Ho-Ho-Hum

December 26, 2012December 26, 2012 / Diane Henders / 20 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*gasp*

I know; it was primitive.

It was also… relaxing.

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

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

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

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

Slow down. Take a breath.

Ho-ho-hum.

—————–

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

End Of The World

December 21, 2012 / Diane Henders / 35 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bad Hair Day…

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

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

No wonder she was cranky.

* * *

Dashing Through The Snow…

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

It was also stupid.

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

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

With The Passing Of Time…

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

Happy Apocalypse!

Blood Pressure And ShrinkyDinks

December 19, 2012December 19, 2012 / Diane Henders / 22 Comments

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

I found this sign beside a supermarket pharmacy.

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

________________

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

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

It’s Like Fishing, But Without The Beer

December 12, 2012 / Diane Henders / 33 Comments

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

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

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

Well, it’s like fishing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes, we choose to take that tasty item home.

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

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

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

But that problem could be easily solved.

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

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

Am I right?

It’s Complicated…

December 5, 2012December 5, 2012 / Diane Henders / 33 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heavy snowfall warning.

Guess I’ll make something for lunch…

Phone rings.

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

*facepalm*

———————-

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

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

Bro Bulletin – Questions Of Doom: #4

November 28, 2012 / Diane Henders / 27 Comments

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

* * *

QOD #4: Do you like this casserole?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good luck, bro. You’re gonna need it.

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

So go make that appointment.

Please? For me? *bats big brown eyes*

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

Bro Bulletin – Questions Of Doom: #3

November 21, 2012 / Diane Henders / 24 Comments

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

* * *

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

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

QOD #3: What do you want for dinner?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

Bro Bulletin – Questions Of Doom: #2

November 14, 2012 / Diane Henders / 14 Comments

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s probably #2. So here we go:

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

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

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

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

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

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

You still want to know? Okay…

Best Answer:

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

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

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

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

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

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

That much? Seriously? Okay, then…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bro Bulletin – Questions Of Doom: #1

November 7, 2012 / 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.

Boom. Splat.

October 24, 2012October 28, 2012 / Diane Henders / 30 Comments

That’s the sound of my brain exploding.

You may recall my computer died a couple of weeks ago. The reload went pretty well, until… *cue ominous music* …I loaded a new(er) version of my accounting software.

It crashed. Even my geek skills couldn’t persuade it to work, so I phoned and waded through the usual labyrinth. Why do companies choose automated telephone systems?

“Hey, let’s take customers who are already frustrated by our product and irritate the shit out of them by making them respond to ten minutes of increasingly obscure menu choices before putting them on hold.”

“Ooh, good idea! And let’s set it up so if they press the wrong number they have to hang up and start again.”

“Right on. Should we play music specifically designed to promote speechless rage?”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea, but I think we should intersperse it with monotone assurances of how important their call is to us.”

“All in favour?”

“AYE!” *roars of demonic laughter*

I finally got through to a human being. In India. Obviously I missed a point in the decision-making process:

“Let’s route the call to someone with a tenuous grasp of English, an unintelligible accent, and absolutely no hands-on experience with the product. Both the now-frothing customer and the poor underpaid bastard in India should suffer as much as possible.”

“Support” refused to help me unless I a) paid for the call; or b) bought the 2013 software. After reflection, I bought the new software, comforting myself that it was probably good to get the latest version anyway.

I installed it… and discovered it’s impossible to update contact names. Call me crazy, but wouldn’t it be a good idea to direct invoices to the person who’ll actually approve them?

I called India again. When I finally vanquished the automated menu, the support guy put me on hold for several minutes while he searched for my customer ID.

He couldn’t find it despite the three numbers I supplied from my receipt.

He told me I’d have to pay for the call. After a terse conversation and some deep breathing on my part, he finally unearthed evidence of my purchase(!) and agreed to help me.

Apparently the definition of ‘help’ was lost in translation.

I explained the problem. He put me on hold for several minutes while he consulted his helpdesk database before coming back with a completely unrelated answer.

I explained again. Hold. Another unrelated answer.

Repeat six times until he grasps the problem.

Then he put me on hold for several more minutes before trying to get me to change the invoice template. That would solve the problem for the one invoice I’d called about… but completely mess up the umpty-thousand other invoices in the system.

I (not-so-)patiently explained to him how his product works.

Hold.

Repeat until I bleed from the eyes.

An hour later, I gave up and requested a case number so I could try another day.

Hold for ten minutes. Then he came back with another useless attempt at a solution.

Slow, distinct enunciation: “Just. Give. Me. A. Case. Number.”

Hold for five more minutes. He finally spouted a (probably random) number, and I hung up.

I got a survey from the company. The first question was ‘Were you satisfied with your recent technical support call?’ When I chose ‘No’, their next question was ‘Please explain why your issue was not resolved.’

Boom. Splat.

Uh… I dunno… maybe because your support system sucks?

I never did complete the survey. I just couldn’t get past that question. Can anybody help me out with an appropriate answer?

P.S. I can’t believe I forgot to mention this last week: Curmudgeon-at-Large wrote a fabulous Fallen Arches post, “Corned Beef on Spy“. It’s hilarious in its own right, but if you’ve read my books, you’ll get the ~~satire~~ (Updated: Oops! That should’ve been “parody” – I just looked it up) immediately. I laughed my ass off. Go. Enjoy! (C-a-L, I’m sorry for my brain fart – thanks again for honouring me with your wit.)