life

Bro Bulletin – Questions Of Doom: #1

/ Diane Henders / 12 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 Questions of Doom series.

A QOD is an unanswerable and highly dangerous question posed by your wife/significant other.  I’m going to teach you how to escape some common QODs (more or less) unscathed.

* * *

Note:  There are many reasons why I’ve never asked this question myself (not the least of which is that I wear a dress approximately once every five years).  But trust me, guys, I can help you.

QOD #1:  Does this dress make me look fat?

If you’ve ever been hit with this question, you understand the devastating consequences of the wrong answer.  Hint:  Both “yes” and “no” are the wrong answer.

Let’s review:

“Yes” – So, so wrong.  Expect tears, anger, and possibly flying objects.  Don’t expect to get laid any time in the foreseeable future.  And maybe you should wear a cup.  This ain’t pretty, but if you just want to get the whole thing over with, it’s definitely quick.

“No” – This is also the wrong answer.  She doesn’t believe you.  She argues: “Yes, it does.  You’re just saying that.”

It doesn’t matter what you say at this point.  Keep insisting “no”, and she still won’t believe you, you’ll get annoyed, and then she’ll call you an insensitive jerk.   But switch to “yes” and you’re totally doomed.  See consequences above, plus now she thinks you’re a weaselly liar into the bargain.

Best Answer:  “You look hot in everything.  Grrr.” – Accompany this with a kiss, and you might get away scot-free.  But remember, you’re going for distraction here.  A peck on the cheek isn’t gonna cut it.  Just like pulling a punch, a quick lip bump is only going to piss off its recipient.

Go for the gusto.  Kiss her as if you haven’t seen a woman in ten years.

In the beyond-your-wildest-dreams scenario, she says, “Grrr yourself, big fella.”  Nature takes its course, and you end up too busy mattress dancing to go to the stupid event you were dressing for the in the first place.  But don’t get your hopes (or anything else) up for that.

In the best case scenario, she finishes getting dressed with a smile on her face.  (You didn’t really expect to get lucky at this stage, did you?  She’s focused on getting dressed.  But your chances are looking pretty good for some action later if you play your cards right.)

Worst case scenario, she relents and changes the question to, “But do you like the blue one or the black one better?”

Danger, Will Robinson!  This is a trick question.

You probably already know that “I don’t care, just put on something and let’s go” is the wrong answer.  But do not, under any circumstances, breathe a sigh of relief and choose a dress.  That will start the whole process all over again.

The only correct answer is, “The (pick a dress randomly) one makes your boobs/ass/legs look amazing.  Grrr.”

Repeat as needed.

You can thank me later.  (But if you score, I don’t want details.)

Movember Moment:  Depression is one of the most common mental health issues men face. Guys, if you think you may be depressed, see your doctor – don’t wait. The sooner you start working on it, the sooner you’ll start to feel better. Here’s a description of symptoms, risk factors, triggers, and treatments for depression in men.

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!

Thanks, Technology… I Think…

/ Diane Henders / 26 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It looks like an angel when it’s sleeping…

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

A Redhead Walks Into A Tranny Shop…

/ Diane Henders / 34 Comments

I hope that’s not the start of a joke.

Do you ever begin your day knowing exactly which tasks you’re going to do, but refusing to plan your day in a logical order?

If you do, please tell me how that works.  Do you write the name of each task on a slip of paper and shake them up in a jar to make sure your selection of the next task is completely random?  Do you choose the order based on the colour of the slip of paper?

“Oooo, that’s a pretty pink.  I think I’ll do the pink one next…”

No, really, I want to know.  Because I can’t figure out how this transmission-repair place does it.

I called a week in advance to make an appointment, and I only want a diagnostic.  It’s not like I’ve arrived out of the blue with a dead tranny.  But the best they can do is, “Drop it off between 8 and 9 in the morning, and it’ll be done sometime later today.  Probably this afternoon.”

I bet these guys wouldn’t put up with that from their doctor.  I bet they expect an appointment time, and I bet they get irate if the doctor makes them wait.  I’d love to see their faces if they showed up for their appointment and the receptionist told them, “Just take a seat.  The doctor will see you sometime today.  Maybe earlier, maybe later, so be ready to spend the day just in case.  Do you feel lucky?  Well, do ya, punk?”

Since inefficiency and illogic drive me crazy, this system is threatening to make my brain explode.  I have no control over the outcome, so I’ve decided to see if I can influence the process.

I plan to sit in their waiting room, about six feet in front of the guy behind the desk.  He’s already tried to get me to leave a couple of times – even offered me a ride down to the mall.  But I politely declined, and now I’m sitting here working on my laptop.  I made it clear I plan to wait for as long as it takes.  Right here.  Watching him.

I’m hoping he’ll get tired of the sight of me and bump my car up the random order just to get rid of me.  But that’s probably too optimistic.

Instead, I’ll likely spend the day sitting here sending psychic “hurry up” messages that bounce off the impervious skulls of everyone in the place, and the only things I’ll accomplish will be some productive work and a really sore ass.  These waiting-room chairs are butt-breakers.

But I have hope.

Their bathroom is clean.  Spotless, in fact.  That’s gotta be a good sign.  And the smell of automotive fluids and the sound of air tools always soothes my soul, so I’m in a happy place (except for the chair).

Positive mental attitude.  Maybe it’ll work.

I’ve only been here for half an hour.

My ass hurts.

***

Epilogue

It worked!  They brought my car in first, and I was out of there by 10:30.  And they cleaned the bathroom and mopped the floor of the waiting room again in the short time I was there.  There’s probably a lesson in that somewhere.

Anybody else find a correlation between bathroom cleanliness and service quality?

Thinking About Drinking

/ Diane Henders / 27 Comments

It’s autumn, and I need a drink.

It’s partly because autumn is my least favourite season, but mainly because the crabapples are ripe.  If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you may remember I mentioned I love food and I’m helplessly addicted to gardening.

The result of those traits is a back yard containing an apple tree, a crabapple tree, grapevines, raspberries, gooseberries, rhubarb, haskaps (a very cool variety of honeysuckle with fruit like blueberries on steroids), strawberries, asparagus, a hazelnut tree, and a greenhouse full of tomatoes and peppers.  My “real” garden is about 3,000 square feet of vegetables outside the city.

The back yard in mid-summer when it still looked nice

The star of the backyard show is the crabapple tree.  Every year, it droops under the weight of its crop –  deliciously sweet-tart, juicy blush-pink apples.  (The variety is Rescue, in case there are any other hungry gardeners out there.)  Every year, I cart away a couple of wheelbarrow-loads of crabapples.  I make jelly, fruit leather, applesauce, and spiced crabapples.  Then if there are leftovers, I ferment them into hard cider.

This process begins with an explosion of pulverized crabapples and ends with a product that ranges from rotgut to rocket fuel to rot (if I don’t get a high enough alcohol content).

Juicing was a laborious process until a few years ago when Hubby bought me one of those newfangled kick-ass juicers – yet another reason why he’s on the best-husband-ever list.  The new juicer works like a dream… except for one thing.  No matter how fast I slam the pusher into the chute after adding a handful of apples, the shredding action is so aggressive that bits spray everywhere.  The first time I used it, I was picking apple flecks out of my eyebrows and off the ceiling.

This year I wised up and did the juicing on the back deck where I could hose everything off afterward.  (The neighbours didn’t even bat an eye.  After the radish/toilet incident, they’re probably afraid to ask.)

Once all the juicing is done, it’s a glorious exercise in hope.  What yeast should I use this year?  What part of the process will I tweak to get the absolutely perfect batch of cider?  Then there’s fermentation, racking, fining, bottling with just the right amount of added sugar to get a delicious sparkle in the finished product.

Then there are months of anticipation.  It takes about a year before the final product is ready.

Then comes the first taste… and the final classification:  rotgut, rocket fuel, or rot.  But I keep hoping somehow, some year, I’ll magically produce something drinkable.  Well, something other people might consider drinkable.  I drink it anyway…

But in the mean time, all that work and hope has made me thirsty.  Think I’ll crack open a bought beer.  At least I know it’ll be good.

What’s your favourite autumn beverage?

Oh, and loosely related to gardening:  I can’t believe I actually managed to snap a bee in mid-flight in my garden a few days ago:

Bee in flight just below the smaller sunflower

Letting It All Hang Out

/ Diane Henders / 32 Comments

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

Once upon a time, there was no spandex.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Joy Of Mediocrity

/ Diane Henders / 34 Comments

As usual, I was dazzled by the Olympics.  So this may sound strange, but I’ve been thinking about the joys of mediocrity lately.

I’ve competed in archery off and on for quite a few years, and my skills are to the Olympics what a tricycle is to a 1966 Corvette Stingray with a 427 big-block.  I’m only good enough to get an inkling of the tremendous physical and mental preparation necessary for Olympic-level archery.

The thing is, there’s such a small margin between an Olympic gold medal and last place, we don’t really get a sense of perspective.  When all the competitors are world-class, missing by a fraction of an inch or a few hundredths of a second looks like failure.  Just for giggles, the IOC should invite a few ordinary weekend warriors to compete in the qualifying rounds of the Olympics.  You know, like a pro-am.  Then we’d understand how amazing even the last-place Olympic finishers are, compared to the average joe.

So hats off to the Olympians… but I’m celebrating “average” this week.

Mediocrity lands me square in the middle of the pack.  Even though I’m worse than half the field, I’m still better than the other half.  Nobody hates me for being too good or despises me for failing.  And when I don’t excel, hey, I’m just doing my part to make those top guys look good.

Excellence takes a hell of a lot of time and effort and commitment.  Mediocrity isn’t nearly as much work.  I love variety, so it’s far more fun for me to do lots of things more or less competently than to practice one thing long enough to do it perfectly (which probably explains my mistake-ridden piano playing and Bob-Ross-style oil painting).

And best of all, the phenomenon of illusory superiority kicks in at some point, too.  (Oversimplified definition:  If you’re not very good at something, you tend to think you’re better at it than you actually are.)

I’m not going to analyze that theory too closely because it might damage my happy illusions about my own competence.  I’m just going to say that with mediocrity, I can relax and enjoy.  If I end up winning, great.  If not?  Well, no surprise.  I get to have fun either way.  Granted, it sucks to end up in last place, but what the hell, somebody’s gotta come in last.

I realize this attitude makes me sound like a lazy slacker.  Don’t get me wrong, I do my best and I’m always trying to improve.  But “my best” means I work out 4 to 6 hours a week, not 4 to 6 hours a day.  I like having a life.

I have tremendous respect for the Olympic athletes.  Citius Altius Fortius is an admirable motto.  But ya know what?  “Good enough” is good enough for me.

Now, who wants to join me while I suck back a cold one and watch TSN?

Evil Eyes

/ Diane Henders / 27 Comments

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

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

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

Honest mistake.

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

Excuse me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But making goats?

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

Maybe it’s time for reading glasses.

Cheapskate!

/ Diane Henders / 38 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s white.

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

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

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

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

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

…Is there an echo in here?

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

Beer and Jiggs on “Da Rock”

/ Diane Henders / 18 Comments

I thoroughly enjoyed spending last week in St. John’s, Newfoundland.  It was my first visit to “Da Rock”, but I knew enough to be prepared for some idiosyncrasies.  Here are a few things the travel brochures don’t tell you.

Everyone who’s ever visited Newfoundland raves about how friendly everyone is, and it’s true.  Within a day, I’d been repeatedly called Honey, Sweetie, Darlin’, and Doll, all in delightful accents that ranged from lilting Irish to twangy down-home Newfie.  And that was just the women.

The men were even friendlier.  I got honks and waves, offers of rides, and one guy even offered me his hat (it was a windy day and my hair was flying).  Oddly, my husband didn’t get the same warm treatment from the guys.  Sheer coincidence, I’m sure.

Here’s the best piece of navigational advice I can offer:  Turn off your GPS while in St. John’s.  There are so many intersections where streets converge in a haphazard conglomeration, the GPS can’t keep up.  “Turn right” could mean any one of three possible options – and you will invariably choose the wrong one.

When your GPS’s voice starts to sound first miffed, then frantic (“turn right…” “recalculating…” “turn left, then turn right…”, “recalculating…” “turn right, then keep left, moron…” “recalculating…” “RECALCULATING…”) you know you’re doomed.

Paper maps are a better option, but we discovered the best solution is to follow a trucker through town.  You might not end up exactly where you wanted to be, but at least you’ll be on a main road and you can turn around and try again.

And now for a critical health warning:  Through careful research and experimentation, I’ve determined that Jiggs Dinner is highly volatile when combined with beer.  Do not, I repeat, do not consume this unless you plan to spend your evening in solitude.  This meal’s after-effects pose extreme danger to anyone within a thirty-foot radius.  On the upside, you won’t need to use your nose-hair trimmer any time soon.

For the uninitiated, Jiggs Dinner is a traditional Newfie meal composed of salt beef boiled with dried peas, cabbage, potatoes, carrots, and sometimes turnips.  The result is delicious… but mixed with beer?  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

By my unofficial count, St. John’s has one church and one Irish pub per ten residents.  You’ve gotta like people whose priorities are that clearly defined.  And I’m not talking little churches – I’m talking huge stone cathedrals.  I was lucky to discover that the Anglican cathedral on Duckworth offers a free ½ hour classical concert on their pipe organ every Wednesday afternoon.  I crept into the chill, shadowy building to gape up at the lofty Gothic arches and soaring stained glass while the sonorous tones of the organ filled the enormous space.

One word:  Wow.

But since St. John’s has a total population of about 200,000, I can’t imagine why they need all those giant churches.  I’m pretty sure every person in the entire town could go to church simultaneously and still have room to spare.  That’d never happen, though, because they’re all in the pubs drinking beer and eating Jiggs Dinner.

Which actually makes sense when I think about it.  Those stone cathedrals get damn nippy.  They could use a bit of hot air.

Yep, those Newfies have it all figured out.

P.S. Seriously, if you ever get a chance to go to Newfoundland, go.  Stay in downtown St. John’s, and you can walk to virtually all the attractions (if you like uphill walks).  It’s the oldest city in Canada, with wonderful food, beer, people, and history… and we got to see an iceberg up close in Quidi Vidi Harbour.  Doesn’t get much better than that.

Beautiful, Sunshiny, Versatile… And Lazy

/ Diane Henders / 31 Comments

Update:  Many thanks to all those who have nominated me for various blog awards.  I’ve done a couple of posts of obscure facts about myself (here’s another one).  To do more posts like this would require me to go beyond “obscure” and into “too much information”, so I think I’ll quit while we’re all ahead.  Here you go…

Versatile Blogger Award Beautiful Blogger Award Sunshine Award

Several of my readers have been kind enough to nominate me for the Versatile Blogger award in the past few months.  Many thanks to my blogging buddies, Chris9911, How The Cookie Crumbles, and RVingGirl (who unfortunately seems to have stopped blogging).

And just a couple of days ago, Fear No Weebles kindly offered me the Sunshine Award and/or the Beautiful Blogger Award.  I modestly chose both.  ‘Cause I like getting awards – I tuck them into my file of nice things people have said about me and take them out to enjoy them later.  It’s a small file, granted, but it’s great for when I need a warm fuzzy or two.

At the time I was offered the Versatile Blogger awards, I was busy travelling back and forth to Manitoba while my step-mom underwent cancer treatments (many thanks to everyone for their good wishes – she’s finished treatment now and doing fine).  But I didn’t have time to fulfill the obligations of the award.  Instead, I linked to this post, with a promise to uphold my end of the bargain when I did have time… which is now.   The awards all have similar requirements:

  1. Thank the person who shared the award with you by linking back to them in your post.
  2. List 7 – 10 things about yourself.
  3. Pass this award to 7- 15 recently discovered blogs and let them know that you included them in your blog post.

For the sake of efficiency (which I prefer to the probably-more-accurate descriptor: “laziness”), I’m rolling all my obligations into this post – hope the blogging police don’t catch me.

Seven Things About Me (that weren’t included in the last post):

    1. The photo in my blog header is a 2010 Harley-Davidson Crossbones.  Sadly, I don’t actually own a Harley – they’re a little too rich for my budget.  The only ride I have available right now is an ’85 Honda VF1100 Magna.  But hey, if my books hit the bestseller list, maybe I’ll buy a Harley.  (I can hope, can’t I?)
    2. In my last post I showed you one of my oil paintings, so this time, I’m going to inflict my piano-playing on you.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.  Here it is.
    3. I’ve worked as a church organist, gas jockey, camp counsellor, teacher, receptionist, bookkeeper, interior designer, draftsperson, construction project manager, computer geek, tech writer, Microsoft Office instructor, and author, in that order.  I’ve been an entrepreneur for so long (23 years), I’m pretty much unemployable.
    4. In various adventures, I’ve been kicked, punched, cut, burned, and run over by a motorcycle.  A strong man has crushed my skin with pliers, and I have scars on my hand from the time I tangled with a 250-lb steroid-fuelled bodybuilder.  This might make you think I’ve led a dangerous, violent life.  I haven’t.  All those things were done unintentionally, most of them by my friends during sporting events or back-yard car tinkering.  But it makes me sound like a badass if I don’t mention that part, right?
    5. I’m just under 5’-10” barefoot.  Sometimes for giggles, I go into the shoe store and walk around in six-inch platform stilettos just to see the expressions on people’s faces.  Voila.  Yes, that shelf beside my elbow is about four and a half feet tall.

  1. Which leads me to:  I am not photogenic (obviously).  I have a gift for twisting my face into an utterly asinine expression at the precise instant the camera clicks.  That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.  I prefer to think I don’t look like that all the time.
  2. I always swore I’d never write fiction.  Oops.  My bad.  My excuse is under “Are you writing about yourself, you pathetic narcissist?” on the FAQ page.

And now for the fun part.  I follow tons of blogs.  My all-time favourites are in the Blogroll to the right, and I’m always adding more.

I don’t take orders very well, so I’m going play fast and loose with requirement #3.  I’d like to name a few bloggers I’ve discovered recently and offer them any or all of the above awards (I’ll let them choose).  Recipients, if you’ve already received these or if you don’t feel like playing, please accept this as a compliment and feel free to ignore the conditions of the award(s).

Nigel Blackwell usually blogs about anything that drives, flies and/or crashes, in witty posts full of fascinating behind-the-scenes detail.  And every now and then he goes off the reservation with hilarious essays about such disparate topics as socks or “write-only” memory.  You just can’t lose with Nigel.

If you love blues (and music in general) as much as I do, Longshot’s Blog has wonderful retro classics.

Harper Faulkner is always funny and/or thought-provoking.  Don’t miss him – it’s worth the visit.

Carrie Rubin’s off-the-wall blog, The Write Transition, makes me laugh.  She’s an author with a book being released this fall, so I hope you’ll go and give her some blog love.

Pat Bean is a wandering blogger who’s been on the road in an RV for the last 5 years with a pooch for a companion.  It’s a fascinating chronicle if you’re into travelling the back roads.

Lisa Clark writes The Big Sheep Blog, “Where Imagination, Business and Life Collide”, and an online magazine for 50+ women called The Ripe Report.  Lisa’s always got something interesting to say, so check her out.

And of course, don’t forget to visit my generous award-givers:  Chris9911, How The Cookie Crumbles, and Fear No Weebles (love that name!).

Note to all my blogging buddies:  If it looks like I unsubscribed from your blog this week, I didn’t – at least not intentionally.  WordPress changed their defaults to automatically subscribe to comments every time I comment on a blog, and I got buried under email.  When I unsubscribed from comments, I did it wrong, and unsubscribed from the blogs, too.  Grrr.  Have no fear, I’m still following you – I aggregate everything via RSS feed.  But you might see me doing some weird stuff with follows/subscriptions for a while.  Sorry about that.