writing

Stand Back: Brain Farts!

/ Diane Henders / 40 Comments

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

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

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

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

But getting on with the story…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

I’m Losing It…

/ Diane Henders / 43 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey, buddy, am I fucking invisible?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Flash (Non)Fiction: Labyrinth

/ Diane Henders / 19 Comments

I just got back from a week’s holiday on Vancouver Island, and I thought I’d post something a little different for a change.  Thanks to Sacred Circles, Healing Hands for the inspiration of the labyrinth at the Milner Gardens and Woodland, Qualicum Beach, BC.

_________________

Labyrinth

It doesn’t fit my preconception of a labyrinth.

It’s about fifteen feet in diameter, a shallow muddy path worn into the brilliant green rainforest moss.  A few stones lie in the middle.

I stand beside it, my cynical eye tracing the route from entrance to centre. It’s probably a trick; a series of dead ends to confound those foolish enough to attempt it.

But it’s simple.  Around and back, a couple of reversals and a turn.

The sign says I may walk the labyrinth to meditate, experience feelings.  That there’s no “wrong” way to walk.

Why bother?  I already know the route and there’s nothing remarkable at the end.  The concentric paths are narrowly spaced.  Walking in circles would be a waste of time.  I’d look like an idiot.

I stand outside the labyrinth looking in.

Imprisoned by ego.  Unwilling to court ridicule.  Too old for magic.

I turn to walk away.

I stop.

Turn back.

This is silly.  It’s cold and cloudy and starting to rain.  It’s just a patch of dirt and grass.

And yet it holds me.

When did I become so jaded?

How often have I hovered on the outside, unwilling to step forward and risk disapproval?

My boots squish softly on the wet ground as I skirt around to the labyrinth’s entrance.  I mustn’t reject the established way.

Compelled to the path, I place my feet carefully within the narrow tracks, walking back and forth; around and around like a fool who can’t see that the destination is only a few feet away.

But it’s not about the destination.

I complete the final turn and stand looking down at the stones on the ground.  Just a few ordinary stones.  No discernible pattern.  No reward.

But it’s not about a reward.

Freed, I step lightly, respectfully, straight across the labyrinth.  I place my feet on its paths, but I am no longer constrained by its direction.

I stand contemplating my journey for a moment before I turn, smiling, to rejoin the world.

Skipping Down Memory Lane

/ Diane Henders / 48 Comments

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

And then suddenly my needle skips a track.

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

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

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

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

I don’t.  Ever.

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

I didn’t.

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

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

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

I don’t.

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

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

Anybody else have a wonky memory?

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?

Not Dressed Up And No Place To Go

/ Diane Henders / 46 Comments

This week, I did the annual dusting of my dress-up clothes.

I may have mentioned in an earlier post that I hate dressing up.  Thanks to benevolent fortune and my own avoidance tactics, these days I work from home and employ other people to represent my computer training company much more professionally than I.  So I have a closet full of business clothes I never wear.  Dust gradually accumulates on them, and every now and then I go in and vacuum it off.

I like it that way.  It’s a good system.

I’ve always hated dressing up.  When I began Grade One, my mother thought it was proper for little girls to wear dresses to school.  She crammed me into cute little outfits and sent me off clutching my tartan-patterned tin lunchbox and my utter disregard for propriety.

The “dress” phase lasted until the teachers gently informed her that I spent most of recess hanging upside-down by my knees from the monkey-bars.

After that came the phase of “dress with matching bloomers underneath”, which rapidly morphed into “fine, slacks it is”.

But it was still slacks.  I didn’t get my first pair of jeans until Grade 5, by which time I had already been labelled hopelessly uncool.  That was probably due more to my personality than to my clothes, but I prefer to cling to my illusions.

I made it through my remaining school years in blissful slobbishness, but when I went to university to take my interior design degree, I decided it was time to grow up and make an effort.  I wore slacks and blazers and sometimes (gasp) skirts and pantyhose.

That lasted about six months, and then it was back to jeans and T-shirts.  Styles changed, and I got rid of the outdated clothes.

The same pattern repeated when I entered the workforce:  I bought sleek business clothes and high heels, which I wore for several months, followed by increasingly casual slacks and flat shoes.

At last I quit interior design (which was a relief to all concerned) and switched over to IT where my frumpy slacks and flats made me look like a fashionplate.  So I got rid of the dress clothes entirely and started wearing jeans and sneakers to work.

When I started my own business, it was back to the stores for more damn dress-up clothes.  Then came the inevitable decline, at which point I decided it was a much better idea to hire somebody else to represent my company.  At least my staff wouldn’t be mistaken for vagrants who’d wandered in off the street to cadge goodies from the networking events.

Which brings me to the present, slouched happily in my home office.  My only human contact occurs at a weekly staff meeting (I wear jeans), the gym, and Friday pub night with friends.  No need to dress up at all.

I’m happy.

But I’m afraid to get rid of the dress-up clothes.  As long as they’re gathering dust and quietly going out of style in my closet, I’m safe.  The instant I get rid of them, I just know the cycle will start all over again.

Anybody else keep out-of-style clothing as insurance?

I Love A Guy With A Big Deck

/ Diane Henders / 40 Comments

As you may know, I’m a toolaholic.  Most men are eager to show me their tools, and in fact, they frequently invite me to play with their tools whenever I want.

I’m old-fashioned, though.  As much as I love tools of all shapes and sizes, I really prefer not to handle any but my Hubby’s.  After all, when I’ve got a top-quality tool at home, why would I go out looking for anything else?  You just don’t know where other men’s tools have been.

The other day the conversation turned (again) to tools, and Hubby showed me his deck.  You’d think after nearly fourteen years of marriage it would be old news to me, but what a surprise!

He had gotten one of those deck enlargement kits.

I know, I know.  I used to be a sceptic, too, but now I’ve seen the proof.  This kit really worked.  He used to have a much smaller deck.  It was nice and rigid and it worked well, but everybody knows size does matter.  So he paid the money and got the kit… and now his deck is huge!

When he showed it to me for the first time, I couldn’t keep my hands off it.  After I’d fondled it for a while, he asked if I had any ideas about mounting it.

Boy, did I.

But we were worried we might not be able to use his new deck safely because it’s so big.

We were right.  We had some difficulties with the fit.  And stability was an issue.  Even though it was big and stiff, it tended to shift sideways without warning, particularly if any significant force was applied.  And it was positively dangerous under vigorous use.  Slow and smooth was the only workable option.

We agreed that even though the big deck was impressive, it really wasn’t working as well as his original small deck.  But we both liked the idea of the bigger deck.

So we got creative.  A minor surgical procedure reshaped it to make the tool fit snugly but comfortably in the aperture.  Then we added some extra supports so the deck wouldn’t collapse even if I got careless about how and where I placed my piece.  And he could push as hard and fast as he wanted.

It took a bit of extra effort to get everything working the way we wanted it, but in the end we were glowing with satisfaction.  Now Hubby’s got the biggest deck of any guy I know.  I can use it as often as I want, and it never fails to stand up to even the most enthusiastic use.

I’m so excited, I just have to share the before and after pictures of Hubby’s deck:

Original tiny deck

Original tiny deck

New huge deck

New huge deck

Yeah, it’s a bandsaw deck.  Jeez, what did you think I was talking about?

If, like me, you can’t get enough big decks, here’s one of my favourite comedy routines:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QQ7Ue5emo6I

Anybody else like big decks?

And Then It Got Ugly

/ Diane Henders / 45 Comments

I used to be able to count on spammers to tell me what a marvelous writer I am.  Every day I’d get dozens of compliments about my wonderful colour schemes, my mastery of writing, and my expertise in the subject area. To the spammers, I was a demigod.

In fact, I was so good I even got compliments from beyond the grave:  “You are an excellent wrteir even if I have thought your writing seems sad sometimes! I am so glad you are honest! The truth will set you free, is true! I love you and I am so blessed to be your Mom!”

Wow, thanks, Mom.  I’m amazed at your mastery of the keyboard even after you’ve been dead for thirty years.  Does this mean you’re coming for Sunday dinner?

Okay, so I was pretty sure that last one was from a spammer, but still.  It’s flattery, right?  It’s all good.

Only lately I’ve noticed a subtle and disturbing change.  I mean, I still get “an amazing article dude” and “This really designed my day” and “Wow, fantastic blog fmroat!”.  That’s all fine and dandy.  But some of the comments are veering into ambiguity:  “This blog is just as well cool to become missed”.

Um, thanks… I think…

Or how about this one:  “A hilariously complex write-up”.  Is “hilariously complex” a good thing or a bad thing?

But a couple of weeks ago, the comments took a turn for the worse: “My brother suggested I might like this website. He used to be entirely right.”

So what are you trying to say?  He was always right before, but this time he was wrong and you hated my website?

And then it got ugly:

“I have to say that Im really unpisresmed with this. I mean, sure, youve got some very interesting points. But this blog is just really lacking in something. Maybe its content, maybe its just the design. I dont know. But its almost like you wrote this because everybodys doing it. No passion at all.”

And

“Hello, you used to write magnificent, but the last few posts have been kinda boring”

And

“of course like your website however you have to test the spelling on several of your posts. Many of them are rife with spelling problems and I to find it very troublesome”

And

“why throw away your intelligence on just posting videos to your weblog when you could be giving us something informative to read?”

Wow, what a tumble from my previous exalted position.  I guess that’s just the price of fame.  Sooner or later, your fans turn on you.

Spammers never fail to make me laugh.  It’s fine if commenters respectfully disagree with me, but I can’t believe these idiots think I’d leave gratuitous insults posted, or (even more improbable) that I’d click on a link attached to an insult.

Isn’t spamming all about getting people to click on your links?

Repeat after me:  S-T-U-P-I-D; stupid.

But despite the chuckles, I must say I’m unpisresmed with the trend.  Someday it’ll be “Click on this link or we’ll send Guido and Luigi over with the baseball bats”.

The day I get that comment, I’m outta here.

Is anybody else still getting spam love?  Or are the spammers turning on you, too?

Sometimes I Wonder…

/ Diane Henders / 34 Comments

According to Science Illustrated, “Letting the mind wonder fosters creativity”.  Maybe, but letting my mind wonder fosters thoughts that range from daft to disturbing.  For example:

Sometimes when I’m talking to somebody, I wonder if behind that expression of polite interest, they’re psychically screaming “Shut up!  Shut UP!”

I’ve done that lots of times, for various reasons.  Sometimes it’s because I’m on a deadline and the other person simply won’t acknowledge that their detailed description of the pickle they ate at lunch may in fact be less important than the document the client needs in ten minutes.

Sometimes it’s because the person flapping their gums is expressing ideas so colossally stupid, I can’t believe they haven’t already choked on their own idiocy.

Sometimes it’s because the speaker is brilliant but my poor brain is full to the brim, and trying to pour more information into it is a complete waste of everyone’s time.

And sometimes it’s a “too much information” conversation where psychic screaming is my last, desperate attempt to prevent the images from penetrating my brain and leaving it perforated and deformed by a nasty case of BSE (Bozo Spongiform Encephalopathy).

So if I’ve been the psychic screamer that frequently, it stands to reason that sometimes I’m the cause of psychic screams.  The scream-ee.

It’s a humbling thought, and not a little disturbing.  But it does tend to make me strive for brevity in my conversations.

* * *

Here’s another thing I wonder about:  Can anybody tell me why the white hairs always pop up as stiff as wires, while the red hairs lie flat and behave themselves?  That white hair used to be red.  It’s coming from the same place on my head.  You’d think if the colour went out of it, it should be thinner and wimpier.

But no.  As soon as the colour is gone, the hair follicle kicks into high gear like some freakishly pumped-up mutant superhero with ‘roid rage:  “Aha, the kryptonite is gone!  My super-powers are restored!  Bam!  Pow!  Zap!”

I don’t know why it happens, but it does explain Albert Einstein’s ‘do.  In a few more years, I’ll look just like him.

* * *

The other day I was out walking in the park behind our house when I came upon a used condom frozen into the snow, right in the middle of the path.  It had snowed only a couple of days before, so I knew it was fresh (if such a term can be correctly applied, given the object in question).  It had also been -25 degrees Celsius for the past week.

Which made me wonder:  What quirk of intellect allows a person to have sufficient maturity, restraint, and judgement to practice safe sex under even the most rigorous (and I apply that word within the full range of its meanings) conditions… and still remain dumb enough to a) whip it out in the middle of a public park; and b) risk ending up with a cocksicle at -25?

Is there some sort of Polar Bear Sex Club or something?  You know, like those hardy folks who jump into ice water for no apparent reason?

And could somebody please look that up and let me know?  ‘Cause there’s no way I’m gonna google “Polar Bear Sex Club”.

What do you wonder about?