Heeere, Mr. Gopher…

August 8, 2012July 30, 2020 / Diane Henders / 15 Comments

Warning: This article contains graphic descriptions from an active zone of conflict. It may be disturbing for sensitive readers.

Tensions were high as hostilities escalated this week in the West Garden. In the past two weeks of conflict, dozens of innocent carrots and potatoes have lost their lives. This week the death of two promising young head lettuce plants caused me to declare a jihad against pocket gophers.

After a brief attempt at mediation last week, negotiations broke down when the gophers walked away from the table. (It so happened the table was appetizingly laid with Warfarin, but I see no reason to let facts get in the way of a dramatic story.)

The point is, I offered the gophers the opportunity to vacate the disputed territory or die an honourable death on their own terms, and they refused to do either.

This week, I found more impudent gopher mounds and more dead vegetables. And I got serious.

I’m beginning to feel like Bill Murray in Caddyshack. I laughed when he sculpted a squirrel out of plastic explosive. I thought his deranged expression was funny.

Little did I know that this week, I’d feel that expression on my own face. And I’d be seriously wondering how he procured the C4.

However, I’d like to think I’m still slightly saner than to blow my entire garden to hell just for sake of eradicating some pocket gophers. I went with a subtler method: poison gas.

Gassing gophers was a whole new experience for me. Growing up on the farm, the rifle was always handy by the back door if we needed to get rid of animal pests. (Yes, those were the days before gun control.) So it was with trepidation that I read the warnings and instructions on the packet of innocuous-looking little cylinders.

The instructions helpfully described how to find the horseshoe-shaped mound that indicated the location of the main burrow, and provided all sorts of useful advice about the danger of burns and poison gas inhalation. Hooray.

But I was a woman on the edge. This was a Holy War. Nothing would stop me.

I found the burrow. I dug down and identified the direction of the tunnel. I donned my heavy leather gloves (to prevent burns) and ascertained the direction of the wind (to prevent gassing myself).

I test-fitted the cartridge in the tunnel to make sure I wouldn’t smother the fuse when I put it in…

And nearly shit my pants when I lit the first fuse.

You know how in the cartoons, the fuse makes this hissing, spitting noise and sprays a rooster-tail of sparks? You know how the cartoon characters get all freaked out when the flame zips along the fuse ‘way faster than they expected?

It was exactly like that.

Turns out they only guarantee a minimum of five seconds on the fuse. I spent approximately two of those seconds gaping at the smoking, spitting cylinder of death in my hand before stuffing it in the tunnel, shoving dirt over top and running like hell.

All in all, it went exactly as planned, but with a good deal more adrenaline.

I won’t know until next week whether I got him. But if I find more mounds, I’ll have no choice but to go Rambo on his ass.

So if you see a deranged-looking middle-aged woman standing out in her garden at sunrise armed with a compound bow and broadhead-tipped arrows, just smile, nod, and back away slowly.

Heeere, Mr. Gopher…

Optimism Or Idiocy?

August 1, 2012July 30, 2020 / Diane Henders / 27 Comments

This week, I’m diving into uncharted waters – again. It seems for every new situation that arises in my business or personal life, I acquire another three skills I never wanted to have. But does that make me say, “Oh, wait, I don’t know how to do that; maybe I should get some help”?

Oh, hell, no.

’Cause that would be sensible.

No, my response looks more like this: “Sure, I can do that. No problem. Is Wednesday okay?” *scuttles frantically away to research arcane topic*

Last week, I learned basic ASP programming in an afternoon. It wasn’t one of the more enjoyable afternoons I’ve ever spent, but I got my web forms working.

This week, I’ve been reading up on discretionary trusts, crash-safety specs on 2012 SUVs, and how to get rid of pocket gophers. Frankly, rodent eradication has been the most relaxing and enjoyable part of my research. Those little bastards have been decimating my carrots. Messing with my garden is a killin’ offense.

…aaaand now that I’ve invited flaming hate mail from gopher-lovers…

Most people would consider my jump-in-with-both-feet approach to be at best, a liability, and at worst, sheer idiocy. I prefer to call it “optimism”. After all, I’m living proof that too much prep time isn’t necessarily a good thing. My only colossal failures occurred after years of training and/or preparation: my first career and my first marriage.

I dated my now-ex-husband six years before I married him, and my bachelor’s degree in interior design took four years to acquire, plus the extra two years it took for me to wrangle my failing thesis through the appeals process. As long as I cheerfully disregard the delicate issue of innate competence (and I do, oh yes I do), the cause of my failure in both cases was obviously “too much preparation”.

Since those massive failures, I’ve flown by the seat of my pants for everything from becoming a computer geek to installing granite floors to developing the optimum recipe for banana bread. And everything has worked out pretty well (including my second career and second marriage).

Thank goodness for my enabler: that source of great wisdom, pure bullshit, and occasionally, useful instructions – the internet. With the internet on my side, it’s actually possible to take on a ridiculously unrealistic challenge and come out smelling, if not like a rose, at least not like a skunk cabbage.

Problem is, I’ve been cursed with an unholy combination of do-it-yourself-ism and perfectionism. I don’t just jump in and do it, I jump in and want to do it well. I expect to come out smelling like a rose.

Which brings us back to that “optimism” thing again. Some may use the word “delusional”, but… pshaw. What do they know?

I realize this approach sets me up for more colossal failures. I can sense their vile miasma hovering just behind my left shoulder. Fortunately, I’m right-handed. My plan is to keep moving so fast that failure doesn’t have a chance to catch up.

And I don’t mind if people call it idiocy – I’m happy in my delusional little world. ‘Cause it has nice granite floors…

The house Delusion built.

Driving Ms. Crazy

July 25, 2012 / Diane Henders / 29 Comments

Some days, even the simplest things get ‘way more complicated than they need to be.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, sometimes I’m convinced I’m speaking Swahili because nobody seems to grasp what I’m trying to say, no matter how many different ways I phrase it. I’m convinced it’s the Universe’s way of keeping me humble enough to summon up some charity and patience when somebody else suffers a brain/speech malfunction.

But sometimes it’s really difficult to refrain from beating my head against the nearest hard surface…

We were going to a store that had recently moved. I was driving, and my passenger (who shall remain nameless to protect the guilty) was giving me directions. I knew we were going to 9^th Avenue, but I wasn’t sure of the address.

Calgary is divided into quadrants, so there are four possible locations for any given address. Without the suffix “SW”, “SE”, “NW”, or “NE”, you’re lost. I was pretty sure the store was in one of the southern quadrants, but I didn’t know which one:

Me: “What’s the address?”

Passenger: “I don’t know the actual address, but I know where it is.”

Me: “Okay, where is it?”

Passenger: “On 9^th Avenue.”

Me: “I know it’s on 9^th Avenue, but where?”

Passenger: “Just take Bow Trail.”

Me: “I know how to get to 9^th Avenue, I want to know where I’m going once I’m on 9^th Avenue.”

Passenger: “I’ll tell you where to turn.”

Me: *suspenseful pause* “And… where will I be turning?”

Passenger: “It’ll be a left turn.”

Me: “Congratulations, you’ve given me no useful information whatsoever. Where the hell is it on 9^th Avenue?”

Passenger: “Oh! It’s at the corner of 9^th Avenue and 11^th Street.”

Me: “Southwest or Southeast?”

Passenger: *growing impatient with my obtuseness* “No! It’s on the northeast corner of 9^th Avenue and 11^th Street.”

Me: *gritting teeth* “The northeast corner of 9^th Avenue and 11^th Street Southwest or 9^th Avenue and 11^th Street Southeast?”

Passenger: “Oh…! Southwest.”

Me: *sigh*

Before you make any assumptions about gender vs. navigation skills, I’d like to point out that my passenger was male. Just sayin’.

I can’t imagine how the phrase “It’s on the northeast corner of 9^th Avenue and 11^th Street Southwest” could have become any more complicated. What should have been a five-second exchange turned into a ridiculous “Who’s On First” comedy routine.

It might have been funnier if I hadn’t been playing the part of the straight man while trying to steer my car through traffic to an unknown destination.

But it’s okay. I know with absolute certainty that within days of posting this, I’ll be the one in the passenger seat, obfuscating the directions while the driver’s blood pressure rockets into the danger zone.

Come to think of it, I seem to recall the following conversation not too long ago:

Hubby: “I’m supposed to turn left here?”

Me: “Right.”

Hubby: “Right? Shit!” *swerves over two lanes of traffic*

Me: “No, left! I meant, that’s right… that’s correct; you’re supposed to turn left… Never mind, I’m an idiot.”

Thanks, Universe. I owe ya one.

Anybody else have one of those “Who’s On First” moments lately?

P.S. I’m so pumped – my new book cover designs are finally done! Check ’em out in the “My Books” panel at the right – or bigger versions here. They should start hitting the stores in a week or two. 🙂

I’m Probably A Sociopath: Exhibit B

July 18, 2012 / Diane Henders / 30 Comments

A couple of weeks ago, I concluded I was probably a sociopath. Just in case more evidence was needed, this photo from my living room provides the confirmation:

Photographic evidence: Exhibit B

According to Wikipedia, a diagnosis of sociopathy can be made if the subject exhibits at least three of six hallmarks. Let’s look at them individually, shall we?

Items 1 and 2:

Callous unconcern for the feelings of others.
Gross and persistent attitude of irresponsibility and disregard for social norms, rules, and obligations.

The fact that I harbour this furniture in my living room definitely qualifies me for both items (and probably also for an emergency decorating intervention). Anyone who cares about the feelings of others or the norms of society would never force another human being to witness that fabric pattern. But I kinda like it. It’s… bold. Yeah, that’s the word I was looking for. Bold.

Item 3: Incapacity to maintain enduring relationships, though having no difficulty in establishing them.

I thought I’d be able to weasel out of diagnosis when I read this. I have no problem with relationships. So there.

But then came…

Item 4: Very low tolerance to frustration and a low threshold for discharge of aggression, including violence.

Um… well, yeah, I get frustrated sometimes. Who doesn’t? And yeah, I kickbox, but that’s not really violent, is it? I mean, it’s not like I’m whacking little old ladies in the streets, right? Just because I go downstairs and kick the hell out of my 270-lb bag when I’m having a bad day doesn’t mean I’m violent. And really, “low threshold for discharge of aggression” is such a subjective thing. “Low” compared to what? Kickboxing is just a healthy outlet for my frustration.

Item 5: Incapacity to experience guilt or to profit from experience, particularly punishment.

I figured I was home free when I read the first part. I’ve got lots of guilt. I tend to ignore it, but I definitely have it, so that’s gotta count for something. But then there’s the ‘inability to profit from experience/punishment’ part. Being a fiction writer is pretty much indistinguishable from punishment sometimes. And apparently I haven’t learned much from it, ‘cause I keep on writing.

Item 6: Markedly prone to blame others or to offer plausible rationalizations for the behavior that has brought the person into conflict with society.

Oh shit, rationalizations. But that thing about the kickboxing wasn’t really a rationalization, was it? That previous sentence wasn’t a rationalization, either. I’m pretty sure about that. And anyway, my mother picked out the furniture. So it’s not really my fault…

Oops, rationalization and blame.

The wiki also helpfully notes, “There may be persistent irritability as an associated feature.”

“Irritability”? Come on, seriously? Do you know anybody who doesn’t get irritated sometimes? That really pisses me off!

I mean… um… never mind.

So I’m five out of six, with bonus points for irritability. That might worry me if I didn’t have a gross and persistent disregard for social norms.

And I just can’t seem to feel guilty about that…

Evil Eyes

July 11, 2012 / Diane Henders / 27 Comments

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

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

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

Honest mistake.

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

Excuse me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But making goats?

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

Maybe it’s time for reading glasses.

Cheapskate!

July 4, 2012July 30, 2020 / Diane Henders / 38 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s white.

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

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

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

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

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

…Is there an echo in here?

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

I’m Disturbed

June 27, 2012July 30, 2020 / Diane Henders / 34 Comments

Okay, stop laughing. I realize you already know I’m disturbed. What I meant was: I’m bothered. Alarmed. Perturbed. Ruffled. Unnerved. (Yeah, and addicted to my thesaurus, but that’s a post for another day.)

Why?

Last week I was walking past a transit bus shelter near our house. Some discarded packaging lay on the bench inside. Apparently one of our fine upstanding citizens considered himself* too important in the grand scheme of things to dump the wrapping in the garbage can only a few feet away.

But that wasn’t what rattled my cage. No, it was far more subtle and sinister. As I neared the shelter, I caught sight of the label on the packaging: “MACHETE”.

Ooookay.

So tell me. If you needed to go out and buy a machete…

Now don’t get ahead of me; I don’t have issues with the need for a machete, even in a large urban area like Calgary. A machete is a perfectly valid purchase. It’s a tool. Hell, I have one. It’s under the bed… Um, never mind.

Kidding. I’m kidding, already! (It’s actually by the back door.)

Anyhow, I’m not arguing the need for a machete. And I realize not everyone who requires a machete necessarily owns a car. In fact, there’s a logical argument for the possibility that if he could afford a car, he’d probably buy a chainsaw. Or a katana, I guess, depending on whether he planned to cut down rampant underbrush or unwanted neighbours.

But my question is: Why would he take it out of the package before boarding the bus?

And if you were the bus driver, would you seriously consider stopping to pick up some machete-toting dude?

“Oh, well, he’s carrying a big honkin’ sword that’s capable of cutting my bus in half with a single stroke, but that’s okay. He probably needs it to chop his compost. Gardeners are nice people. I’m sure it’ll be fine…”

Yeah, right.

Here in Canada, it’s not technically illegal to carry a machete, or any kind of bladed tool other than automatic knives like switchblades. I’ve personally schlepped a pair of axes down the sidewalk in small-town Manitoba without raising too many eyebrows (long story).

But since our laws also contain handy-dandy catch-phrases that prohibit “weapons dangerous to the public peace”, I’m thinking our proud new machete owner might have some ’splainin’ to do unless there was a patch of jungle near the bus shelter. I didn’t see one, but maybe our intrepid machete-master cleared it before I arrived.

So let’s think about this for a moment. I prefer to believe our transit bus drivers possess a modicum of common sense. I’d like to think they wouldn’t allow some machete-wielding freak to get on their bus. It’s enlightened self-interest if nothing else.

But if there had been a kerfuffle of any sort, I would have read it in the news. We’re a tough bunch of rednecks around here, but I’m pretty sure a machete on a transit bus would rate a couple of lines near the back of the paper. But no. Nothing.

So somewhere in our fair city, there’s a guy who thinks it’s a good idea to carry an unsheathed machete on a transit bus. And there’s a bus driver who’s okay with that.

I’m disturbed.

And I think I’ll bring my machete the next time I take the bus. ’Cause one machete-wielding freak obviously isn’t enough for this town.

***

*Note: For brevity, I used masculine gender throughout. I’m perfectly willing to acknowledge the culprit may have been female. Heaven knows there are days…

I’m Probably A Sociopath: Exhibit A

June 20, 2012July 30, 2020 / Diane Henders / 60 Comments

If there’s an enzyme that regulates concern for how one is perceived by the general public, my levels are dangerously low. Add that to my tendency to choose a logical (to me) solution despite the hair-pulling, eye-bulging frustration of my companions, and I’m pretty sure I’m a sociopath.

As evidence, I present Exhibit A: my fanny pack. But I don’t wear it on my fanny (or at least, not the North American definition of ‘fanny’), so I refer to it as a waist pouch. See? Blatant disregard for the norms of society.

Photographic evidence: Exhibit A

I’m not actually oblivious to fashion; I just find it annoyingly illogical. On those rare occasions when I’m forced to dress up, I wear stylish clothes and hide my waist pouch inside a capacious handbag. But it’s only an empty gesture to craftily hide my psychosis (which is another earmark of sociopathy, by the way).

When I’m wearing my waist pouch, I’m happy and comfortable… and a walking fashion faux pas. I’m fully aware the fashion police will one day take me down. But until they do, I’m keeping it.

It’s comfortable, practical, and hands-free. It’s attached to my body, so it’s impossible to accidentally leave it behind. When I’m riding a motorcycle, I don’t have to figure out how to carry a purse. When I’m hiking or skiing or golfing, it’s right there when I need it. And despite its approximately five-pound weight, it’s effortless to carry because it hangs on my hips, not my shoulder.

As long as I’ve got my pouch, I’m set to survive anything from a business meeting to an exile in the wilderness. I’ve got bandaids, tissues, sunscreen, two kinds of lip balm (one with SPF 15), sunglasses, a flashlight, a bottle opener, one sturdy folding knife, and one Swiss-Army-type pocketknife with tweezers and screwdrivers and so forth.

There’s a small drugstore’s worth of useful pharmaceuticals like ASA, ibuprofen, anti-nauseants, antacids, cough drops, zinc lozenges, dextrose tablets, eye drops, and a bronchodilator. And I have my smartphone, pen, earplugs, dental floss, concealer, hair brush, hair elastics, hand sanitizer, breath mints, scissors, a measuring tape, screwdrivers, reading glasses, nail clippers, and a nail file.

Of course, I also carry my wallet, cheque book, and change purse. And a key to every lock in my life (21 in all, plus an extra for my car just in case). And a bunch of business cards. And two USB flash drives because I’m paranoid about keeping offsite backups of my work. Oh, and a little chunk of amethyst, because folklore says it enhances creativity and prevents drunkenness, which are both important considerations for a writer.

And there’s still room for my MP3 player in a pinch.

Everything has a place, and it’s packed so efficiently and predictably that I can find any item one-handed in the dark in ten seconds or less.

How can you argue with those benefits? A waist pouch is clearly the best solution. It’s simple logic. Like all good sociopaths, I hold the implicit belief that I’m right and the rest of the world is wrong.

So if you see the fashion police headed my way, call me. I’ll cut through the window screen with my pocketknife, lower myself on a rope made of dental floss, and cleverly disable their car with my screwdrivers before making my getaway. Wearing my sunglasses as a disguise.

Why yes, actually, paranoia is also a symptom of sociopathy… why do you ask?

At Least I’m Edible

June 13, 2012May 25, 2014 / Diane Henders / 24 Comments

This post is not for the soft of heart nor the delicate of spirit. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

**************

I can barely remember the time before my confinement, before this eternity of solitary darkness. I was not always contorted like this, but my prison has molded me inexorably to its shape.

A shattering burst of sound. Rough hands drag me forth. My disused senses are flayed raw by sudden noise and light but I cannot move, cannot flinch away.

This is not the gentle liberation of my long dreams.

The hands pull mercilessly at my twisted form, forcing me to resume a long-forgotten shape. The assault is savage, excruciating, but my voiceless state prevents me even the meager relief of screams.

They speak, but their words have no meaning. Perhaps they try to explain, to apologize. Or perhaps they mock my pain, taking pleasure in my suffering.

No.

More monstrous yet; they are indifferent. Though their eyes are upon me, their attention is on each other. The hands rend me open with eager brutality. Time congeals in mind-crushing pain.

The attack stops.

But it is not over.

Trapped helpless between them, their fierce heat laves me, easing my tortured body despite my terror. It is only a bitter glimpse of impossible salvation, for now I understand.

This is their unholy celebration; the culmination of their depraved rites. They will consume me slowly, their teeth shredding me, their lust burgeoning with every bite.

There will be no clemency for me. No deliverance.

My doom approaches. A ghastly abyss of putrid breath. A hot, slimy tongue ringed by cruel teeth. My spirit quails.

The teeth tear into me, but I cannot struggle, cannot cry out. Can only endure in silent desperation, entreating the distant mercy of death.

One final thought drifts above my roiling sea of agony.

At least I’m edible…

****************

…And that’s the first time I’ve ever written from the point of view of a pair of edible underwear. Might not be the last, though – you never know. Every pair has a story, however tragically, er, brief.

And hey, look what I found just for my loyal readers: Instructions for making your very own edible underwear! Brief Jerky, so nobody will ever ask “Where’s the beef?” and a cute little thong you can crochet yourself out of licorice laces – only 302 calories!

You know, just in case you were looking for a little something to spice up your… um… diet.

Note:

Madame Weebles is to blame for this post.

It all started with Nigel Blackwell’s post, “What’s In A Name? I’m A Pig”. The post includes the French Revolutionary Calendar, in which my birth day is named “millet”. So I commented, “blah, blah… at least I’m edible… blah, blah”.

Whereupon Madame Weebles dared me to write a post with that title. There was actually a small wager involved, but it wouldn’t be fair to hold her to it. She’s one of my newer blogging buddies, and I don’t think she’d read my post “Doin’ It On A Dare”.

With a title like that, it was tempting to go raunchy, but… nah, too predictable. I can write dirty jokes about anything, so it was far more interesting to write about edible underwear without a single rude word or double entendre.

…’Cause it seemed like a good idea to keep my edible undies clean. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)

…You Know; The “Thing”…

June 6, 2012July 30, 2020 / Diane Henders / 21 Comments

Ever notice how inanimate objects tend to acquire names? For me, it all started with Fred.

I don’t recall anyone in our family ever naming a plant or an inanimate object, so when I discovered that my ex-father-in-law (may his delightful soul rest in peace) called his houseplant “Fred”, I was bemused. Fred was a Norfolk Island Pine, and, when pressed, my father-in-law said he didn’t know why, “He just looks like a Fred.”

Being the creative sort that I am, I called every Norfolk Island Pine I subsequently encountered “Fred”. I have a Fred in my living room even as I write this:

Fred. Not the original.

And then there was Rodney. A few years ago, I was having trouble with voracious sparrows that decimated my garden peas. The instant the sprouts dared to poke above the ground, those rotten little sky-rodents would swoop in and chow down, leaving nothing but lifeless stumps behind.

So I bought a “scare owl”. For those unfamiliar with the foolish hopes and dreams of gardeners, a scare owl is a life-sized plastic owl, painted with realistic markings and fierce yellow eyes. The idea is that smaller birds identify the threatening presence of a bird of prey and flock off.

Yeah, right.

The sparrows perched beside the scare owl on the deck railing, chirping insults and taking turns shitting on its head. I promptly christened the owl “Rodney”, because, like Dangerfield, he got no respect.

I don’t usually apply permanent names to inanimate objects. They get lots of temporary names, ranging from “the thing” (as in, “…you know; the thing…” when I can’t think of the correct word on the spur of the moment) to “useless piece of shit” or other less complimentary terms that would require an f-bomb alert at the top of this post.

I will admit to occasionally addressing my cute little blue MP3 player as “my little sweetie” when I’m in a particularly fond mood. I do love my music. But if the batteries run down at the wrong moment, it’s right back to “useless piece of shit”. I’m fickle that way.

Lots of people seem to name their cars. Friends of ours named their red car ‘Scarlet’, and I had a hand in naming another friend’s new SUV ‘Lucy Blue’ (from Bob Seger’s Tales Of Lucy Blue).

Like Scarlet and Lucy Blue, it’s usually pretty easy to trace the origin of the name. Even Rodney makes sense once you hear the story. With the exception of Fred, most naming seems to have some logical basis.

Which is why I’m sure you’ll understand the moniker I applied to the desiccated cactus that’s been languishing on the corner of my desk waiting to be thrown away: