e-book sales from all channels to the Cancer Society.