Gassy And Shy

January 15, 2014 / Diane Henders / 22 Comments

You’d think ‘Gassy and Shy’ might be a comedy duo like ‘Beavis and Butthead’ or ‘Rocky and Bullwinkle’, but it’s not. It’s… (drumroll please) …one of my delightful spammers! Yes, today I’m offering another succulent serving of Spam Casserole.

So, poor old ‘G&S’ popped by my blog some time ago to confide “personally I can’t eat during the day for reasons unknown, I get puffed up, gassy, And shy”.

I’m touched by his/her trust in me. I mean, imagine the courage it must have taken for that shy person to reveal such an intimate detail, not knowing whether I might heartlessly ridicule them in a public forum.

Oh, wait, I just did.

Guess I wasn’t as touched as I thought.

But I was truly touched to discover that none other than David Bowie took the time to visit my blog and check out my nudie picture… and he liked it! At least, that’s according to the spam comment that appeared on that post: “COME ONE NOW DAVID BOWIE HIMSELF LIKED IT.” Personally, I always suspected David Bowie was batting for the other team, but what do I know? Apparently my nudity is just that appealing.

And speaking of nudity and related sports, the latest crop of spammers seems to have an unwholesome interest in my sex life. One alluded to it in euphemistic terms: “even I fulfillment you get right of entry to constantly rapidly”. At least I think he/she was talking about sex. It’s kinda hard to tell.

Another took the caring approach: “My partner and i worry about your needs and that i truly mean that”. Good to know, but my needs are well taken care of, thanks.

In fact, this blogger confirms it: “you are marrying a great guy, you are very lucky, he is a great in bed, I should know, we have been sleeping together off and on for years”.

Alrighty, then.

I’m pretty sure I would have noticed an extra body in our bed, but I guess I’d better ask Hubby about it just to be sure.

My next visitor offered some valuable information: “telefonsex religious service programs are the guys that experience extra reservations for aliveness”.

I didn’t realize telephone sex was part of any religious service programs, but I guess it’s a religious experience for some folks. And it’s good to know ‘aliveness’ is one of the criteria for participants. I’m not quite sure how telephone sex works for dead people.

Actually, that gives me a fabulous entrepreneurial idea: telephone sex for necrophiliacs! I’ll set up a 900 number with a recording of dead silence. Shares are now on sale for my startup company ‘1-900-DEAD-ONE’ – buy in early before this one-of-a-kind opportunity ends!

…Oh, sorry, I got sidetracked for a minute there.

We were talking about spammers, and I should stay on-topic. Because according to this visitor: “The good news in addition results in a great have an effect on your intellects of your companion.”

Oh, you poor suffering readers. If I’d only known what I was doing to your intellects… but if you’ve read this far it’s already too late, because what have I offered you in terms of intellectual stimulation?

My final spammer sums it up neatly: “The answer is zero. I beg your pardon.”

I do. I truly do.

Passport Photo Purgatory

January 8, 2014 / Diane Henders / 46 Comments

This weekend Hubby and I went for passport photos. Yikes!

If I was a customs border guard, I wouldn’t trust anybody who looked like that. Clearly, the people in our photos are deranged criminals. That soulless, dead-eyed stare. Those inhumanly expressionless features. God, they give me cold shivers.

Before, whenever I saw mug shots on the news I always wondered why they all looked like criminals. I thought maybe it was self-fulfilling, like the child with the surname ‘Foote’ who grows up to be a podiatrist or the guy named Titzling who invented the bra (okay, that one’s an urban legend, but it makes a good story).

My point is, I thought maybe if you’re born with a face like a mug shot, you pretty well have to grow up to be a criminal.

But now I understand. Criminals don’t actually look any different than the rest of us; it’s just that mug shots are done by passport photographers.

A proper passport photo begins with the right photographer. It’s important to find a photographer with that precise level of sociopathy whereby he can just barely function in normal society without actually committing indictable crimes (though I’m pretty sure our photos qualify as a crime).

The photographer must be incapable of comprehending human emotion. He is not allowed to have a sense of humour, and if he has one, it’s confiscated when he registers as a passport photographer. He is also required to be expressionless and barely civil, ideally replicating the exact blend of arrogance and subtle threat exhibited by border guards. This sets up the correct atmosphere for the photo.

After that, it’s all about technique. The photographer grunts and points imperiously to a small uncomfortable stool, and the victim client perches on it as if awaiting a firing squad.

This is the photographer’s cue to make the victim client as uncomfortable and unattractive as possible:

“Chin up. No, down. No, up! Look over here. Stop smiling.”

You’d think it would be impossible to summon a smile at that point, but I’m pretty sure the only time I’ll not smile is if I’m dead (and even then I wouldn’t bet on it). But, chastened by the photographer’s grumpiness, I try to control my obstreperous lips.

The victim client is now suitably uncomfortable, so the photographer’s next goal is ‘unattractive’:

“Put your hair behind your ears.”

“I never put my hair behind my ears. As far as anybody else knows, I don’t even have ears. This photo won’t look anything like me.”

“Put your hair behind your ears. I have to see your ears.”

So I cram ten pounds of hair behind each ear, making them stick out so far that I look like a bat stalking some hapless insect.

At last I’m cranky enough to eliminate any trace of a smile, and the photographer snaps the picture with his first and only hint of visible satisfaction.

The deed is done and the woman in the photo looks as though, if she hasn’t already committed a crime, she will any minute.

No, I’m not going to post the photo.

Because… ummmm… for security reasons. Yeah, that’s it. It’s not because I’m totally humiliated.

It’s for security.

Retroactive Weirdness

January 1, 2014October 2, 2018 / Diane Henders / 34 Comments

This probably isn’t a revelation to anybody else, but I was a bit surprised this week when I realized the extent of my own weirdness.

I maintain a file of ideas and thought-snippets for my blog. When something strikes me as odd or funny or disturbing, I pop it into the file. Most of the 60 or so entries are only a sentence or two, and in the spirit of year-end cleanup I decided it was time to develop some of them into blog posts.

What’s more, I realized this post would fall on New Year’s Day.

“Well,” thought I, “What a fine opportunity to wrap up the year with a retrospective of some of the oddments I’ve discovered.”

Little did I know what a can of worms I was opening. Here are a few of the items that amused me this year:

I discovered that it’s impossible to brush my teeth without making my nose wiggle. And now that I’ve noticed it, it’s impossible to ignore. I try, but I can’t look away. Then I end up giggling and spluttering toothpaste everywhere.

I discovered that studies have been performed to determine how often people fart in a day. That in itself tickled my funnybone, but when I found out that the testing apparatus included mylar underpants to trap and measure the emissions, I cracked up. There’s just something hilarious about mylar underpants with a hose attached…

Also on that topic, I discovered that there is actually such a thing as fart-absorbing underwear with a built-in carbon filter. It’s purported to control odour effectively, but there’s no word on how well it muffles the sound effects. I guess you just have to blame the barking spiders for those.

And then there’s Poopourri, which, frankly, is right at the top of my “disturbing” list for many reasons, all of which are illustrated by this commercial. Yes, this is actually a real product, and apparently it’s supposed to work. I just… I got nothin’.

If you’ve managed to recover from that, here’s another goody I’ve been meaning to share with you, my poor suffering victims faithful readers: In a small town named Torrington about an hour northeast of Calgary, there is a Gopher Hole Museum. This museum consists entirely of dioramas containing dead, stuffed gophers dressed up and posed in various activities of human life. Don’t believe me? Check it out: http://gopherholemuseum.ca/dioramas/ And yes, I went to see it, because it just had to be done.

Last but by no means least on the roster of weirdness, I discovered that it is apparently profitable to hoard food items long past the point where they are safe to consume or even possible to contemplate without gagging. Yes, some guy sold a 20-year-old bottle of McDonald’s McJordan BBQ sauce for $10,000: http://sports.nationalpost.com/2012/10/17/an-anonymous-buyer-spent-10000-on-20-year-old-mcjordan-barbeque-sauce/

More to the point; some wack-job bought a 20-year-old bottle of McDonald’s McJordan BBQ sauce for $10,000. One word: Eeuwwww.

I guess I’d better go excavate under the couch cushions and see if I can find some fossilized potato-chip crumbs. They’ve gotta be worth something. Or maybe a half-squished piece of two-year-old popcorn that looks like the face of some religious icon…

Come on, ‘fess up! Somewhere in the back of your cupboard, you’re hoarding a box of Kraft dinner from 1972 that’s worth at least a grand. Right? …Right…?

* * *

I’m on the road this morning, so I’ll be back to reply to comments a little later in the day. Talk to you soon!

The ABC of Me

December 25, 2013October 2, 2018 / Diane Henders / 22 Comments

Many thanks to Shree over The Heartsongs Blog for nominating me for the Awesome Blog Content award a few weeks ago! If you haven’t visited Shree yet, you should – when she’s not writing thought-provoking posts, she’s doing beautiful artwork and mandalas like the one she drew for the ABC award above.

Due to time constraints and my innate laziness, when I receive a blog award I generally link back to a couple of my earlier posts here and here. After all, I figure there’s only so much anybody really wants to know about me, and I think we’re all grateful if I don’t veer off into “too much information”.

But this is a format I haven’t done before and I thought it was fun. And I couldn’t resist Shree’s beautiful hand-drawn award!

So here goes:

A – Animals. Love ‘em all! Yes, even snakes. And especially cats, frogs, and salamanders.

B – Books. I’m an addict. I start to get the shakes if I don’t have at least three books waiting to be read.

C – Cars. I like driving them and working on them. Someday I’ll finish restoring my ’53 Chevy…

D – Dresses. All forms of dressing up are to be avoided whenever possible.

E – Eh. Yep, I’m Canadian.

F – Food. At any hour of the day or night!

G – Gardening. I’m incapable of leaving a patch of soil undisturbed.

H – Home. My favourite place.

I – Infantile. My sense of humour.

J – Jokes. I love any kind of wordplay, even puns. Okay, I’ll admit it. Especially puns.

K – Keystone. I grew up in Canada’s “Keystone Province”: Manitoba.

L – Laugh. I do that a lot. Frequently when I shouldn’t.

M – Milk. My favourite beverage. Yes, I like it even better than beer. Shocking, I know.

N – Nudity. Just checking to see if you’re still reading…

O – Onomatopoeia. A mostly-useless word that refuses to leave my brain, taking up valuable memory space along with my grandparents’ phone number from 1970 and my very first credit card number. You’d think there would be a way to purge that stuff and fill the space with something more useful. Like maybe some current phone numbers.

P – Popular. What I wasn’t in school.

Q – Queen… and Quantum. I love a huge variety of music, and Bohemian Rhapsody is one of my favourites. Plus I’m a science geek, so I’m giving you a twofer! Click here for “Bohemian Gravity”

R – Restaurant. I love eating in restaurants, particularly ones that serve food I can’t (or won’t) make myself.

S – Silence. Ahhhh…

T – Tools. I love tools. Automotive tools, carpentry tools, cooking tools, you name it. Tools, books, and food are the three types of purchase that never need justification in our house.

U – Urban. The opposite of where I like to live.

V – Vivere. My favourite Andrea Bocelli album. Here’s my favourite track from the album, coincidentally also a “V” – Vivo Per Lei:

W – Wild. My imagination.

X – Xenophobic, I ain’t.

Y – Yellow. My favourite colour.

Z – Zoo. What it’s like inside my brain…

And now for the obligations of the award:

The rules for receiving the ABC award are:

1) Thank and link back to who nominated you: Done!

2) Say something about yourself with a word or a phrase beginning with each letter of the alphabet. Done!

3) And of course nominate some other bloggers for the award.

It seems as though a lot of the bloggers I’ve enjoyed in the past have vanished. I always find new ones to enjoy, but today I thought it would be nice to recognize and compliment my favourite long-time bloggers. Here they are:

Within The Sphere (The Blogger Formerly Known As AquaTom)

I know a lot of these bloggers don’t generally accept/participate in blog awards, and that’s perfectly fine – I mean this as a compliment, not an obligation.

If you celebrate Christmas, I wish you a very merry one!

* * *

Update: Winners have been drawn for the Spy, Spy Away book giveaway contest – click here to check ’em out!

Talking Turkey

December 18, 2013 / Diane Henders / 42 Comments

No, I’m not referring to “talking turkey” in the sense of discussing business, nor in the sense of a chatty fowl. What I mean is, sometimes I’m a turkey when I’m talking.

I’ve mentioned on several occasions that my mouth tends to get ahead of my brain at times, and a couple of weeks ago I made yet another conversational gaffe. But before I reveal it, allow me to digress for a moment (I promise this is relevant, as you’ll see shortly).

The concept of noun gender in French tends to confound most native English-speakers. Why “la chaise”, a female chair? Or “le magasin”, a male shop? It eludes logic.

But have you ever noticed that a lot of English-speakers assign gender to inanimate objects, too?

When a pronoun is required in conversation, one of my friends always refers to her car as “she”. Plants often end up with a gender-specific pronoun, too (like Fred, my Norfolk Island pine, and his prickly buddy Dick). Some people arbitrarily assign the female pronoun to all cats, regardless of their actual gender. And, for reasons unknown, I tend to refer to dead turkeys as “him”.

So.

My sister and I were visiting my step-mom for an early Christmas celebration, and we were preparing “Christmas” dinner, complete with turkey and all the trimmings. I had never used an electric turkey roaster before, so I was keeping a close eye on the proceedings. My sister was sanguine about the roaster, but she’s always very careful about food safety, so she was hovering with her temperature probe. (Which suited me fine – I’ve never been fond of Salmonella Surprise.)

We peeked into the roaster an hour before our meal was scheduled, exclaiming over the beautiful golden-brown bird and the delicious smells wafting into the kitchen.

I nodded sagely (’cause you can’t roast a turkey without sage) and observed, “Yep, he’s done.”

My sister inserted her temperature probe, checked the readout, and concurred: “He’s done, but that breast still feels a little tough.”

I waved an airy hand. “Don’t worry, there’s still lots of time. We’ll just turn him down to 225. After he goes down low and slow for an hour, that breast will-”

Everyone in the kitchen exploded into laughter. At last, my sister managed to choke out, “I didn’t think that changed the texture of breasts…”

Bedlam reigned and risqué double entendres volleyed back and forth. In the end, we agreed we should inform our respective husbands that more research was required.

So there’s your cooking tip for the day (regardless of which kind of “cooking” you’re referring to): Going down low and slow for an hour will reward you with a tender, delicious breast.

You heard it here first.

But I still feel like a bit of a turkey.

* * *

The internet is down at my house today, so I’m posting from a coffee shop and probably won’t be able to respond to comments until the afternoon (if I’m lucky and the tech gets everything fixed). Talk to you later…

P.S. If you haven’t entered to win a signed copy of SPY, SPY AWAY yet, here’s the contest link: https://blog.dianehenders.com/do-you-know-me/book-contest/

Airport Deja Vu

December 11, 2013December 18, 2013 / Diane Henders / 36 Comments

I actually wrote this in the airport on Saturday but I’m flying home today, so who knows…?

The sun is coming up and I’m sitting in the airport waiting to board my flight. While I sit here with my carry-on baggage tucked close to my feet so no evil person can tamper with it, I’m reflecting on the changes in air travel since I flew for the first time thirty-some years ago.

After several decades, you’d think things would have changed more than they have. I still feel unaccountably guilty every time I go through security. The boarding lounges are still the same boring rows of uncomfortable seating. In fact, judging by the numbness of my butt, these may even be the very same seats as thirty years ago.

They still ask us to get to the airport an hour or two before our flight, apparently for the sole purpose of clogging the boarding lounge with cranky people.

The aircraft are basically the same. The same cramped seats, the same seatbelts, the same impossibly tiny washrooms. I never cease to marvel at the fact that some people actually have sex in those washrooms. Hell, there’s barely room for me in there. Then again, I guess if you did actually manage to cram two people in there, they’d pretty well have to be having sex.

It’s funny, but the only major improvements are to the airport terminal washrooms and the public-address systems – the two things that aren’t directly related to flying.

I like the automatic flush toilets, except when they flush before I’m done. There’s nothing like a splash of icy water on your ass and a sudden loud noise to get the old adrenaline pumping. But it’s nice to see they haven’t eliminated (sorry) the most critical function of airport toilets: they still project a spray of contaminated water up to three feet when you flush, and it’s impossible to vacate the cubicle fast enough to avoid it. You haven’t truly travelled until you have splatters of toilet water on your pants.

I have a love/hate relationship with the motion-activated water taps and soap dispensers, too. When they work, they’re wonderful. When they don’t (which is most of the time), I feel like an idiot waving my hands up, down, and sideways under an unresponsive spigot. But, whatever. I look like an idiot on a semi-regular basis anyway, so there’s really no added humiliation there.

The change I appreciate most is the improved public-address system. I used to hate those old PA systems that sounded like a garburator attacking a table-setting for twelve. You never knew whether they were saying your departure gate had changed and you had ten seconds to get to the opposite end of the airport; or that your flight had been cancelled altogether; or possibly that a fireball of death was speeding directly toward the terminal and everybody should flee. It’s wonderful to be able to effortlessly interpret the announcements now.

But I’ve just discovered that the more things change, the more they stay the same. The public address system just came on and delivered a lovely, crystal clear message: my flight has been delayed for nearly two hours.

Sigh.

* * *

Since “that new-fangled internet” can be unreliable in airports, I’ll be responding to comments sporadically today… unless that fireball catches up with me. If that happens, all bets are off.

Hortiporn Addict

December 4, 2013 / Diane Henders / 47 Comments

I’ve succumbed to my own sordid vices again. I really thought I had overcome them this fall, but I was wrong. One glimpse was all it took.

The seductive cover photo made my heart pound. I carried the magazine home with trembling hands and smuggled it into my pile of innocuous reading material. I swore to myself I’d be strong this time. I wouldn’t let my base instincts overcome my knowledge of what was good and right.

But the illicit thrill drew me irresistibly.

Just one look, I promised myself. I won’t let it consume me this time.

But one page led to another. Each photo was more tempting than the last. Each coaxed and promised, “I could be yours. Yours alone. Imagine running your hands over my smooth, glossy skin. Imagine my sweet taste on your lips…”

All that firm flesh; all those provocative layouts…

Omigod, look at the size of that…!

And then it was too late. All my good intentions evaporated and I fell straight back into the waiting embrace of my worst weakness.

Yes, I’m ashamed to say I was drooling over hortiporn again.

It’s sheer coincidence the catalogue fell open to carrots and cucumbers.

I swear I’m addicted to seed catalogues. They’re terrible things. The vegetables are so big and beautiful and blemish-free. The flowers are so lush and brilliant. And the worst part is, I know damn well the photos are just as air-brushed and artificially enhanced as pinups in a skin mag. I’ll never grow anything that beautiful in my garden. (Yes, I’m talking about vegetables. Jeez. Everybody knows you can’t grow hot guys in the garden… can you…? ‘Cause I’m willing to try if there’s a possibility…)

Every year I get sucked in. The snow swirls outside, and I curl up on the couch and dream of all the delicious and wonderful goodies I’ll grow next year. I forget all the hard work of planting and hoeing and harvesting. Those vivid colours drive the memories of hard labour straight out of my head, and I get out my pen and start making my list.

And the catalogues come earlier each year. I got this one a little more than a month after I finished planting the *ahem* several hundred fall flower bulbs I *ahem* accidentally ordered last spring. I was sure the memory of planting all those bulbs would dull the lustre of this year’s hortiporn.

Not a chance. One glance was all it took. I remembered how tasty the summer’s harvest was. And how beautiful it was, at least to my eyes:

I know; it looks like work. But it was worth it!

So the seed companies win again. This week’s catalogue was only the first salvo in their attack, and my defences are already breached. Soon more temptation will arrive from at least two other companies. Then the spring bulbs and nursery stock catalogues will come. And in the depths of January, I’ll cave and order another couple of hundred dollars worth of seeds and plants.

But I can quit whenever I want to.

Honest.

Most people dream of tropical vacations. I dream of this.

* * *

Woohoo! Book 7: SPY, SPY AWAY has just been released on Smashwords, and I hope it’ll show up today on Amazon. (Members of my New Book Notification List will get an email as soon as it’s available.) To celebrate, I’m giving away a signed paperback copy. If you’d like a chance (or two) to win it, pop over to my Book Giveaway page.

Love My Beaver!

November 27, 2013 / Diane Henders / 36 Comments

Well, it’s time for another “proud to be Canadian” blog post. In previous years, my national pride has been stimulated by achievements such as world-champion profanity and the world’s fastest motorized toilet.

Fitting neatly into the topic of stimulation, this year I had originally planned to point out that we Canadians are a sexy bunch. A recent study showed we indulge in lots of interesting bedroom shenanigans, with threesomes being a popular choice. After all, it’s cold outside a lot of the time, so what else are we going to do? But my favourite statistic from the study was this: apparently 8% of Canadians have had sex in a canoe.

There’s one for my bucket list. Fortunately, they didn’t specify that the canoe had to be on water to qualify, ‘cause Hubby can’t swim. I’d offer to keep you posted on our progress, but I’m sure you’d rather not know. So moving right along…

I had also considered informing birders that Canada is home to the little-known Kiki bird. Although it’s an extremely common bird, most people in warmer climes have never encountered one. The Kiki can be spotted year-round in extreme northern Canada, and throughout most of the country during the winter months.

It’s a very large bird, completely flightless, and its plumage varies through every colour of the rainbow, making it impossible to determine its gender at a glance. You might think this would make it difficult to achieve a positive identification, but it’s instantly recognizable by its distinctive call: “Ki-ki-ki-riiist, it’s cold!”

All you have to do is step outside whenever the temperature dips below -20 and you’re likely to hear at least one. Go out in -30 or colder, and you’re guaranteed to hear a chorus.

The Kiki bird (winter plumage)

Either of those things would have been worthy of a “national pride” blog post, but today I’m gratified to report our most significant achievement yet: everybody sucks the ass of our national animal.

No, seriously.

My blogging buddy Murr Brewster pointed it out back in October, and she’s not even Canadian. I was buried in writing the final chapters of Book 7 at the time, but it’s one of those things I just have to bring to the attention of my readers, even if I’m a little behind (sorry).

It’s true. Beaver bum goop (actual words used by National Geographic’s columnist) is used in perfumes and as a food component, particularly in vanilla flavourings. And beaver butt smells good. I realize there’s a significant segment of the population that has always insisted beaver smells and/or tastes good; but I always kinda thought it was a subjective and largely gender-based opinion. Now I stand corrected. NatGeo says it’s yummy, so I defer to their expertise.

A couple of years ago, one of our senators had the temerity to insult our national animal and suggest we should change it to the polar bear instead. The backlash was swift and overwhelmingly negative, and no wonder.

After all, what other country can boast that its national animal is industrious, a stellar structural engineer, a devoted spouse, peaceable when left to its own devices, and a formidable fighter when provoked?

In every sense of the expression, its shit doesn’t stink.

Yep, I’m proud to be a Canadian!

Flash Fiction: Monkey’s Money

November 20, 2013 / Diane Henders / 18 Comments

I was in the mood for something different this week, so I went to my favourite place for flash fiction prompts: Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. I chose a random letter and clicked on a random page, and here’s what I got:

“Monkey’s Money: I will pay you in monkey’s money (“en monnaie de singe”) – in goods, in personal work, in mumbling and grimace. The French had a law that when a monkey passed the Petit Pont, of Paris, if it was for sale it was to pay four deniers (two-thirds of a penny) for toll; but if it belonged to a showman and was not for sale, it should suffice if the monkey went through his tricks.”

* * *

Monkey’s Money

George blew out a long sigh. Here we go again.

He shuffled into the crowded holding area, trying to ignore the jostling bodies around him. Hunkering into the relative privacy of a corner, he eyed the antics of the others. A few familiar faces, but mostly new talent. Or lack thereof.

From the opposite corner, Bruno gave him a pointed glance and curled his lip to expose gleaming bone-white incisors.

George ignored the challenge. Yeah, asshole, whatever. So your teeth are better than mine, so what? You’re still in the monkey pen with the rest of us. He eyed the steady stream of passersby outside with undisguised envy. What he’d give to be one of the privileged few who were granted the dignity of actual money!

How many times had he made this demeaning passage, performing over and over for indifferent audiences?

It had seemed so exciting in the beginning. He had thrown his heart and soul into it; had thrilled to the slightest sign of approval; waited with pounding pulse to see if he would be one of the chosen ones; dreamed of the day he would strut past the pen and into the coveted status of ‘moneymaker’.

But now his clever tricks seemed so mundane. In each performance he struggled to imbue them with new life; to wring fresh nuance from the same stale material.

He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. God, this place reeks. Too many desperate bodies clambering over each other for attention.

The shrieking and chattering intensified and his eyes popped open. Lula again. Christ, look at her shoving her ass in everybody’s face. She’ll screw anything that moves.

And now every other female in the place was taking exception…

Oh, God, not again! George shrank into his corner, trying to make himself a smaller target. Always, dammit. Every damn time some idiot starts flinging poop. And then everybody joins in.

Ignoring the commotion, the bored man with the list caught George’s eye and jerked a thumb toward the stage.

My turn at last! George straightened, willing energy into his body. Summoning every ounce of talent, he threw himself into his performance.

Maybe this time they’ll realize how good I am. Maybe this time, somewhere in that small audience, jaws will drop in awe and delight and someone will rush forward offering precious money.

Maybe this time…

It’s over. Already.

Damn, if they’d only allowed me a few more minutes. A few more seconds, even. I was just getting into it.

But there’s still hope. The knock-‘em-dead scenario was really only a fantasy. It usually takes a while before they make the final selection…

Exhausted, George shambled out. His cell phone rang, and he picked up the call as he slid behind the wheel of his car. “Hi, honey. Yeah, it was the usual circus backstage, but my audition went okay. Now I just have to wait for their decision.”

* * *

I’m Only An Idiot. Whew.

November 13, 2013August 20, 2014 / Diane Henders / 46 Comments

A while ago, I discovered I’m an idiot. That was a relief.

Let me explain…

I’m not exactly a gym rat, but I work out a few times a week. I enjoy competing against myself, in a laissez-faire sort of way. If I don’t do anything stronger or faster, I don’t worry about it too much, and when I do hit a milestone, I’m pumped. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)

But on days when I really underperform, I can’t help feeling a little bummed. That happened to me a while ago – I’d been keeping track of my running times, so I knew roughly what interval I should be hitting. Then I ran a lap and stared in disbelief at my stopwatch, panting and wheezing like steam engine. It was twice my previous time. What a wimp.

Then the hypoxia subsided and I realized my earlier intervals had been half laps. Oops. So I wasn’t a wimp; I was just an idiot. Whew.

The reverse happened last week. I hurt my ankle kickboxing a while ago, so I’ve been doing my cardio on an exercise bike instead of running. I do the random program for half an hour, and crank the intensity up to 10 so I’m working close to my maximum on the peaks. (Sadly, this sounds more hardcore than it actually is – the top setting is 25. But “cranked it up to 10” sounds good…)

Once the program starts, I turn my brain off and just go for it. Last week, my half hour slipped away before I knew it, and I was coming into the final three minutes smugly congratulating myself because my workout had felt so easy. At last, I was making progress! I was a hero!

Until I looked closely at the screen for the first time, and realized I’d set the intensity to 9 instead of 10.

So I wasn’t a hero; just an idiot. Oops. Not so much of a relief.

But sometimes I really do get to be a hero. I love working out when I’m travelling, because just about everywhere is closer to sea level than Calgary. I get down into that nice, oxygen-rich environment, and I am a superhero at the gym! I can run farther, faster, work out harder! It’s fabulous! (A side benefit is that I can drink twice as much beer at sea level before I feel the effects, so I look like a superhero in the pub afterward, too… but I’m pretty sure Marvel Comics isn’t going to be introducing “Middle-Aged Six-Pack Lady” anytime soon.)

Occasionally, I also get a belly laugh from my workouts. The last time I worked out at a hotel fitness centre, I was doing my thing when a guy passed through on his way to some other equipment.

And he stared at me. So I stared back.

So the guy holds eye contact, cracks off a long, rip-roaring fart, and then stumbles over a weight machine, still staring.

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. I suppose it would have been correct to return the compliment, but I lacked the necessary resources at the time. There’s never a bean burrito handy when you need one.

I laughed myself silly after he left, though. I guess that’s what they call a “core workout”.

At least I wasn’t the idiot that time. Whew.

* * *

Postscript: Yesterday when I walked into the gym I encountered an elderly man on his way out. He shot me a big grin, and with a heavy accent proclaimed, “Kickboxing!”

I’m not sure whether I was looking like a hero or an idiot when he saw me kickboxing, but it made my day.

* * *

P.P.S. One of my blogging buddies, Charles Gulotta, has launched a line of everyday greeting cards that address the in-between-occasions of life with his usual quirky sense of humour. Check them out here if you could use a chuckle!

P.P.P.S Another one of my blogging buddies, Tom Merriman, just made me a superhero for real! (Well, kinda for real… as real as cyberspace ever gets…) Check out Middle-Aged Six-Pack Lady here: http://wellheregoes.wordpress.com/2014/08/17/the-middle-aged-six-pack-lady/