By DARREN HANDSCHUH
I recently read a article by local museum curator Ron Candy in which he talked about spiders.
As any one who has read my past columns knows, I do not like spiders. Actually they scare the snot out of me.
In my teen years, my then-girlfriend thought it would be great fun to throw a rather large and ugly spider at me. I am not ashamed, I admit it, I screamed like a frightened school girl on Halloween night.
I then did the spider dance and was generally creeped out for the rest of the day.
In Ron's column, he talked about how beneficial the little critters are. I have never argued their benefit to the world, I have just demanded their execution on sight.
No trial, no jury and no mercy, just straight to the death chamber commonly known as the bottom of my shoe.
The only good spider is a spider that has been smashed into a unrecognizable pile of goo. Now that's my kind of arachnid.
Ron's column talked about how spiders are revered in some cultures. Let's just say I am not from that culture.
Some cultures eat spiders, and I say go ahead because a dead spider is a good spider, just don't invite me over for dinner.
Some cultures keep spiders as pets. Friends of mine have a teen aged son who has a tarantula as a pet. One day she was talking to my wife and said the tarantula had escaped its enclosure.
My wife asked how many times that had happened.
Slamming my foot to the ground as hard as I could my answer was, “Once.”
And I meant it. If I was at their house and the eight-legged horror was walking across the room they would have one less pet to feed (and a carpet to clean.)
Ron goes on to say Hindus in eastern Bengal collect spiders and let them go at a wedding as a sign of good luck.
Who in the blue hell thinks a small army of spiders crawling all over the place is good luck. I would rather have the wedding guests stick pencils up my nose for luck.
It might be good luck for my wife because she could start our marriage by cashing in my life insurance. If there are 100 people at the wedding and each one of them let even one spider go, that would be it for me. I would see all these little eight-legged nasties running around and I would be out of there so fast the wind from me leaving would knock people over.
But if you think that is bad, Ron goes on to describe another tradition in Egypt where it is common practice to place a spider in the bed of the newly married couple.
OK, hold it. Stop right there. Folks, you have just crossed the line.
Putting a spider in my bed is quite possibly the worst idea I have ever heard. Can you imagine being all in love and happy about the nuptials only to find a bug-eyed monster staring back at you from the honeymoon love lounger?
It would be the shortest honeymoon in the history of honeymoons.
“Honey, why don't you pull the sheets back. I'll be right there.”“Why yes my new wife, that sounds like a great plan.”
“Honey, what was that high-pitched scream? Honey? Honey?”
The next sound would be the door breaking as I ran through it to get out of the room.
Throwing rice and toilet-papering the car is quite enough of a wedding tradition for me thank you.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
The hound is a hunter
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
My dog registered his first official kill the other day.
I know he did the deed because I watched him do it. The assault was over before I could even react.
It was quite impressive actually, kind of like watching the nature channel live. He spotted his target and immediately launched a relentless, spirited attack.
With the speed of a cheetah and the power of a lion, Murphy the Wonder Dog pounced.
It took a a few twists of his body and a couple of snaps with his lethal jaws before he sunk his fangs into his prey, resulting in its death. I must admit, I felt some pride in his killing prowess and now there is one less moth in the world thanks to a 15-pound hound with a wolf complex.
It was a big moth too. Not one of those wimpy little white ones, but a fierce grayish coloured one that are known to frighten small children. I even read on the Internet they have been known to carry weapons and if it was on the Net, then it must be true. Actually I think it was a Far Side cartoon, but still Murphy did not show a trace of fear, only the steel determination of a true killer.
And after he caught the flying insect he did eat it, which I would just like to say is disgusting and is proof dogs will each just about anything.
It took a while to get it down as it was roughly the size of a pigeon. Well, maybe it was not that big, but he still took a few seconds to eat his meal to go. Perhaps he was savouring the flavour or just basking in the glow of a successful kill, who knows.
Never in my life have I looked at a moth and thought, “Hmmm, that looks like a tasty treat.”
Although there are many cultures where people eat bugs. If I was in one of those places I would be known as the skinny dead guy because I would likely starve to death.
But the kill just goes to show you can take the dog out of the forest, but you can't take the wolf out of the dog. Or, dogs are weird, whatever one works best for you.
My son's cat is a true hunter. I know this because we often find the remains of his kills scattered about the yard.
Murphy thinks this is great, which bring me to the question of why do dogs enjoy stinky stuff? Not only do they want to smell it, they want to smell like it.
Murphy found a small pile of what I believe were bird remains in the backyard one day and the only reason I spotted it was because he was rolling in it.
Whenever you see your dog drop their shoulder and roll around with a goofy grin on their face, you know they are up to nothing good, at least not good for the nostrils.
Murphy was flopping around having a grand ol' time and was quite put out when I disposed of the remains.
I guess for dogs, eau de bird guts is a fragrance delight.
Mind you, I have come across some humans who did not smell a whole lot better themselves, and I assume, or I hope anyway, they were not rolling in anything.
These are the folk who take a bath once a year whether they need it or not. Trust me, you need it and you better do it soon because there is a whole lineup of dogs just waiting to roll on you.
My dog registered his first official kill the other day.
I know he did the deed because I watched him do it. The assault was over before I could even react.
It was quite impressive actually, kind of like watching the nature channel live. He spotted his target and immediately launched a relentless, spirited attack.
With the speed of a cheetah and the power of a lion, Murphy the Wonder Dog pounced.
It took a a few twists of his body and a couple of snaps with his lethal jaws before he sunk his fangs into his prey, resulting in its death. I must admit, I felt some pride in his killing prowess and now there is one less moth in the world thanks to a 15-pound hound with a wolf complex.
It was a big moth too. Not one of those wimpy little white ones, but a fierce grayish coloured one that are known to frighten small children. I even read on the Internet they have been known to carry weapons and if it was on the Net, then it must be true. Actually I think it was a Far Side cartoon, but still Murphy did not show a trace of fear, only the steel determination of a true killer.
And after he caught the flying insect he did eat it, which I would just like to say is disgusting and is proof dogs will each just about anything.
It took a while to get it down as it was roughly the size of a pigeon. Well, maybe it was not that big, but he still took a few seconds to eat his meal to go. Perhaps he was savouring the flavour or just basking in the glow of a successful kill, who knows.
Never in my life have I looked at a moth and thought, “Hmmm, that looks like a tasty treat.”
Although there are many cultures where people eat bugs. If I was in one of those places I would be known as the skinny dead guy because I would likely starve to death.
But the kill just goes to show you can take the dog out of the forest, but you can't take the wolf out of the dog. Or, dogs are weird, whatever one works best for you.
My son's cat is a true hunter. I know this because we often find the remains of his kills scattered about the yard.
Murphy thinks this is great, which bring me to the question of why do dogs enjoy stinky stuff? Not only do they want to smell it, they want to smell like it.
Murphy found a small pile of what I believe were bird remains in the backyard one day and the only reason I spotted it was because he was rolling in it.
Whenever you see your dog drop their shoulder and roll around with a goofy grin on their face, you know they are up to nothing good, at least not good for the nostrils.
Murphy was flopping around having a grand ol' time and was quite put out when I disposed of the remains.
I guess for dogs, eau de bird guts is a fragrance delight.
Mind you, I have come across some humans who did not smell a whole lot better themselves, and I assume, or I hope anyway, they were not rolling in anything.
These are the folk who take a bath once a year whether they need it or not. Trust me, you need it and you better do it soon because there is a whole lineup of dogs just waiting to roll on you.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Murphy's first kill
bY DARREN HANDSCHUH
My dog registered his first official kill the other day.
I know he did the deed because I watched him do it. The assault was over before I could even react.
It was quite impressive actually, kind of like watching the nature channel live. He spotted his target and immediately launched a relentless, spirited attack.
With the speed of a cheetah and the power of a lion, Murphy the Wonder Dog pounced.
It took a a few twists of his body and a couple of snaps with his lethal jaws before he sunk his fangs into his prey, resulting in its death. I must admit, I felt some pride in his killing prowess and now there is one less moth in the world thanks to a 15-pound hound with a wolf complex.
It was a big moth too. Not one of those wimpy little white ones, but a fierce grayish coloured one that are known to frighten small children. I even read on the Internet they have been known to carry weapons and if it was on the Net, then it must be true. Actually I think it was a Far Side cartoon, but still Murphy did not show a trace of fear, only the steel determination of a true killer.
And after he caught the flying insect he did eat it, which I would just like to say is disgusting and is proof dogs will each just about anything.
It took a while to get it down as it was roughly the size of a pigeon. Well, maybe it was not that big, but he still took a few seconds to eat his meal to go. Perhaps he was savouring the flavour or just basking in the glow of a successful kill, who knows.
Never in my life have I looked at a moth and thought, “Hmmm, that looks like a tasty treat.”
Although there are many cultures where people eat bugs. If I was in one of those places I would be known as the skinny dead guy because I would likely starve to death.
But the kill just goes to show you can take the dog out of the forest, but you can't take the wolf out of the dog. Or, dogs are weird, whatever one works best for you.
My son's cat is a true hunter. I know this because we often find the remains of his kills scattered about the yard.
Murphy thinks this is great, which bring me to the question of why do dogs enjoy stinky stuff? Not only do they want to smell it, they want to smell like it.
Murphy found a small pile of what I believe were bird remains in the backyard one day and the only reason I spotted it was because he was rolling in it.
Whenever you see your dog drop their shoulder and roll around with a goofy grin on their face, you know they are up to nothing good, at least not good for the nostrils.
Murphy was flopping around having a grand ol' time and was quite put out when I disposed of the remains.
I guess for dogs, eau de bird guts is a fragrance delight.
Mind you, I have come across some humans who did not smell a whole lot better themselves, and I assume, or I hope anyway, they were not rolling in anything.
These are the folk who take a bath once a year whether they need it or not. Trust me, you need it and you better do it soon because there is a whole lineup of dogs just waiting to roll on you.
My dog registered his first official kill the other day.
I know he did the deed because I watched him do it. The assault was over before I could even react.
It was quite impressive actually, kind of like watching the nature channel live. He spotted his target and immediately launched a relentless, spirited attack.
With the speed of a cheetah and the power of a lion, Murphy the Wonder Dog pounced.
It took a a few twists of his body and a couple of snaps with his lethal jaws before he sunk his fangs into his prey, resulting in its death. I must admit, I felt some pride in his killing prowess and now there is one less moth in the world thanks to a 15-pound hound with a wolf complex.
It was a big moth too. Not one of those wimpy little white ones, but a fierce grayish coloured one that are known to frighten small children. I even read on the Internet they have been known to carry weapons and if it was on the Net, then it must be true. Actually I think it was a Far Side cartoon, but still Murphy did not show a trace of fear, only the steel determination of a true killer.
And after he caught the flying insect he did eat it, which I would just like to say is disgusting and is proof dogs will each just about anything.
It took a while to get it down as it was roughly the size of a pigeon. Well, maybe it was not that big, but he still took a few seconds to eat his meal to go. Perhaps he was savouring the flavour or just basking in the glow of a successful kill, who knows.
Never in my life have I looked at a moth and thought, “Hmmm, that looks like a tasty treat.”
Although there are many cultures where people eat bugs. If I was in one of those places I would be known as the skinny dead guy because I would likely starve to death.
But the kill just goes to show you can take the dog out of the forest, but you can't take the wolf out of the dog. Or, dogs are weird, whatever one works best for you.
My son's cat is a true hunter. I know this because we often find the remains of his kills scattered about the yard.
Murphy thinks this is great, which bring me to the question of why do dogs enjoy stinky stuff? Not only do they want to smell it, they want to smell like it.
Murphy found a small pile of what I believe were bird remains in the backyard one day and the only reason I spotted it was because he was rolling in it.
Whenever you see your dog drop their shoulder and roll around with a goofy grin on their face, you know they are up to nothing good, at least not good for the nostrils.
Murphy was flopping around having a grand ol' time and was quite put out when I disposed of the remains.
I guess for dogs, eau de bird guts is a fragrance delight.
Mind you, I have come across some humans who did not smell a whole lot better themselves, and I assume, or I hope anyway, they were not rolling in anything.
These are the folk who take a bath once a year whether they need it or not. Trust me, you need it and you better do it soon because there is a whole lineup of dogs just waiting to roll on you.
Friday, August 14, 2009
It wasn't my fault
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
Let me start this column by saying in my younger days my friends and I weren’t really bad when we camped, we didn’t crank the stereo or anything, or run around like lunatics, but being young we did camp with some energy.
Overall, we were well-behaved, if not sometimes boisterous in our excitement of spending time with squirrels and ducks of our native land.
The worst night of camping (for those around us I mean) in my history of camping happened when I was a young buck. I was young enough to still be stupid and old enough to know better, but oddly enough this night was not my fault.
It really wasn’t, honest.
The trip started out like any other with a fire, some food and a couple recreational beverages. OK, there were lots of recreational beverages.
This was one of my first adult camping trips and I did so with my new wife, who had been camping since she was a kid.
I really didn’t understand the whole concept of camping, but being all in love, I willingly headed for the hills.
It’s strange, but I don’t remember cooking or eating when I camped in those days. We must have eaten. You can’t go two days without food, although my friend did argue with some conviction that, technically, barley and hops were components of food. Who can argue with logic like that?
The one cooler we brought with us had some grub in it, but it was mainly used to store the barley and hops.
Anyway, on this particular night we were camping with some people we normally didn’t go out with, and that was our first mistake.
One intrepid camper, whom I will call Weanie because it sort of rhymes with his name, decided it would be great sport to drive around the campground and invite everyone he sees to go to our campsite - not his.
After making a trip to the all-impressive outhouse I returned to find a lot of people I did not know lounging around our campsite.
There were roughly 429 people in our campsite, of which I knew seven. Not a good thing.
We told Weanie to stop inviting people and decided to see what the evening would bring. That was our second mistake.
It seems these people had consumed many beverages themselves and were loud lot. We soon had enough of their company and evicted our guests, but not before getting the attention of all the campers around us.
Weanie also had a friend who we all called Stick. Why, because he was dumb as a stick. Anyway, a couple of hours after we turned in for the night, Stick, who had found another party to go to, drove his car into a ditch and got stuck.
He knew one of us, Matt, had a four-wheel-drive truck and decided Matt would be his saviour and pull him out of the weeds.
The next event is kind of blurred by a sleep-induced haze, but I remember hearing this mournful wail coming from far in the distance.
“Maaaaaatt. Maaaaaaaaaaaaaatt.”
My first thought was, ‘Why is a moose calling for Matt in the middle of the night?’ Once my brain woke up enough to figure out what was going on, my second thought was, ‘Good, he is not looking for me.’
I went back to sleep only to be woken up by someone from the other party yelling at the top of their lungs. They were not screaming for help, or really making any sort of intelligible sound, but were just yelling for the sake of yelling.
Brilliant.
Finally someone screamed ‘Shut up’ and he did.
The next day, every person in the campground held us personally responsible for all the commotion. We were told in no uncertain terms if it happened again that night we would be bound, gagged and thrown into the lake never to be seen again.
I tried to explain it was not our fault and the yelling and stuff was from different campers, but there is no reasoning with someone who was up all night listening to a loud drunk guy, so I gave up and accepted we had been branded as disturbers of the peace.
That night we forbade Weanie from inviting anyone to join us and had a much more enjoyable time, as did everyone around us.
There have been two times over the years where I have been the grumpy camper angry with a group of kids who were partying, but I suspect it was divine pay back – even if it wasn’t my fault.
Let me start this column by saying in my younger days my friends and I weren’t really bad when we camped, we didn’t crank the stereo or anything, or run around like lunatics, but being young we did camp with some energy.
Overall, we were well-behaved, if not sometimes boisterous in our excitement of spending time with squirrels and ducks of our native land.
The worst night of camping (for those around us I mean) in my history of camping happened when I was a young buck. I was young enough to still be stupid and old enough to know better, but oddly enough this night was not my fault.
It really wasn’t, honest.
The trip started out like any other with a fire, some food and a couple recreational beverages. OK, there were lots of recreational beverages.
This was one of my first adult camping trips and I did so with my new wife, who had been camping since she was a kid.
I really didn’t understand the whole concept of camping, but being all in love, I willingly headed for the hills.
It’s strange, but I don’t remember cooking or eating when I camped in those days. We must have eaten. You can’t go two days without food, although my friend did argue with some conviction that, technically, barley and hops were components of food. Who can argue with logic like that?
The one cooler we brought with us had some grub in it, but it was mainly used to store the barley and hops.
Anyway, on this particular night we were camping with some people we normally didn’t go out with, and that was our first mistake.
One intrepid camper, whom I will call Weanie because it sort of rhymes with his name, decided it would be great sport to drive around the campground and invite everyone he sees to go to our campsite - not his.
After making a trip to the all-impressive outhouse I returned to find a lot of people I did not know lounging around our campsite.
There were roughly 429 people in our campsite, of which I knew seven. Not a good thing.
We told Weanie to stop inviting people and decided to see what the evening would bring. That was our second mistake.
It seems these people had consumed many beverages themselves and were loud lot. We soon had enough of their company and evicted our guests, but not before getting the attention of all the campers around us.
Weanie also had a friend who we all called Stick. Why, because he was dumb as a stick. Anyway, a couple of hours after we turned in for the night, Stick, who had found another party to go to, drove his car into a ditch and got stuck.
He knew one of us, Matt, had a four-wheel-drive truck and decided Matt would be his saviour and pull him out of the weeds.
The next event is kind of blurred by a sleep-induced haze, but I remember hearing this mournful wail coming from far in the distance.
“Maaaaaatt. Maaaaaaaaaaaaaatt.”
My first thought was, ‘Why is a moose calling for Matt in the middle of the night?’ Once my brain woke up enough to figure out what was going on, my second thought was, ‘Good, he is not looking for me.’
I went back to sleep only to be woken up by someone from the other party yelling at the top of their lungs. They were not screaming for help, or really making any sort of intelligible sound, but were just yelling for the sake of yelling.
Brilliant.
Finally someone screamed ‘Shut up’ and he did.
The next day, every person in the campground held us personally responsible for all the commotion. We were told in no uncertain terms if it happened again that night we would be bound, gagged and thrown into the lake never to be seen again.
I tried to explain it was not our fault and the yelling and stuff was from different campers, but there is no reasoning with someone who was up all night listening to a loud drunk guy, so I gave up and accepted we had been branded as disturbers of the peace.
That night we forbade Weanie from inviting anyone to join us and had a much more enjoyable time, as did everyone around us.
There have been two times over the years where I have been the grumpy camper angry with a group of kids who were partying, but I suspect it was divine pay back – even if it wasn’t my fault.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
We want a hound
THIS WAS ORIGINALLY WRITTEN ABOUT 15 MONTHS AGO.
BY DARREN HANDSCHUH
Can we get a dog?
That is the questioned being floated around the family homestead lately, mainly by the children.
We haven’t had a dog for several months after putting our last beast down to end 16 years of pet ownership. She was old, deaf, mostly blind, her hair was falling out and she would bark at the wall for no particular reason so we all agreed it was time for her to go to the great doggy park in the sky, or where ever it is dogs go.
I could tell you I miss her, but ‘thou shall not lie.’
After we put her down, we agreed (OK, I suggested) we go one year without a dog before we consider getting another hound. Well, that year is almost up.
I have to admit, I have been enjoying life without a dog running around barking, digging up the yard, dropping little doggy landmines all over the place and in general being more work than I care to take on at this station in life.
I have been compiling a mental list of the good points and the not-so-good points of owning a relative of the wolf clan.
On the upside, dogs offer companionship and make sure you are never alone. In a house of five people plus their friends and an often-visiting mother-in-law I relish being alone.
In fact, I cherish it. In fact, I look forward to it. In fact, if I didn’t get some alone time I would probably wind up with one of those fancy fashion accessories that magicians are always trying to escape from.
Mind you the dog won’t talk, change the channel or hog the couch, so that argument is iffy at best.
Another good point about a dog is you can play with it and whatnot when you are bored. Correct me if I am wrong, but isn’t that what they invented video games for. And a video game will never make a stinky on the floor.
But the dog is more interactive than a video machine, so the hound will have to get the nod again.
Another good point about a dog is they are a walking food disposal system. If you drop a piece of food on the floor, the mutt will be on it like piranhas on a cow. But, without the dog, the food just sits there, so that is a definite plus to owning such a creature.
OK, there are three points in favour of bringing an entirely different species of life into my home.
Let’s see if we can find a couple drawbacks to adding a furred critter to the fold.
The dog might not get along with the cat, but that is more of the cat’s problem than mine so that one doesn’t really count.
As puppies, canines tend to chew things. We had a dog many years ago that ate all the wood skirting around a shed. I am not kidding. He ate so much wood I was convinced he was terrier crossed with beaver.
He also ate a $10 bill, a couple of cassettes, some Christmas decorations and part of our couch to name just a few of the items he dined on.
Dogs can also be truly gross little critters. I have touched on this briefly in the past, but it is so significant it deserves another mention: dogs eat their own vomit.
Enough said in the gross-out department.
The truly icky thing is I have been witness to such culinary madness. I have also seen dogs eat their own recycled food byproduct commonly known as doo-doo.
Let’s just say I do not let dogs – no matter how big or small – lick me on the face, or on the hand, or even on the sleeve of my jacket if I can help it.
The whole vomit-as-a-food-source thing is a pretty strong argument on its own. Mind you that might cut down on the amount we spend on dog food.
The real problem is, I am a dog person so I like having a dog around. We have a cat, but a cat just can’t be compared to a dog.
For one, a dog will generally come when you call it, while a cat will just stare at you with a look of ‘if you want to pet me, crowbar your butt off the couch and come over here.’
Dogs are also eager to please their master. Cats think they are the master.
The upside of cats is they are a lot less work than a dog. When we go away for the weekend all we have to do is make sure the cat has enough food and water and it’s ‘See ya later.’
If you do that with a dog, all of the food will be eaten in the first 10 minutes and there is only so many times a dog can barf, so eventually its food source will run dry and it will become quite hungry.
But being a dog person, one would think it would be an easy decision. The thing is, not having a dog means a lot less work for me.
“But we’ll help look after it,” is the plea of my children.
“Right, and Elvis is going to come out of hiding to become the next president of the United States and solve global warming by eating every cow on the planet, thus saving earth from their harmful emissions.”
I kind of enjoy going away for the weekend and not have to worry about what we are going to do with Fido.
Camping also brings its own set of challenges when you have a dog because you have to keep them on a leash, off the beach and silent.
All of these items have been debated with my wife, who is on the ‘Yes’ side of the debate.
It got to the point where I had to put my foot down and say, “As the man of the house I decree we are not getting a dog – until the fall anyway, or sooner if you want, if that is OK with you dear.”
BY DARREN HANDSCHUH
Can we get a dog?
That is the questioned being floated around the family homestead lately, mainly by the children.
We haven’t had a dog for several months after putting our last beast down to end 16 years of pet ownership. She was old, deaf, mostly blind, her hair was falling out and she would bark at the wall for no particular reason so we all agreed it was time for her to go to the great doggy park in the sky, or where ever it is dogs go.
I could tell you I miss her, but ‘thou shall not lie.’
After we put her down, we agreed (OK, I suggested) we go one year without a dog before we consider getting another hound. Well, that year is almost up.
I have to admit, I have been enjoying life without a dog running around barking, digging up the yard, dropping little doggy landmines all over the place and in general being more work than I care to take on at this station in life.
I have been compiling a mental list of the good points and the not-so-good points of owning a relative of the wolf clan.
On the upside, dogs offer companionship and make sure you are never alone. In a house of five people plus their friends and an often-visiting mother-in-law I relish being alone.
In fact, I cherish it. In fact, I look forward to it. In fact, if I didn’t get some alone time I would probably wind up with one of those fancy fashion accessories that magicians are always trying to escape from.
Mind you the dog won’t talk, change the channel or hog the couch, so that argument is iffy at best.
Another good point about a dog is you can play with it and whatnot when you are bored. Correct me if I am wrong, but isn’t that what they invented video games for. And a video game will never make a stinky on the floor.
But the dog is more interactive than a video machine, so the hound will have to get the nod again.
Another good point about a dog is they are a walking food disposal system. If you drop a piece of food on the floor, the mutt will be on it like piranhas on a cow. But, without the dog, the food just sits there, so that is a definite plus to owning such a creature.
OK, there are three points in favour of bringing an entirely different species of life into my home.
Let’s see if we can find a couple drawbacks to adding a furred critter to the fold.
The dog might not get along with the cat, but that is more of the cat’s problem than mine so that one doesn’t really count.
As puppies, canines tend to chew things. We had a dog many years ago that ate all the wood skirting around a shed. I am not kidding. He ate so much wood I was convinced he was terrier crossed with beaver.
He also ate a $10 bill, a couple of cassettes, some Christmas decorations and part of our couch to name just a few of the items he dined on.
Dogs can also be truly gross little critters. I have touched on this briefly in the past, but it is so significant it deserves another mention: dogs eat their own vomit.
Enough said in the gross-out department.
The truly icky thing is I have been witness to such culinary madness. I have also seen dogs eat their own recycled food byproduct commonly known as doo-doo.
Let’s just say I do not let dogs – no matter how big or small – lick me on the face, or on the hand, or even on the sleeve of my jacket if I can help it.
The whole vomit-as-a-food-source thing is a pretty strong argument on its own. Mind you that might cut down on the amount we spend on dog food.
The real problem is, I am a dog person so I like having a dog around. We have a cat, but a cat just can’t be compared to a dog.
For one, a dog will generally come when you call it, while a cat will just stare at you with a look of ‘if you want to pet me, crowbar your butt off the couch and come over here.’
Dogs are also eager to please their master. Cats think they are the master.
The upside of cats is they are a lot less work than a dog. When we go away for the weekend all we have to do is make sure the cat has enough food and water and it’s ‘See ya later.’
If you do that with a dog, all of the food will be eaten in the first 10 minutes and there is only so many times a dog can barf, so eventually its food source will run dry and it will become quite hungry.
But being a dog person, one would think it would be an easy decision. The thing is, not having a dog means a lot less work for me.
“But we’ll help look after it,” is the plea of my children.
“Right, and Elvis is going to come out of hiding to become the next president of the United States and solve global warming by eating every cow on the planet, thus saving earth from their harmful emissions.”
I kind of enjoy going away for the weekend and not have to worry about what we are going to do with Fido.
Camping also brings its own set of challenges when you have a dog because you have to keep them on a leash, off the beach and silent.
All of these items have been debated with my wife, who is on the ‘Yes’ side of the debate.
It got to the point where I had to put my foot down and say, “As the man of the house I decree we are not getting a dog – until the fall anyway, or sooner if you want, if that is OK with you dear.”
Friday, August 7, 2009
Froggy go bye-bye
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
It was one of those times when I got into trouble and it wasn’t even my fault – honest.
How could I have predicted the bizarre series of events that would end in the tragic and accidental murder of a frog?
The tale of the doomed amphibian dates back to my youth. I was 18 years old and in the army militia and we were on a training exercise at a shooting range.
It was pretty much a day like any other: the sun was shining, the birds were chirping and a group of teenage boys were shooting high-powered rifles and loving every minute of it.
Now before any of you get worried, I did not accidentally shoot the frog. No, Kermit’s long-lost cousin was not killed by friendly fire.
There was no weaponry involved in the death of the webbed wonder. In fact, there was not even intent to cause the green guy any harm, but when you get 20 or so teenage boys together something stupid is bound to happen.
We spent the morning running through the woods with our rifles doing various exercises before heading to the rifle range and making our guns go bang over and over again.
Personally, I loved shooting. I always have. I have never killed anything bigger than a bird – starlings to be exact – but I was a crack shot (not a crack pot as some may claim) and I have squeezed a trigger thousands of times in my life.
As a kid growing up in a rural area, I took my pellet gun and a can of pellets every where.
It was a different time back then and no one blinked when they saw a kid walking down the street with a rifle.
I can remember waving to the neighbours with my pellet gun resting on my shoulder as I walked up the road to the nearby hills and they would wave back without so much as a second glance.
Of course everyone knew everyone else so if I did do anything stupid my parents would hear about it before I was done doing it
If a kid was spotted with a gun today, every cop for 150 kilometres would be called in to action.
Anyway, back to the tale of the hard-luck frog whose luck was about to run out.
It happened during a mid-day meal break – civilians call it lunch time, but that would just make too much sense for the army.
A good buddy of mine, whom I had gotten into trouble with in the past and likely deserved it, had found a rather large bullfrog lounging near the shore of a pond we stopped at.
He pounced on the critter and held his prize for all to see. I am not sure why, but for some reason he decided to see what would happen when he flipped the frog straight up into the air.
Now, before PETF (People for the Ethical Treatment of Frogs) gets all in a tizzy, I would just like to say that, um, er, alright, it was not a very nice thing to do to a frog.
Upon launching said amphibian, my buddy noticed Kermit’s arms and legs spread out and he looked like he was doing a jumping jack or something.
Several people found it amusing, so my buddy did it a few more times before one of the officers, a renowned frog hugger, noticed and told him to stop.
My friend did, and he flipped the frog back into the pond from whence it came.
Now this is where fate stepped in.
I was about five metres away and not having much interest in flying frogs, I was not paying too much attention to what was going on. I was however throwing softball-sized rocks into the lake. I was kind of lobbing them over my shoulder without even looking at where they were landing.
So, my buddy threw the frog into the water and this creature could have gone in any one of 360 directions and as he began to swim, I lobbed another rock.
As I released the miniature boulder I watched it arc to the water and that’s when I noticed the frog.
I watched the rock come crashing down on top of frog, making a near perfect impact on his head.
Oops.
What are the odds - a frog in a big pond getting clobbered by a randomly thrown rock? I guess the odds were good enough for it to happen and the world had one less frog to accommodate.
The frog-loving officer witnessed the killing and went absolutely ballistic, claiming we had conspired to whack the frog.
It was kind of hard to defend ourselves because we were trying to look innocent without laughing out loud.
In the end, we convinced the officer it was a tragic mishap and we had no intention of deliberately hurting the critter.
But for the rest if of my time in the unit, that officer kept a close eye on the ‘frog smasher.’
It was one of those times when I got into trouble and it wasn’t even my fault – honest.
How could I have predicted the bizarre series of events that would end in the tragic and accidental murder of a frog?
The tale of the doomed amphibian dates back to my youth. I was 18 years old and in the army militia and we were on a training exercise at a shooting range.
It was pretty much a day like any other: the sun was shining, the birds were chirping and a group of teenage boys were shooting high-powered rifles and loving every minute of it.
Now before any of you get worried, I did not accidentally shoot the frog. No, Kermit’s long-lost cousin was not killed by friendly fire.
There was no weaponry involved in the death of the webbed wonder. In fact, there was not even intent to cause the green guy any harm, but when you get 20 or so teenage boys together something stupid is bound to happen.
We spent the morning running through the woods with our rifles doing various exercises before heading to the rifle range and making our guns go bang over and over again.
Personally, I loved shooting. I always have. I have never killed anything bigger than a bird – starlings to be exact – but I was a crack shot (not a crack pot as some may claim) and I have squeezed a trigger thousands of times in my life.
As a kid growing up in a rural area, I took my pellet gun and a can of pellets every where.
It was a different time back then and no one blinked when they saw a kid walking down the street with a rifle.
I can remember waving to the neighbours with my pellet gun resting on my shoulder as I walked up the road to the nearby hills and they would wave back without so much as a second glance.
Of course everyone knew everyone else so if I did do anything stupid my parents would hear about it before I was done doing it
If a kid was spotted with a gun today, every cop for 150 kilometres would be called in to action.
Anyway, back to the tale of the hard-luck frog whose luck was about to run out.
It happened during a mid-day meal break – civilians call it lunch time, but that would just make too much sense for the army.
A good buddy of mine, whom I had gotten into trouble with in the past and likely deserved it, had found a rather large bullfrog lounging near the shore of a pond we stopped at.
He pounced on the critter and held his prize for all to see. I am not sure why, but for some reason he decided to see what would happen when he flipped the frog straight up into the air.
Now, before PETF (People for the Ethical Treatment of Frogs) gets all in a tizzy, I would just like to say that, um, er, alright, it was not a very nice thing to do to a frog.
Upon launching said amphibian, my buddy noticed Kermit’s arms and legs spread out and he looked like he was doing a jumping jack or something.
Several people found it amusing, so my buddy did it a few more times before one of the officers, a renowned frog hugger, noticed and told him to stop.
My friend did, and he flipped the frog back into the pond from whence it came.
Now this is where fate stepped in.
I was about five metres away and not having much interest in flying frogs, I was not paying too much attention to what was going on. I was however throwing softball-sized rocks into the lake. I was kind of lobbing them over my shoulder without even looking at where they were landing.
So, my buddy threw the frog into the water and this creature could have gone in any one of 360 directions and as he began to swim, I lobbed another rock.
As I released the miniature boulder I watched it arc to the water and that’s when I noticed the frog.
I watched the rock come crashing down on top of frog, making a near perfect impact on his head.
Oops.
What are the odds - a frog in a big pond getting clobbered by a randomly thrown rock? I guess the odds were good enough for it to happen and the world had one less frog to accommodate.
The frog-loving officer witnessed the killing and went absolutely ballistic, claiming we had conspired to whack the frog.
It was kind of hard to defend ourselves because we were trying to look innocent without laughing out loud.
In the end, we convinced the officer it was a tragic mishap and we had no intention of deliberately hurting the critter.
But for the rest if of my time in the unit, that officer kept a close eye on the ‘frog smasher.’
Wife skills 101
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
In high school, students are often taught life skills like how to cook and do bankbooks, but the course should also include wife skills that clearly outlines what should and should not be said.
Having been married for more than two decades, I have learned a lot about the opposite sex.
I still don't understand them, but I am less confused (slightly less) than I was 20 plus years ago when I said “I do.”
But I am trainable, so I have learned a few things that have helped me survive the joys of marriage.
When we first got married, I would pretty much say the first thing that popped into my head and express my opinion before my brain had a chance to analyze the question and more importantly the possible ramifications of the answer.
I am not saying to be dishonest with your spouse, but to phrase your response in the most favourable light possible.
Of course the universal question “Does this make me look fat?” is a no brainer and even as a newlywed I knew not the answer was always no.
Even if her butt can be seen from outer space, the answer must always be, “Of course not, Dear.”
Fortunately, it was an easy question to answer then as it is now, because I am blessed with a wife who not only runs the home, but manages to stay fit in the process.
She gets up at 5 a.m. to attend a spin class, which is where they ride a stationary bike to the verbally violent commands of the tyrannical class instructor.
I find it amazing she does this. About the only thing that would get me out of bed at 5 a.m. is a house fire and even then I would lie in hope of the fire department getting there before I actually had to move.
Anyway back to tricky questions followed by stupid answers.
One day, shortly after our nuptials, the little woman came home with a new hair do and asked what I thought.
Having been married for less than a year, my mouth would engage much faster than my brain and my response was not the best.
“You look like a poodle,” I said of her wavy hair without any real concern.
Wrong answer, and I am talking wrong with a capital W-R-O-N-G.
This was my first real introduction to answering questions in the correct fashion.
The look on her face told me that I just made a major blunder.
I tried talking my way out of it, but seeing as how she is much smarter than I am, there was little I could do but apologize and mark it down as a lesson learned.
She could come home with dead rats duct-taped onto her head and I would rant about what an innovative hair style she has.
That is not to patronize her, but is more a survival technique than anything else.
I am sure she does the same thing.
“Honey, is my stomach getting too big.”
“Why of course not,” may be her answer, but she is thinking “not if you are a pregnant orangutan that is.”
Bloated primates aside, there is a certain amount of leeway in a marriage when it comes to commenting on hair styles, food – even if it is boiled possum tails it is the best meal you have ever had – and, of course, body size and shape.
All of these rules can go both ways. I have only experienced them from the husband side of the line, but I guarantee my wife could provide her own endless list of enhanced comments for my benefit.
So to all you husbands out there remember: her butt is never too big, her hair is perfect and that dress looks great.
To the wives of the world: pot bellies are cute, bald spots are even cuter and the prison slop he created for a surprise meal is spectacular (you can get your stomach pumped when he is not looking.)
In high school, students are often taught life skills like how to cook and do bankbooks, but the course should also include wife skills that clearly outlines what should and should not be said.
Having been married for more than two decades, I have learned a lot about the opposite sex.
I still don't understand them, but I am less confused (slightly less) than I was 20 plus years ago when I said “I do.”
But I am trainable, so I have learned a few things that have helped me survive the joys of marriage.
When we first got married, I would pretty much say the first thing that popped into my head and express my opinion before my brain had a chance to analyze the question and more importantly the possible ramifications of the answer.
I am not saying to be dishonest with your spouse, but to phrase your response in the most favourable light possible.
Of course the universal question “Does this make me look fat?” is a no brainer and even as a newlywed I knew not the answer was always no.
Even if her butt can be seen from outer space, the answer must always be, “Of course not, Dear.”
Fortunately, it was an easy question to answer then as it is now, because I am blessed with a wife who not only runs the home, but manages to stay fit in the process.
She gets up at 5 a.m. to attend a spin class, which is where they ride a stationary bike to the verbally violent commands of the tyrannical class instructor.
I find it amazing she does this. About the only thing that would get me out of bed at 5 a.m. is a house fire and even then I would lie in hope of the fire department getting there before I actually had to move.
Anyway back to tricky questions followed by stupid answers.
One day, shortly after our nuptials, the little woman came home with a new hair do and asked what I thought.
Having been married for less than a year, my mouth would engage much faster than my brain and my response was not the best.
“You look like a poodle,” I said of her wavy hair without any real concern.
Wrong answer, and I am talking wrong with a capital W-R-O-N-G.
This was my first real introduction to answering questions in the correct fashion.
The look on her face told me that I just made a major blunder.
I tried talking my way out of it, but seeing as how she is much smarter than I am, there was little I could do but apologize and mark it down as a lesson learned.
She could come home with dead rats duct-taped onto her head and I would rant about what an innovative hair style she has.
That is not to patronize her, but is more a survival technique than anything else.
I am sure she does the same thing.
“Honey, is my stomach getting too big.”
“Why of course not,” may be her answer, but she is thinking “not if you are a pregnant orangutan that is.”
Bloated primates aside, there is a certain amount of leeway in a marriage when it comes to commenting on hair styles, food – even if it is boiled possum tails it is the best meal you have ever had – and, of course, body size and shape.
All of these rules can go both ways. I have only experienced them from the husband side of the line, but I guarantee my wife could provide her own endless list of enhanced comments for my benefit.
So to all you husbands out there remember: her butt is never too big, her hair is perfect and that dress looks great.
To the wives of the world: pot bellies are cute, bald spots are even cuter and the prison slop he created for a surprise meal is spectacular (you can get your stomach pumped when he is not looking.)
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Watch for animals
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
I saw a story recently where wildlife officials were warning the motoring public to be cautious of bears.
Do we really need an official warning for that? When you drive the mountain roads and highways of B.C., shouldn’t you watch for bears all of the time?
It’s not like when you hit a gopher or something. With a gopher there’s a small thump and another groundhog is off to rodent heaven.
Hitting a 500-pound black bear would be a little more traumatic to you and your car.
I have never hit a bear in a car before. However, having lived my entire life in B.C., I have had vehicular interaction with a variety of other animals.
I have hit the aforementioned gopher in the past, as well as a squirrel, a couple of coyotes, a deer and I even had a seagull fly into the grill of my car once.
Now, this creature has the ability to fly and can soar through the heavens at will. Instead, this one decided it was much better to fly two-feet off the ground where it had an up close and personal experience with the front bumper of my motorized carriage.
That is natural selection at its finest. Natural selection is where nature weeds out the weak, the lame, and in this case, the stupid.
The deer was not too bright either. It was in Northern B.C. a couple summers ago and this critter – which some consider nature’s cow and we all know how smart they are – was running along the side of the road.
I slowed down as I neared the beast, which is good because it made far too much sense to the deer to stay on the side of the road or even run off into the woods. Noooo, it was a much better idea to turn 90 degrees onto the road and run head first into the side of my van. That is the kind of stupid that impresses us all.
So technically, I didn’t hit the deer as much as the deer hit me. There was a little thump as it bounced off the side of my van before it altered its course and took off into the woods.
“Great plan genius. Maybe next time you could skip the whole smashing into a vehicle thing and just go straight to the running into the woods part. I’ll be seeing you during hunting season.”
I am sure he had quite a story to tell his little deer friends when he got back into the woods.
“Man, you should have seen it. There was this big, green beast with bright eyes and a hard shell. I hit that sucker as hard as I could and the last I saw of it, it was taking off down the highway knowing it messed with the wrong deer.”
The closest I have ever come to hitting a bear was when my dad and I were coming back from a fishing trip when I was a wee lad.
We were driving a little Toyota truck and we had just rounded a corner on a dirt road deep in the woods when my dad jammed on the brakes.
Standing in the middle of the road was the largest bear I had ever seen in my life. Growing up in a rural setting, I had seen quite a few bears over the years, but none were as big as this hombre.
It was the first and only time I have seen a grizzly bear in the wild, and it was one of the coolest things I have ever witnessed.
This guy was the top of the food chain and it was easy to see why.
Upon seeing the size of this thing I realized I would never have to worry about being killed by a bear, because if this one came charging at me, I would die of a heart attack long before he managed to get his massive paws on me.
The bear was casually sauntering down the middle of the road and when we pulled up behind him. He just kind of turned his head toward us with a look of, “Yeah, and what are you gonna do about it,” and kept meandering along without a care in the world.
This guy knew he was the king of the mountain and I am sure he could have totaled the truck with a single swat.
The bruin walked another 20 metres along the road before heading down a trail that led to a creek, still completely unconcerned about the presence of the tiny pink creatures in the little blue truck.
My dad and I looked at each other, both realizing we had just seen something rather magical in the majesty of such a creature, and both being happy he was not having a bad day and felt like beating up a Toyota.
Needless to say, the next time we went fishing in that area, we paid a little more attention to the shoreline in case our friend decided the fish we had caught would make a better snack for him than a meal for us.
And believe me, if he wanted the fish, he could have them. He could also have the keys to the truck, our credit cards, our fishing poles and the boat if he wanted.
Who am I to argue?
I saw a story recently where wildlife officials were warning the motoring public to be cautious of bears.
Do we really need an official warning for that? When you drive the mountain roads and highways of B.C., shouldn’t you watch for bears all of the time?
It’s not like when you hit a gopher or something. With a gopher there’s a small thump and another groundhog is off to rodent heaven.
Hitting a 500-pound black bear would be a little more traumatic to you and your car.
I have never hit a bear in a car before. However, having lived my entire life in B.C., I have had vehicular interaction with a variety of other animals.
I have hit the aforementioned gopher in the past, as well as a squirrel, a couple of coyotes, a deer and I even had a seagull fly into the grill of my car once.
Now, this creature has the ability to fly and can soar through the heavens at will. Instead, this one decided it was much better to fly two-feet off the ground where it had an up close and personal experience with the front bumper of my motorized carriage.
That is natural selection at its finest. Natural selection is where nature weeds out the weak, the lame, and in this case, the stupid.
The deer was not too bright either. It was in Northern B.C. a couple summers ago and this critter – which some consider nature’s cow and we all know how smart they are – was running along the side of the road.
I slowed down as I neared the beast, which is good because it made far too much sense to the deer to stay on the side of the road or even run off into the woods. Noooo, it was a much better idea to turn 90 degrees onto the road and run head first into the side of my van. That is the kind of stupid that impresses us all.
So technically, I didn’t hit the deer as much as the deer hit me. There was a little thump as it bounced off the side of my van before it altered its course and took off into the woods.
“Great plan genius. Maybe next time you could skip the whole smashing into a vehicle thing and just go straight to the running into the woods part. I’ll be seeing you during hunting season.”
I am sure he had quite a story to tell his little deer friends when he got back into the woods.
“Man, you should have seen it. There was this big, green beast with bright eyes and a hard shell. I hit that sucker as hard as I could and the last I saw of it, it was taking off down the highway knowing it messed with the wrong deer.”
The closest I have ever come to hitting a bear was when my dad and I were coming back from a fishing trip when I was a wee lad.
We were driving a little Toyota truck and we had just rounded a corner on a dirt road deep in the woods when my dad jammed on the brakes.
Standing in the middle of the road was the largest bear I had ever seen in my life. Growing up in a rural setting, I had seen quite a few bears over the years, but none were as big as this hombre.
It was the first and only time I have seen a grizzly bear in the wild, and it was one of the coolest things I have ever witnessed.
This guy was the top of the food chain and it was easy to see why.
Upon seeing the size of this thing I realized I would never have to worry about being killed by a bear, because if this one came charging at me, I would die of a heart attack long before he managed to get his massive paws on me.
The bear was casually sauntering down the middle of the road and when we pulled up behind him. He just kind of turned his head toward us with a look of, “Yeah, and what are you gonna do about it,” and kept meandering along without a care in the world.
This guy knew he was the king of the mountain and I am sure he could have totaled the truck with a single swat.
The bruin walked another 20 metres along the road before heading down a trail that led to a creek, still completely unconcerned about the presence of the tiny pink creatures in the little blue truck.
My dad and I looked at each other, both realizing we had just seen something rather magical in the majesty of such a creature, and both being happy he was not having a bad day and felt like beating up a Toyota.
Needless to say, the next time we went fishing in that area, we paid a little more attention to the shoreline in case our friend decided the fish we had caught would make a better snack for him than a meal for us.
And believe me, if he wanted the fish, he could have them. He could also have the keys to the truck, our credit cards, our fishing poles and the boat if he wanted.
Who am I to argue?
Grabbit and Runn
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
God is a nutty guy.
He has a great sense of humour and is even, dare I say, a little mischievous.
How else can you explain someone who made men and woman so vastly different, yet decided they were the perfect partners for one another.
It was on a recent road trip I once again noticed just how differently we act.
Somehow my wife forgot to pack a pair of jeans for the trip, I assume she forgot anyway, but I noticed she wasn’t too upset about it because it meant she got to do some unplanned clothes shopping – a hardship she seemed quite willing to bear.
We trudged off to a clothing store where she dove into the challenge with vigor and enthusiasm, which is exactly how she tackles clothes shopping pretty much every time she has to do it.
I tackle clothes shopping with dread and loathing. For some reason I hate using the little change rooms. I do not know why, but I would rather just grab an item that claims to be my size, buy it and try it on at home.
If it doesn’t fit (which happens because the size they claim the item to be is rarely accurate), I take it back and get the next size up or down depending on the requirements of the garment.
My wife on the other hand will head to the little stall with 358 items of clothes and spend the next 15 hours trying stuff on (only to decide she does not like any of them.)
Anyway, back to our holiday shopping adventure. I spent a little time doing what I usually do whenever fate is so cruel as to send me clothes shopping – I wander around, glancing at stuff and in general making a concerted effort to not be so bored as to fall asleep standing up.
Eventually, I noticed she was heading to the change room to try on a few things and I figured our shopping adventure was coming to a close.
Oh, how misguided I was.
What I thought and what the reality was turned out to be two vastly different things.
When I met her at the checkout she had with her two shirts and a pair of shorts.
In 45 minutes of shopping, she managed to buy three items of clothes, none of which were a pair of pants.
For those of you keeping score at home, a pair pants was the entire reason for the shopping excursion in the first place.
“But they were on sale,” was her defense. “And, isn’t this one cute, look at this one and…”
Fine, the items were on sale and you spent $25 to save $15, that’s great, but what about a pair of pants, remember the pants? That’s why we are here in the first place.
“Oh, they didn’t have any I liked so we are going to have to go somewhere else.”
Of course we are, how silly of me.
So it was off to yet another store, another 45 minutes of wandering around while my brain went numb, but this time she found a pair of pants she liked. She also found another shirt, but at least the pants were taken care of.
Had it been me the situation would have been handled much differently.
I would have walked into the store, headed straight for the pants area, found a pair, paid for them and left, leaving roughly 35 minutes to do something else.
In-out and done, just like that.
Right now many men are nodding in agreement, while many of the female readers are shaking their head and making that “tsk” sound they do so well.
I am not sure what that sound means, but I have heard it before and it usually is not a good thing.
However, strange little tongue and upper-mouth noises aside, I stand by my conviction clothes shopping is a necessary evil that is to be done as fast as possible.
Would you linger in the dentist’s office?
“Thanks doc, I know I am done, but I am having so much fun in here I think I will hang around a little bit. Can I play with the drill?”
I don’t think so. Get in, get it done and get out.
Tool shopping on the other hand can be done at a more leisure pace, as can mozying through a motorcycle shop.
Unfortunately I did not forget any tools or motorcycle gear, so I had no valid excuse to do some man shopping.
God is a nutty guy.
He has a great sense of humour and is even, dare I say, a little mischievous.
How else can you explain someone who made men and woman so vastly different, yet decided they were the perfect partners for one another.
It was on a recent road trip I once again noticed just how differently we act.
Somehow my wife forgot to pack a pair of jeans for the trip, I assume she forgot anyway, but I noticed she wasn’t too upset about it because it meant she got to do some unplanned clothes shopping – a hardship she seemed quite willing to bear.
We trudged off to a clothing store where she dove into the challenge with vigor and enthusiasm, which is exactly how she tackles clothes shopping pretty much every time she has to do it.
I tackle clothes shopping with dread and loathing. For some reason I hate using the little change rooms. I do not know why, but I would rather just grab an item that claims to be my size, buy it and try it on at home.
If it doesn’t fit (which happens because the size they claim the item to be is rarely accurate), I take it back and get the next size up or down depending on the requirements of the garment.
My wife on the other hand will head to the little stall with 358 items of clothes and spend the next 15 hours trying stuff on (only to decide she does not like any of them.)
Anyway, back to our holiday shopping adventure. I spent a little time doing what I usually do whenever fate is so cruel as to send me clothes shopping – I wander around, glancing at stuff and in general making a concerted effort to not be so bored as to fall asleep standing up.
Eventually, I noticed she was heading to the change room to try on a few things and I figured our shopping adventure was coming to a close.
Oh, how misguided I was.
What I thought and what the reality was turned out to be two vastly different things.
When I met her at the checkout she had with her two shirts and a pair of shorts.
In 45 minutes of shopping, she managed to buy three items of clothes, none of which were a pair of pants.
For those of you keeping score at home, a pair pants was the entire reason for the shopping excursion in the first place.
“But they were on sale,” was her defense. “And, isn’t this one cute, look at this one and…”
Fine, the items were on sale and you spent $25 to save $15, that’s great, but what about a pair of pants, remember the pants? That’s why we are here in the first place.
“Oh, they didn’t have any I liked so we are going to have to go somewhere else.”
Of course we are, how silly of me.
So it was off to yet another store, another 45 minutes of wandering around while my brain went numb, but this time she found a pair of pants she liked. She also found another shirt, but at least the pants were taken care of.
Had it been me the situation would have been handled much differently.
I would have walked into the store, headed straight for the pants area, found a pair, paid for them and left, leaving roughly 35 minutes to do something else.
In-out and done, just like that.
Right now many men are nodding in agreement, while many of the female readers are shaking their head and making that “tsk” sound they do so well.
I am not sure what that sound means, but I have heard it before and it usually is not a good thing.
However, strange little tongue and upper-mouth noises aside, I stand by my conviction clothes shopping is a necessary evil that is to be done as fast as possible.
Would you linger in the dentist’s office?
“Thanks doc, I know I am done, but I am having so much fun in here I think I will hang around a little bit. Can I play with the drill?”
I don’t think so. Get in, get it done and get out.
Tool shopping on the other hand can be done at a more leisure pace, as can mozying through a motorcycle shop.
Unfortunately I did not forget any tools or motorcycle gear, so I had no valid excuse to do some man shopping.
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