writing

Don’t Even Think Of Snatching My Ass

/ Diane Henders / 35 Comments

In a previous post, I speculated that my tendency to misread words and phrases might be merely a matter of needing reading glasses.  I was wrong.

I got the reading glasses.  Now it has become embarrassingly obvious that the problem exists in the central processor, not the input devices.

Back in the summer when the Olympics were on, I glanced at a headline and read “Art Irritating Life at London’s Olympics”.  My interest piqued, I clicked over to the headline, only to discover that instead of a controversial article on modern art, it was a rather bland discourse about “Art Imitating Life”.  Quite disappointing.

A few days later, I roared with laughter when I discovered what I thought was the ultimate truth in advertising:  the disclaimer “Errors and Omissions Expected” on a law firm website.  Sadly, it was just the standard cover-your-ass statement “Errors and Omissions Excepted”.  I still think it’d be more truthful the other way around, but perhaps I’m cynical.

I was pumped when I saw “Vulgarity – The Difference Between the Amateur and the Professional”.  I thought, “At last, someone is recognizing the value of my most pronounced personality trait!”

But no, it was merely a product of my childish hope.  When I looked at it more closely, it actually read “Maturity”, not “Vulgarity”.

Well, shit.  As this whole example illustrates, there’s no danger of anyone ever identifying maturity as one of my principal qualities.

Speaking of childishness, I also misread a local business name as “Dopey Repro” instead of Copy Repro.  And if you have any OPA restaurants in your area, you may be interested to know that their tagline (according to my twisted brain) is “Fat Cheek”, not “Eat Greek”.

But honestly, I don’t think that one was really my fault.  I only glanced at it, and at this angle the font is hard to read, don’t you think?

OPA! FAT CHEEK (You know I’m right)

I’m pretty sure my next slip-up was one of those Freudian things.  I almost never watch TV, but I’d just been forced to watch some of what I sincerely hope was a particularly sub-standard talk show.  I survived, but I was thoroughly traumatized by the prodigious and willful stupidity of the moderator.  I won’t even get started on the apparent intellectual capacity of the participants.

Shortly thereafter, I read “Psychological Vomit” in a headline.  It didn’t surprise me in the least.  In fact, I was pretty sure that was what I’d just witnessed.

Closer inspection revealed that the headline actually read “Psychological Portrait”.  But I’m sticking with my original reading.  What I saw on that talk show was either psychological vomit or psychological explosive diarrhea.  In either case, I needed a shower afterward.  You don’t want to get any of that stuff on you.

All this was crowned by the blog spam I got today.  It promised, “I’ll immediately snatch your ass”.

Oh, yeah?  Well, go ahead and try, buddy, but you’d better get your insurance paid up first.

The spammer escaped my misguided wrath when I re-read the sentence and realized the comment actually read “snatch your rss”.

Which still seems a little off-colour, but it’s probably just because I tend to avoid using the word “snatch”, in an attempt to avoid awkward misunderstandings.

So… have you read anything interesting lately?

Thanks, Technology… I Think…

/ Diane Henders / 26 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It looks like an angel when it’s sleeping…

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

Creepy Stalker Here

/ Diane Henders / 26 Comments

As I’ve mentioned here and here, there’s convincing evidence that I’m a sociopath.  But a few days ago, an unsettling thought bobbed to the scummy surface of the cesspit that is my mind:  Maybe I’m also a creepy stalker.

I mean, really, what’s the difference between a close friend and a stalker?

Close friends know your likes and dislikes, have a pretty good idea of your schedules and habits, call you frequently, and show up regularly to spend time with you.

So do creepy stalkers.

The more I think about it, the more I wonder.  Social skills aren’t really my best thing.  I fake them well enough for short periods, but then I scuttle back to my hidey-hole and hunker down behind my computer to converse with (at best) people I know only through a few typed words on my screen and (at worst) imaginary characters in my books.

I do this for days and weeks on end.  I go out to the pub once a week for a beer and some conversation with real human beings, but that’s about it.  If I wasn’t married, I’d probably go for days without human interaction, so it’s not like I’m really socially aware.

How many times can I call somebody before I’m officially being creepy?  If they don’t call back, does it mean they’re just busy or forgetful?  Or does it mean they’re screening their calls and thinking, “Oh, God, it’s Diane again.  She’s so creepy.  I’m going to pretend I’m dead.”

Problem is, most people are too polite to tell me to buzz off.  I tend to take people at face value and I’m disinclined to obsess over the emotional temperature of everyone I meet, so I don’t really know whether they’re genuinely glad to see me or if they give a whole-body shudder and take six showers after I leave.

I think it’s probably a good sign if they return my calls, unless they’re calling to decline my last ten invitations and tell me they’re going to be busy until the year 2045.  But that only happened with the last three people I called, so it’s not really statistically significant, right?

Maybe the restraining order is a clue, though.  More analysis is required.

Last week I was at an all-you-can-eat restaurant where each table had a little cylinder that was green on one end and red on the other.  As long as you wanted more, you left the green end up, and they kept bringing food.  Red-end-up stopped the whole thing.

That’s what I need:  a signalling system.  Green means “it’s all good”, yellow means “you’re starting to creep me out”, and red means “stay away from me, you nutball freak”.

That system probably wouldn’t catch on, though.  It seems most people actually prefer a little ambiguity in their relationships.

I guess the upside of all this is that sociopaths generally disregard the feelings of others.  Maybe this isn’t such a burning question for me after all.

So… wanna go for a beer tonight?

How about tomorrow?

Friday’s good for me, too…

Fifty Shades Of Leverage

/ Diane Henders / 29 Comments

My fifth book, How Spy I Am, is finally out (phew), so of course I immediately thought of Fifty Shades of Grey.

What, you don’t see the connection?  Bear with me…

First, a disclaimer:  I am one of the (apparently) tiny minority that hasn’t read Fifty Shades.  I likely won’t, for several reasons:

1)     I read the first pages on Amazon and didn’t get swept away by it.

2)     I’ve read some well-written BDSM erotic romance novels by authors whose blogs I follow, but reading was more an act of loyalty than anything else.  BDSM just isn’t my flavour.

3)     I almost never read any type of romance, though I make an exception for Fallen Arches – Novellas of Broken Romance over at Curmudgeon-At-Large.  They make me swoon.  (It’s probably because I can’t breathe between paroxysms of laughter).

So, Fifty Shades?  Probably not for me.

But.

I’m impressed by the number of people who are leveraging Fifty Shades.  Suddenly there are flocks of books titled “Fifty Shades of (fill in the blank)”.  There’s even a website titled “What to Read After Fifty Shades”.

Love it or hate it, Fifty Shades has made a shitload of money, and everybody wants a piece (if you’ll excuse a cheap but irresistible double entendre).

So that’s it; I’m getting in on the act.  After consulting Wikipedia to verify my accuracy, I’m going to tell you how my books are just like Fifty Shades of Grey:

  • I have male and female characters.  Sometimes their relationships are complicated and fraught with sexual tension.  See, just like Fifty Shades.
  • My protagonist is a confident middle-aged no-bullshit woman instead of an insecure college girl, but what the hell.  Details.  They’re both female.
  • My protagonist gets tied up every now and then.  She never enjoys it, but hey, bondage, right?
  • The male character in Fifty Shades is an entrepreneur.  I have a grandmother/granddaughter team who own a sex shop in a small town.  Voila:  entrepreneurs and sex.  Double whammy.
  • Sex.  Got that covered.  My characters don’t intentionally hurt each other during the act, but that’s just a technicality.
  • A virgin.  Hmmm.  That could be a problem.  Never mind, I wouldn’t want to be accused of being an exact copy.
  • Oho, here’s a good one:  The characters in Fifty Shades communicate using a laptop.  So do my characters.  Score another point.
  • You may be thinking this is a little thin so far, but here’s the kicker:  My main male character has grey eyes.  Grey.  And in Book 2, he ties my protagonist up and restrains her.  Ha!  Spike it in the end zone!

I’m sure there are many more striking similarities but I could only get so much from the wiki and I was too lazy to look up any more synopses.  Nevertheless, I’m convinced my claim of sycophantic imitation is just as valid as everyone else’s.

So there you go.  My books are just like Fifty Shades.  And repeating “Fifty Shades” fifty times in a blog post works wonderfully for search engine optimization, too.

I anticipate that within days, book reviewers and avid readers will be calling my novels “the next Fifty Shades of Grey”.  My book sales will skyrocket.  The news media will grovel for interviews with me.  Hollywood will call and beg to pay gazillions of dollars for the movie rights to my books.

Because I’m leveraging the power of “Fifty Shades of Grey” just like everybody else.

Or not.

Okay, I was just kidding around with the whole “Fifty Shades” schtick, but I actually have a serious request this week:  I’m doing a survey on how readers like authors to sign books, and I’d really appreciate your opinion.  There are only three quick questions over at http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/K3LQS9D, and I’m giving away a signed copy of the updated version of Book 1: Never Say Spy.  Thanks for your help!

A Redhead Walks Into A Tranny Shop…

/ Diane Henders / 34 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I have hope.

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

Positive mental attitude.  Maybe it’ll work.

I’ve only been here for half an hour.

My ass hurts.

***

Epilogue

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

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

I Can Type With A Banana In My Hand

/ Diane Henders / 28 Comments

That isn’t a euphemism, though it might be fun if it was.  In case you’re wondering, I can also type with a banana in my mouth, and you can just get your mind out of the gutter right now.

I know I shouldn’t type with a banana in my hand. I’m well aware of the effects of mashed banana on the usefulness and mean-time-to-failure of keyboards.

And I learned years ago about the deleterious effects of multi-tasking when someone (no, neither Hubby nor I) cremated a chicken while watching television in the basement.  Until then, I didn’t know it was possible to start with a dead chicken immersed in boiling water and end up with a half-melted pot containing a crispy black cinder.

We first detected the stench from more than a quarter-mile away.  When we arrived, a thick pall of reeking smoke obscured the main floor of the house.  It took days to air the place out.  Nobody was happy by the end of that episode, though I’m pretty sure the chicken was past caring.

I blame the internet for my current multi-tasking disorder.  Before we had internet (yes, I am that old), I had to make a concerted effort to be distracted.  I had to get out of my chair, look out the window, drift down to the kitchen to graze on whatever snacks might be handy, whatever.

Now my ass takes root in my desk chair while I write, email, text, tweet, phone, check RSS feeds and surf the web.  I’ve gotten so used to doing umpteen things at once, I caught myself bouncing up from the table several times during lunch to rush off and do something else.  I actually had to force myself to sit in the chair and eat an uninterrupted meal.  That may be a way of life for people with families, but I don’t even have kids (unless you count my puerile brain).

Some people are good at multi-tasking.  I’m not.  I can’t even listen to music while I’m writing.

That doesn’t stop me from trying.

The other day, I found myself in the kitchen slicing zucchini and loading it into the dehydrator.  Jars were sterilizing in my canner, a big pot of jam boiled on the stove, and my laptop was open on the couch so I could work in between kitchen tasks.  When the phone rang, I fired up the hands-free and carried on canning jam while occasionally zipping over to reference my laptop.

Disaster didn’t strike that time, but I could easily have poured the jam into the dehydrator, stuck zucchini slices in the laptop, and dumped the phone into boiling water.  Try explaining that to the caller at the other end of the line.

I’d like to say I plan to turn over a new leaf, but it’d be a lie.

‘Scuse me, gotta go – my chicken’s overheating.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

P.S.  Hell, who am I kidding?  One of the great joys of life is creating filthy innuendos whenever possible.  Go for it.  You know you want to.  And you know I’ll laugh.

Thinking About Drinking

/ Diane Henders / 27 Comments

It’s autumn, and I need a drink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What’s your favourite autumn beverage?

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

Bee in flight just below the smaller sunflower

Letting It All Hang Out

/ Diane Henders / 32 Comments

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

Once upon a time, there was no spandex.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Flash (Non)Fiction: It’s All About Trust

/ Diane Henders / 32 Comments

When I rang the doorbell of the upscale house wearing my faded jeans and waist pouch, it occurred to me that most lawyers probably expect their business clients to be dressed up.

Well, tough.  I’d had a busy day with no time to change my clothes.  He’d just have to deal with it.

I heard footsteps and movement at the other side of the door.  Then nothing.  Maybe they weren’t even going to let me in.

After a lengthy pause, the door swung open and the receptionist greeted me.  “Diane?”

I put on my business smile.  “Yes.”

I stepped into the entry and was removing my shoes when she said, “I’ll need your driver’s license.”

“No,” I blurted reflexively, my posture squaring into battle-readiness before I could stop myself.  I smiled and relaxed my weight onto one hip, hoping to soften my initial reaction.  “What do you need it for?” I added.

“The Law Society requires it.”

“Not the last time I saw a lawyer.”  Shit, suspicious much?  Settle down.  “But it’s been a while,” I added, trying for a tone of casual interest.  “When did they bring that in?”

“2010.”

“I’ve seen a lawyer since then, and they didn’t ask for it.”  Go for non-confrontational, dammit.  “But it was right around 2010, so maybe it was before the new rules.  Why do you need it?”

“Because of 9-11.  We need to know you are who you say you are.”

“But a driver’s license doesn’t prove that,” I argued.  Shit, this probably isn’t reassuring her.  Try some empathy.  “That seems like a pretty onerous responsibility for you.  Do they make you check everybody against a database or something?”

“No, we just collect the information in case the Law Society asks for it.”

I crushed my tongue between my teeth and managed not to say ‘that’s stupid’, but apparently she got the message anyway.

“I’ll go and get Mr. X.  You can discuss it with him.  Please have a seat.”

In what had originally been a dining room, I perched warily in one of the sleek leather chairs arranged around the small, pristine meeting table.  The long pile of the carpet looked as if it had been freshly raked and manicured.  Jeez, there wasn’t even a footprint on it except my own.

In the adjacent living space, the long boardroom table was surrounded by identical leather chairs, all aligned to exactly the same angle.  The carpet was perfect.  The floor-to-ceiling drapes were perfect, every fold carefully arranged.

Like a funeral parlour.  Soothing, neutral, and designed to conceal something rotten.

I tried to ignore my paranoid discomfort without success.  What kind of operation was this, anyway?  The website had shown a downtown address, not a house out in the ‘burbs.  I hadn’t thought too much about it when we’d set up the meeting, but now…

I shook off the thought and occupied myself by studying the certificates and diplomas precisely aligned on the wall.  Mr. X had a lot of qualifications.  That’s why I’d selected him.  I wanted a specialist I could trust to set up this deal properly.

Footsteps made me sit up straight.  Mr. X rounded the corner and I hid my surprise.  He looked a lot younger than his picture on the website.

“Diane?  I’m X.”

I rose, smiled, and shook his outstretched hand.  He didn’t fully grasp my hand in the short handshake.  He sat without facing me, pulling his chair close to the table and placing a sheaf of papers directly in front of him as if for protection.  I swivelled my chair to view him diagonally across the edge of the table, leaning casually on one elbow and keeping my body language open and relaxed.

“So that’s interesting about the driver’s license,” I prompted.  “I’m the privacy officer for my company, so I’m curious about your requirements.  That seems like a lot of responsibility for the Law Society to place on individual lawyers.”

His eyes darted sideways.  “Not really.  They don’t do anything with it.  It’s just since 9-11.  They’re watching out for money laundering and things like that.”

I’ve heard 9-11 used as an excuse for all kinds of shit, but implementing a policy nine years after the fact was really reaching.  And if I was smart enough to launder money, did they seriously think I’d be too dumb to get a fake driver’s license?

Oh, well, stupid or not, if the Law Society required it I might as well give…

“How did you find me?”  His abrupt question interrupted my thoughts.

“I searched on the internet and found your website.”

His eyes flicked away again.  “Oh.  I try to minimize my web presence.  And that wasn’t my real website.”

Wait, what the hell?

Before I could speak, he added, “You must have gotten one of the ones that somebody took over.  You know, like the Yellow Pages or something.  Not X.ca.”

“I was on X.ca.  It had your picture and areas of expertise-”

“But that’s not current.  I moved two years ago, and it’s still not updated.  I don’t know how the other lawyers manage to get everything updated when they move all the time.  You were on the wrong site.  That wasn’t my real site.  It must have been the Yellow Pages or something.”

I blinked despite myself.  “Um, I’m a computer geek, and I’m positive…”  I abandoned that tack and switched gears.  Maybe he just wasn’t a techie kind of guy.  “It’s not hard to get your site updated,” I began reassuringly.  “You just need to get your web designer to-”

Again with the shifty eyes.  “So about this alter ego trust we discussed over the phone.”

I eased back in my chair.  “Um, yeah.  You mentioned a ballpark figure of $5,000.  Is that all your fees, or are there other fees or disbursements?”

He waved his hands vaguely as if outlining an object about the size and shape of a breadbox.  “It’s fees.”

“Okay, but are there any expenses other than your fees?  What about disbursements?  Any additional fees for registering…?”

“It’s what it costs for me to do the work.”

I couldn’t help glancing to the corner of the room when his eyes twitched in that direction.  Nothing there.  When I looked back at him, he looked away.

I pulled my briefcase closer and made politely regretful noises.  “I’ll need to look into this a little more.  The setup costs aren’t looking as though they’ll justify the benefits in the end.  I suspect it won’t go ahead.”

Let me rephrase that.  It sure as hell won’t go ahead with you.  You totally creep me out, buddy.  Maybe I should’ve asked to see your driver’s license.

I stood.  “I appreciate the time you spent with me on the phone and meeting with me here today.  May I pay you for your time?”

He didn’t meet my gaze.  “No, that’s all right.  Goodbye.”

A lawyer refusing payment?  This was definitely too weird for me.

I crammed my feet into my shoes and fled.

***

True story – this just happened to me last week. 

Was he trying to get rid of me because I wasn’t dressed “right”?  Maybe he thought I was a criminal because I was reluctant to hand over my driver’s license?  Maybe he had a medical condition that made his eyes twitch?

Maybe I wouldn’t have been so defensive about the driver’s license if it had been an office instead of somebody’s house; or if they’d mentioned it over the phone when I made the appointment; or if we’d actually decided to do business together before they asked for it.  I know I was acting like the paranoid freak I am… but…

What do you think?  Would you have run screaming?

The Joy Of Mediocrity

/ Diane Henders / 34 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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