writing

The Great Motorcycle Debate

/ Diane Henders / 30 Comments

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

Spring is finally around the corner, and a middle-aged woman’s fancy turns lightly to thoughts of… motorcycles.  In honour of the season, I pose you the following question:  cruiser or crotch-rocket?

I’m a cruiser fan.  I’ve got some old wrist and knee injuries that get aggravated by the weight-forward position on a crotch-rocket, and anyway, I’m a traditionalist.  I like the kicked-back coolness of a cruiser.

Here’s the considered opinion of a couple of the characters in my second book, The Spy Is Cast:

*****

Germain and Hellhound put on their riding leathers, and we all trooped out of the hot RV into the cooler outside air.  Germain swung astride his Yamaha, and Hellhound grimaced.

“Shit.  Can’t believe I’m gonna hafta ride on the back of this piece a’ Jap crap.  Lucky it’s gettin’ dark so nobody’ll see me.  Why don’t ya get a real bike?”

“It’s better than that bone-rattling piece of shit you call a Harley,” Germain retorted good-naturedly.  “They’ve been making bikes for how long, and they still can’t make one with a decent muffler?”

Hellhound perched precariously on the back, struggling to hoist his boots up onto the passenger pegs.  “Why the hell would ya wanna ride one a’ these goddam crotch rockets anyhow?” he groused as he groped behind him for handholds.  “Ya like bustin’ your fuckin’ nuts on the tank?  Maybe you ain’t usin’ your junk anymore, but I still wanna keep mine in workin’ order.”

“Don’t they make a cute couple?” I observed loudly to Kane.

“Hey, Germain,” Kane called.  “That’s got to be the ugliest girlfriend I’ve ever seen!”

Hellhound flipped him a stiff middle finger as they pulled away, and we laughed while they rode out of sight.

* * *

So which do you like better – cruisers or crotch rockets?

If You’re Reading This, I’m Not Dead

/ Diane Henders / 21 Comments

Some time ago, I read an article on good blogging practices.  It said you should designate a proxy blogger so someone could shut down your blog in case you died.  It even suggested you should write a post and save it so your proxy could communicate your final message to your readers.

I’m sorry to say I didn’t treat this advice with due reverence.

I like to think I’m a conscientious person.  I try to fulfill my social obligations, at least as much as someone with my limited social skills can manage.  But I just can’t see writing a “Sorry, I’m Dead” post.

What if I’m not sorry?  I mean, let’s face it, if I’m dead, I probably won’t care much about what’s happening with my blog.  As I see it, there are three possibilities for my after-death experience:

1)     Harps and heavenly bliss.  In which case I’m more likely to look down from my exalted cloud and yell, “Neener, neener, I’m all happy and surrounded by endless beer while you poor schmos are still slogging it out down there!”  I guess I could put that in a blog post, but it seems presumptuous.  What if I jinxed it and ended up in the wrong place instead?  Which leads me to option 2…

2)     Pitchforks and eternal torment. If that’s the case, I’ll be so absorbed in my own misery that my blog will be the least of my worries.  Or…

3)     Nothing.  Do not pass Go, do not collect $200; I’m gone, done, finito.  Elvis has left the building, and he ain’t comin’ back.  In which case, I won’t be capable of caring about my blog.

But still.

I’m conscientious.  So now that I’ve been told this is one of my responsibilities as a blogger, I feel a niggling urge to address the “what if I die” scenario, even though I can’t imagine any earth-shattering consequences if I suddenly stop posting to my blog.

I mean, I’d like to think there are people out there hanging on my every word.  Or… actually, no.  Forget I said that.  Considering the usual content of my blog, I’d find it very disturbing if people were hanging on my every word.

So how about this:  As long as posts keep appearing here on a regular basis, you can assume I’m still alive, unless you believe in a fourth “beyond the grave” option where my spirit hangs around and writes blog posts and occasionally throws things.

Come to think of it, that could be fun.  Though it would probably inhibit my ability to enjoy beer, so maybe it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.  No wonder ghosts throw things.

Anyway, if my blog posts stop, you can assume I’m dead, bored, or incapacitated in some way, so feel free to drop insulting comments on my last blog entry.  If I’m bored, it’ll cheer me up.  If I’m incapacitated, you can be assured that my revenge, while not swift, will probably be terrible, or at least terribly entertaining.  For one of us.

And if I’m dead, I’ll probably be past caring, but it might amuse my ghost.

Why Do I Do It…?

/ Diane Henders / 15 Comments

I cling to the delusion that I’m a relatively intelligent human being.

It only took me one try to learn that you don’t guide the plug into the socket by gripping the prongs with your thumb and forefinger.  I’m generally a pretty quick study that way.  When it hurts, I figure I must be doing something wrong.

But I recently came to a realization that shook the very core of my confidence:  I’m a very slow learner when it comes to eating.

Not that I don’t know how to eat.  Far from it.  I’m an eating prodigy.

My problem is I don’t know when to stop.

For some reason, I lack the judgement I’m able to exercise in all other areas of my life.  I apply the “if it hurts, stop” rule with a high degree of success until it comes to food.  Then the rule comes out looking more like, “if it hurts, keep eating until it really hurts, then stop for a while and drink beer until you can eat again”.

I prefer to call this “gusto”, which is a nicer way to say “stupidity”.

After several decades of research and analysis, I’ve concluded my friends are to blame.

It can’t be the beer impairing my judgement, because I’m capable of hurting myself with or without it, though the whole effort is more enjoyable in the presence of alcohol.

It can’t be me, because I don’t eat like that when I’m at home.  I’ve had people come up to me at a party and say, “Wow, I wish I could eat like you and still stay that slim.”  To which I respond, “Don’t bother wishing.  I don’t even eat like me.”

This phenomenon was hammered home a few weeks ago at a friend’s birthday party.  We were sitting around the table eating take-out Chinese and shooting the breeze until suddenly I glanced at the completely cleared table and asked, “Am I the only one still eating?”

And everybody laughed and said, “Well, duh.”

I was in pain.  I had been comfortably full when I took that last helping, and I knew I didn’t need to eat more.  I ate it anyway.  Then I ate brownies and birthday cake.  Then I propped myself in a chair and held my stomach and groaned.  Then I drank some more beer.  If we’d stayed any later, I’d have been back into the snacks.

Why do I do it?

It’s not peer pressure.  Nobody says, “Hey, I bet you can’t eat this.”  In the first place, they’re mature human beings and I’d like to think we’re all a little past the point of silly challenges.  In the second place, they know they’d lose the bet.

But that’s not the point.

I’ve got nothing to prove, and even if I did, I’d be embarrassed to prove it with sophomoric excesses.

So I can only conclude it’s some sort of hive-mind telepathy by which I absorb and respond to everyone else’s appetites.  I’m not eating for me; I’m eating for everybody in the room.  Ergo, it’s not my fault.

Maybe I’ll wear a tinfoil hat to the next party.  Think that’ll fix the problem?

More Yummy Spam

/ Diane Henders / 15 Comments

My friends the spammers have been kind enough to donate the content for today’s post.  As I mentioned in an earlier post, I actually harbour a sneaking fondness for spam, as long as it’s fried up nice and crispy with cracker crumbs and/or neatly contained inside my spam filters.

Here’s what my blog has attracted lately:

In the category of Messages in Secret Code:  “blank hairpick slug miner mode lole weakling justis Basia”.

As any fool can see, this is an urgent communiqué informing me that feeble, curly-haired mentally deficient slug miners are about to kidnap a Polish folk singer and hold her hostage until their demands for justice are met in the form of shorter working hours, improved slime-resistant work gloves, and lower daily slug quotas.

I was halfway to the red phone to warn the secret police when I realized the plot was far more sinister than I’d originally thought.  The key word in the message is “lole”.  This misspelling of “LOL” clearly indicates that the implication of the mentally deficient slug miners is merely a clever ploy by the conspirators’ masterminds.  In fact, the plot is being undertaken by the intellectually elite straight-haired slug miners, who plan to frame their less acute brethren for the evil plan.

You’ll be relieved to know I reported the entire thing to the authorities, and Basia will never know how close she came to a slimy and terrifying ordeal.

***

In the category of Obscure But Vaguely Disturbing:  “I’m worried that a plush facehugger is a gateway facehugger if I win, I’d better not start turning tricks for real facehuggers or craving an alien bursting out of my chest”.

My initial fear that a facehugger was some sort of previously-unidentified sexual variation turned out to be unfounded when I nervously searched “facehugger” on the internet.  Now it all makes perfect, though somewhat worrisome, sense.  The concern that a plush facehugger may conceal a real facehugger is certainly a valid one.  But turning tricks for a facehugger?  Seems to imply a certain moral deficiency, wouldn’t you think?

Here’s a runner-up in the same category:  “In case the peg people don’t win the day, I need to know”.

Me, too.  I really, really need to know.  Who are these peg people?  Why has their epic struggle against the hole people gone undocumented all this time?  You need to know.  I need to know.  The world needs to know.

***

In the category of Too Much Information:  “I’ve a condition in this particular topic”.

This comment appeared on my post Why Orange Plastic Palm Trees.  I really didn’t need to know this commenter has glowing orange and yellow testicles.

***

And finally, in the category of Dubious Compliments:  “Those are yours alright! … They look good though!”

Um… thanks.  I’ve always preferred to think the real ones look better than implants, too, but… wait a minute… what are you looking at?!?

***

Anybody else had tasty spam lately?

Update:  The promo’s over now, but I’m planning a few more coming up – will keep you posted.

Note:  This week (March 4 – 10) is “Read An Ebook Week”, and I’m giving away ebook versions of Never Say Spy to support it.  Get yours free until March 10, and please let your friends know, too.  Click on the Ebook Week picture in my sidebar to get it (use coupon code RE100).

Don’t worry if you don’t have an e-reader – you can download software to read e-books on your PC from Adobe Digital Editions (epub) or Kindle for PC (mobi).

If you’re a regular commenter here, and if you’ve been kind enough to buy Never Say Spy already, drop me a note from the About Me page, and I’ll send you a freebie for one of my other books instead (tell me which one you’d like).

Let Me Rephrase That

/ Diane Henders / 26 Comments

My mouth keeps me in trouble.  As I mentioned in an earlier post, sometimes words fail to come out in any kind of useful or intelligible manner.

Other times, words come out of my mouth with mortifying clarity.  To wit:

My step-mom has cordless phones in various parts of her house so she can easily pick up without having to make a mad dash when the phone rings.  One day, some of the phones went dead, and I discovered one of her incoming lines had malfunctioned.  I solved the problem temporarily by redistributing the base units and extra handsets to maintain coverage until the repairman arrived.  The conversation went as follows:

Me:  “I’m just going to move your master base unit…”

Her:  *Silence*

Me:  “Please tell me I didn’t just say ‘masturbate’…”

But it doesn’t end there.  At the pub a few months ago, I loudly and clearly informed the gang that “I take it from both ends”.

My friends do not have my step-mom’s restraint.  A chorus of whoops, guffaws, and snorts greeted my announcement, and I was forced to wrap myself in the pitiful shreds of my dignity to explain that I was talking about getting ice cream out of a 2-litre carton as efficiently as possible:  open one end, scoop it out to the halfway point, and then open the other end to finish it off.

Sadly, the effectiveness of the explanation was spoiled by the fact that nobody was listening anymore; they were too busy holding their sides and laughing.

My unfortunate affliction isn’t limited to verbal gaffes.  I’ve left the house carrying a grocery list that specified “booze & pot”.  No, not “pot” as in “cannabis”.  I was getting ready for a party, and I needed to pick up some wine and a large pot for boiling lobster.  I shredded that list, just in case somebody got the wrong idea.

Other readers of my lists might erroneously assume I’m a stage performer.  One of my more recent scraps of paper read “taps & hat”.  I don’t know how to tap-dance.  And if I did, you wouldn’t want to see it.  I meant “taps for the kitchen sink”, and the hat was a gift for my step-mom.

Most recently, I distinguished myself in conversation with a group of people I’d only known a short time.  We were sitting around the kitchen table enjoying a quiet beer when I discovered one of the guys collected coins.  Something was said about his coin collection, and I turned to him and innocently asked, “Oh, do you have a big one?”

Did I mention I didn’t know these people very well at the time?

Most people would have wisely shut up at that point, and let the innate good manners of the others force them to bite their tongues and pretend nothing untoward had been said.

Unfortunately, dignity and propriety have never been my strong suit.  I burst out laughing and added, “Let me rephrase that…”

I guess they know me a little better now.  Whether they wanted to or not.

Anybody else have an obstreperous tongue?  Or do I just have the world’s dirtiest mind?  Or both?

It Was A Dark And Stormy Night…

/ Diane Henders / 21 Comments

Well, not really.  It was dark, but it was calm.  Unlike me.  I was scared shitless.  I wouldn’t admit it, but I was pumping adrenaline and wondering if we were all going to live through this.

Dad was carrying the double-barrelled shotgun, my new boyfriend was in the middle, and I brought up the rear with a flashlight.

This is a true story.

It all started with the old barn on our farm.  It was a creaky, drafty structure with missing boards and broken windows.  There were still some bales in the hayloft, and as kids, we often played up there.  We knew enough to avoid the rotten spots in the floor, and it was a private place where we could spend the afternoon with our Barbie dolls, or, more frequently in my case, shooting at bales with a bow and arrows.

It was great, except for the turds.

Big turds.  Man-sized turds lying in the straw over in one corner.  And there were flattened-down areas in the straw.  We’d fluffed it up the last time we played there.  We knew we hadn’t flattened it.

Sometimes when we played in the lower part of the barn, the loft creaked overhead with the rhythm of stealthy footsteps.

We never talked about it.  Sometimes we stayed out of sheer bravado, hovering wide-eyed near the door for a quick escape if necessary.  Sometimes we tacitly decided to play elsewhere.  I never mentioned this to our parents because I refused to admit I was scared.

I’d always thought my nervousness around the barn was childhood foolishness until I brought my new boyfriend home from university years later.

It was a moonless night in October.  The trees were bare skeletons and the yard was shrouded in the profound darkness and silence of a secluded prairie farm.  Inside the farmhouse, it was warm and bright.  I don’t remember how it came about, but Dad rose and loaded the shotgun.

We had a plan.

We would sneak up on the barn.  Dad would be ready with the shotgun, my boyfriend would fling the barn door open, and I would flip the switch to turn on the three remaining light bulbs in the cavernous lower level.

We crept across the yard.  Took up our silent positions outside the barn.

Dad gave the nod, swinging the shotgun up like the deadly trap-shooter he was.  The door flew open with a bang.  The lights flashed on…

And nothing was there.

I trembled my way back to the house, and the conversation remained subdued for the rest of the evening.  My boyfriend showed a certain reluctance to visit after that.

I felt validated to think Dad shared my suspicions about the barn, but I don’t know whether he actually expected to have to use the shotgun, or if it was just a convenient way to keep an upstart boyfriend in line.

I never asked him.  And he never told.

I’m Not An Idiot. Really.

/ Diane Henders / 31 Comments

93% of people who drive believe they’re better-than-average drivers.

Anybody else see the math problem here?

This came to mind yesterday, as I swore at the bone-headed stunts of other Calgary drivers.

I just spent three weeks in small-town Manitoba, and I did most of my driving on the wide-open four-lane TransCanada Highway.  Traffic is light in the winter, so the statistical probability of encountering an idiot driver is satisfyingly low.

Unless of course, I’m the idiot I’m trying to avoid.  More on that later.

The idiosyncrasies of small-town drivers don’t bother me.  There, I expect people to double- and triple-park, turn without signalling, and brake to a halt in the middle of the street for a visit with the driver of an oncoming vehicle.

What the heck, it’s a small town.  They don’t need to signal; everybody knows where they’re going.  On Tuesday and Thursday mornings, they’re going for coffee at the bake shop.  Saturday mornings, it’s breakfast at the café.  The last Friday of every month is pizza night at Joe’s.  No problem.

So I was shocked when I was forced to call somebody a butthead within two minutes of leaving my driveway here in Calgary.  I’d gotten out of the habit of muttering verbal abuse at other drivers.  But by the time I’d completed my one-hour trip, the habit was firmly reestablished.  Apparently Calgary has an extremely high population density of idiot drivers.

Hey, that sounds like a collective noun: a murder of crows; a density of idiots…

Anyway, when I went looking for driving statistics, I discovered this wiki on illusory superiority.  To grossly oversimplify the article:  the stupider you are, the more likely you are to believe you’re smart.  And the worse you are at a specific skill (like driving), the more likely you are to believe you’re good at it.

That explains a lot.  And it makes me nervous.

Despite my one-time nickname, “Fender Bender“, I’ve always thought I’m a pretty good driver.  I took a motorcycle safety course back in the 80s, and I’ve never lost those defensive driving habits.  Alert caution is a good idea when you can be effortlessly wiped off the road by anything, including a renegade Canada goose.  (True story – happened to a guy my husband knew.  The goose hit him in the chest and knocked him right off his bike.)

I won’t pretend I’ve never pulled a dumb move like signalling a turn and then changing my mind, or heading for a parking space only to find it’s occupied and I’m now at a ridiculous angle that requires an embarrassing 3-point turn to escape.

But on the whole, I think I’m okay.  I’ve been driving for more than 30 years.  I can’t remember the last time anybody honked at me.  My passengers don’t scream, lose sphincter control, and/or fling themselves out of the car.  I’ve never caused an accident.  (Well, except for last fall.  But that wasn’t because of my driving.)

So, really, I’m a good driver.

Or maybe that’s just wishful illusory superiority…

Toolaholics Anonymous

/ Diane Henders / 22 Comments

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

Hello, my name is Diane, and I’m a toolaholic.

I first realized I might have a problem the day I caught myself whining at my husband because he wouldn’t let me buy a hydraulic engine hoist (it was on sale, too, dammit).

Everybody needs an engine hoist.  I have an engine stand.  How am I supposed to get my engine block off the stand and back into my car without a hoist?  At the time, I rationalized it as reasonable behaviour.  But I knew I’d hit rock-bottom the day I sneaked home with a knife-sharpening kit… and hid it.

Maybe I was feeling guilty because I already have a wet-wheel sharpener for my wood-turning tools.  I’ve used it in the past, but the stone is really too coarse for my good-quality kitchen knives.  And Hubby’s diamond sharpening set doesn’t have a jig, so it’s hard to put a precise angle on the blade.  And I’ve never mastered the art of using the steel to hone knives.  And nothing drives me crazier than a dull knife.

So really, I needed a five-stone sharpening kit with a jig.

My husband is my enabler.  Sometimes he buys me tools for my birthday and for Christmas.  Sometimes he buys me tools “just because”.  Tools are the perfect gift.  They’re beautiful.  They’re shiny.  They’re powerful.  They’re practical.  I need tools.  Everybody needs tools.

I wasn’t always a toolaholic.  When I got married, I only had one set of carpentry tools, one set of kitchen tools, and one set of automotive tools.  My tools were always clean and organized and ready to use.  Hubby had a couple of sets of his own tools.  Everything should have been fine.

But.

I’m a put-it-away-er.  He’s a drop-it-where-you-used-it kinda guy.  So he misplaces tools frequently.  Then he steals mine, because “they’re easy to find”.

Yeah, because I actually put them back where they belong after using them.

Then I go to do some small job and I can’t find my goddamn-sonuvabitch-where-the-hell-are-my-fucking-TOOLS?!?

He’s a resourceful fellow with a well-developed sense of self-preservation, so he solved the problem.  Not by putting my tools back after using them.  Oh, no.  By buying me new tools when he gets in trouble.

For example, we now own at least eleven hammers.  A couple of framing hammers, a couple of ball-peens, a couple of hand sledges, and several multi-purpose claw hammers.  Oh, and a brass one for when you can’t risk striking a spark.  And a rubber one.  Plus three full-size sledgehammers of varying weights.

I still can’t find a hammer when I need one.

The same thing has happened with socket sets and screwdrivers and pliers and drill bits and oil filter wrenches.  I may have actually threatened him with death the day I couldn’t find my nice little ultra-fine flexible Japanese hand saw.  (It still hasn’t turned up, but he bought me another).

After a few years of marriage, I began to stash tools in out-of-the-way places, hoping they’d still be there the next time I needed them.  Then I started buying extra tools “just in case”.  Soon I couldn’t walk into a tool store without buying something.

So really, the tool addiction isn’t my fault.  He drove me to it.

But I can quit any time I want.

Honest.

Food Fetishes

/ Diane Henders / 21 Comments

The dictionary tells me a fetish can be an object that  elicits reverence and devotion, or an object that causes an erotic response.  For me, food falls neatly into both categories.  Sometimes I love food.  Sometimes I looooove food.  (Not literally.  Don’t worry, it’s still safe to eat the cucumbers at my house.)

I do, however, admit to a peculiar food-related habit that can be safely discussed in polite company.  And no, I’m not going to talk about the time I nearly suffered le petit mort over a hazelnut crème brulée and a flight of ice wine.

But it was really, really good.

‘Scuse me while a take a deep breath.

Anyway, what I meant to discuss is the fact that I’m a picky eater.  Not in the sense of having a limited range of foods I’ll eat – quite the contrary.  I’ll eat just about anything except black licorice.  I’m talking about the way I eat.

I always hold corn on the cob with the big end at the left.  I eat left to right in a clean, straight pattern.  The cob, when returned to my plate, is placed horizontally at the 12:00 position.  I contend this is simple logic.  If the cob’s at the front, it’s hard to reach over it to get at the rest of your food.

Pie and pizza are to be eaten point-first.  I’ve seen others eat it crust-first, and while that appeals to my logical side (eat the dry crust first and finish up with the good stuff), I don’t seem to be able to adopt that system.

I once knew a guy who preferred to dig randomly into the middle of a pie without cutting slices, but I consider that to be a sign of a deranged mind.  He ate his corn randomly, too.  And he was more than a little deranged.  ‘Nuff said.

Meat, potatoes, and veggies get laid out in specific locations on the plate.  Meat at 10:00, potatoes at 2:00, veggies at 6:00.  But I’m flexible.  Sometimes I swap the potato/veggie positions.  And sometimes the meat moves up to 12:00 or down as far as 8:00.

I didn’t realize how entrenched this habit was until I caught myself rotating my plate and feeling vague discomfort when the food came arranged differently in a restaurant.  I’ll deny actually rearranging food on my plate at a restaurant, but you probably already know I’m lying.  And I always eat clockwise around the plate, one bite of meat, then one of potatoes, etc.

Toast, I bite off the bottom left corner first.  Then the bottom right corner, then the middle.  I repeat in rows until the entire slice is gone.  It’s simple logic.  I like peanut butter and honey, and this configuration minimizes the probability of smearing sticky stuff on my cheeks.

Speaking of peanut butter, I scoop it from around the edges of the jar. Systematically, scraping it tidily off the inside and gradually working my way around counter-clockwise.  I never stick a knife in the middle of the jar.  Freud would probably have a heyday with that one.

And don’t even get me started about buttering toast and then scooping up more goodies on the knife, leaving toast crumbs in the butter/honey/jam.  That’s just plain wrong.

Is it because I’m a geek and my brain is naturally happy with linear patterns?  Or is it because I’m a control-loving, slightly obsessive freak?  (Don’t answer that).

Anybody else have freakish food fetishes?  Please tell me I’m not the only one.

Sometimes I Speak Swahili

/ Diane Henders / 29 Comments

Sometimes I speak Swahili.  It’s the only possible explanation.  Except for the fact that people who speak Swahili can’t understand me, either.  So maybe sometimes I speak a heretofore-unknown but terribly clever secret language.

Yeah, that’s gotta be it.

Has this ever happened to you?  I’m standing in front of somebody flapping my gums, and I think I’m being perfectly clear.  Then I see the glaze of bewilderment in their eyes.

I try harder.  I explain it a different way.

If they’re nice, polite people, they try really hard, too.  They frown in concentration.  They watch my lips.  They try to read my body language for a clue.  And incomprehension spreads across their faces like local anaesthetic during dental surgery.

Eventually, we give up by tacit agreement.  They nod and pretend to understand.  I nod and pretend to believe them.  We walk away frustrated, brains feeling like wrung-out sponges.

Or, if they’re not particularly polite, their eyes dart sideways before they sneak a glance at their watch and exclaim, “Geez, look at the time!  Gotta go!”  And then they flee.

Frankly, I don’t blame them.

I hate it when words fail me.  The problem is, they don’t fail me in the sense of refusing to come out of my mouth.  They fail me in the sense of refusing to come out of my brain in any kind of useful pattern.

That happened to me the other day on a blog.  I wrote a comment.  I checked the comment over and edited it, because I’m anal and that’s just what I do.  Then I posted the comment.  When the blogger replied, it seemed words had failed me again.

Written words are worse than spoken ones.  When you’re standing in front of somebody, your voice and expression and body language combine with your speech to get your message across.  But a few black squiggles on a white background can’t do that, and when I read them again, my words didn’t say what I really meant to say.  I felt like an idiot.

So I posted another comment, explaining what I’d really meant, and apologizing if I sounded like an idiot.

Then I felt like an idiot apologizing for being an idiot.  Sheesh.

Life would be so much easier if we could just do a Vulcan mind-meld.  Then we could understand each other completely, bang, in a single moment.  Imagine the time and frustration it would save.

Then again, I’m not sure anybody would want to mind-meld with me.  You really don’t want to know what’s lurking inside this skull.  Maybe Harry Potter’s Pensieve would be a better solution.  Just yank out the specific thought you want to convey and pass it on.

Hmm.  Nice idea, but I don’t know where to get a Pensieve.  Maybe I’ll just get a T-shirt that says, “I’m not really an idiot, I just sound like one sometimes.”

At least I hope it’s only sometimes.

Did any of this make sense?