It may not taste great, but it's good for you - sigh

I miss the good old days.

Not just the days when nothing hurt when I stood up, or the days when I had hair on my head and not my back, but the good old days when I did not have to watch every single thing I ate.

With the big 5-0 disappearing in the rearview mirror, one has to start thinking about what one eats or one will end up looking more like two than one.

There are also pesky things like a risk of having a heart attack, stroke or some other nasty bit of body breakdown that come from not living a more healthy lifestyle. And that healthy lifestyle means giving up pretty much any and all food that I used to enjoy.

As a young lad, cholesterol was an old person problem. Well, it is now my problem so that must mean...it is a middle-age person problem too.

There is good cholesterol and bad cholesterol, and it would seem I have an abundance of bad cholesterol, as does several of my kin.

I did not exactly win the genetic jackpot with a family history that includes just about every ailment modern science knows about.

I am not talking about stuff you can catch – like malaria or anything – but medical issues that are part of your genes and you have very little choice of getting them or not.

Among my inheritance from my forefathers, foremothers and forecousins was a wonky cholesterol situation.

The doctor informed me of my cholesterol woes and said I would have to change many of my eating habits. No more fries, cheese, bacon (noooooo) or any of the other stuff I have enjoyed for decades.

So naturally, I got a new doctor.

Actually, I took note of what he was suggesting and walked out of his office with a stack of papers on what I can eat, should eat, must eat and should never again even think of eating ever again.

Upon reading the list, I quickly realized eating the paper itself would likely taste better than most of the stuff on the list.

I admit, the list did contain a plethora of healthy items that I know I have to eat in order to live a long life – a long bacon-less life.

More greens, OK, I can do that. More fibre, OK, I can do that. Less of everything else, um, er, I'll work on it.

But I know and accept that as we age, we have to change our lifestyles. No longer can I stay up until the wee hours of the morning and then bounce out of bed ready to go to work.

I go to bed in the wee hours of the evening now and it is still tough to not smash the alarm clock with a barrage of verbal and physical abuse when it goes off.

But with age comes maturity (well, that's the theory anyway) and with maturity comes the strength and will power to skip the bacon cheeseburger and fries and go with a nice salad instead.

So over the past couple of years I have eaten more greenery than a rabbit with the munchies. Salads of all description now fill my plate instead of real food.

Fries have been replaced with carrot sticks and celery; fried chicken has been replaced by boneless, skinless whole chicken breast spread out atop a field of greens loaded with all those ingredients needed to live that long life I was talking about earlier.

And that really is the goal: to live as long as possible because the alternative sucks and I plan on making dying the last thing I do.

So, yes I will have the salad please.

Would I like bacon bits sprinkled on top?

OK, just this once.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

Why when I was a kid...

I think my parents made life too easy for me growing up.
What am I supposed to say to my children about the hardships of my youth?
The only angle I can think of is I had to work a lot when I was younger, but other than that there’s not a lot to whine about.
When I was around 10 years old I asked my dad for some money. Instead of money, he handed me a shovel.
My first thought was, ‘I guess I could sell the shovel for some cash,’ but I knew if I wanted money I would have to work for it.
I took the shovel - which conveniently came with a handy wheelbarrow attachment - out to the section of property where my dad and grandfather were building a nursery.
Sitting in the middle of the empty lot were two dump truck loads of dirt.
My mind was attempting to form a picture: a shovel, a wheelbarrow and a pile of dirt.
“Nope, sorry dad, I’m just not making any connections.”
It’s amazing just how motivating he could be when he explained things, and I began moving those two massive piles of dirt.
Thus began my foray into the working world. I was bringing down a whopping 50 cents an hour.
As I got older, the nursery got busier so I would work after school and on weekends.
Child labour laws, what child labour laws?
Actually, it was good because I could afford bikes, cars and the most important expense – girls.
So that’s about it, that’s all I have to complain to my children about.
I can tell my children, “Why when I was your age I had already mastered the art of moving dirt with a shovel and wheelbarrow.”
I never had to endure any great hardships like being poor or having to eat the family pet because we couldn’t afford meat.
I desperately need more “Why when I was your age” rants, but they are hard to find.
“Why when I was your age we didn’t have any of these fancy remote control units for our TV sets. If we wanted to change the channel we would have to get up and walk all the way over the set, change the channel and then walk all the way back to the couch.
And if you wanted the TV louder….”
It pales compared to my dad’s stories of working 12 hours a day when he was 15 years old.
Like many people of his generation, my dad grew up poor and worked hard to provide for his family. When he goes on a rant about how tough the times were – which I believe is the right of every senior – his stories are of true hardship.
So the TV remote rant is pretty weak. What else can I say?
I may have to resort to making things up.
“Why when I was your age we didn’t even own shoes. We tied a piece of bark to our feet and walked 20 miles to school in the snow in May – up hill both ways.
“We had to get up at 4 a.m. to milk the cats. We had to milk cats because we couldn’t afford cows. Then after school we had to milk the dogs before we went to bed. In fact we didn’t even have a bed. Me and my 18 brothers and sisters all slept in a broom closet. It was so small we had to sleep standing up, on one foot and we liked it.”
I wonder what my children will be telling their children.
“Why when I was your age our computer didn’t have a hyper-gig of RAM. We had to try and get by with 512 megabytes. Do you have any idea how slow that is? Let me tell you kids something, it was pure hell trying to open a website with lots of pictures.
“Why it took a full 22 second. You kid’s don’t know how lucky you have it.”
Somehow it just doesn’t compare to my father’s stories of growing up after the Dirty ‘30s.
I guess the size of the rant depends on the size of the hardship.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

I will keep my clothes on. You are welcome.

Saturday was the annual World Naked Gardening Day and once again I did not participate.

You are welcome.

Believe me folks, nobody would want to see that.

In fact, the last time I saw my doctor for a physical, he wore a blindfold.

I am not sure why Naked Gardening Day was created, but it was.

Perhaps an exhibitionist was prancing around the yard in the buff and when the authorities showed up, the quick-thinking nudist made up Naked Gardening Day on the spot and an annual tradition was born.

The funny thing is, every article I saw and every picture promoting the event featured some really good looking people – with their naughty bits appropriately covered of course.

The women are gorgeous and the men are buff. Who wouldn't want to see them naked?

I am neither gorgeous nor buff.

Small children would run away screaming, people would be gouging their eyes out with sticks and the very plants I was trying to nurture would shrivel up and die at the sight of my naked, flabby, furry body toiling the land.

Perhaps if I looked like one of the muscle-bound garden studs in the promo pictures I would consider it, but the only six pack I have is in the fridge.

I do have ab muscles, but they are safely secured under a layer of flab which makes them look more like a keg than a six pack.

For me, naked anything day is just a bad idea.

Nude beach – if I was there it would be more like empty beach.

“But, the human body is beautiful in all its forms.”

No it isn't, and I could provide a couple selfies that prove it.

People of all kind are beautiful because beauty comes from the inside, but not all human bodies are beautiful.

There was a time when I looked pretty good running around naked and I must admit I enjoyed doing so, but what two year old doesn't.

Father Time has been slapping me around for several decades now and he brought Uncle Flab and Cousin Hair Loss with him.

I am sure Naked Gardening Day was started as a lark, likely by college students who are still in good enough shape to pull something like that off.

The social media ads for it reminded me of a beer commercial where all of these gorgeous people run around in bikini tops frolicking in the sun while the men's rippling muscles shine like a knight's coat of armor.

Where is the fat, unshaven, loud guy?

Where's the obnoxious drunk guy who knows he looks like one of those naked gardeners and proceeds to hit on every female within a 50 kilometre radius?

I know they are out there because I have seen them.

I have attended my share of gatherings where adult recreational beverages were consumed and the not-so-good-looking people (I'm not mentioning any names here) far outweighed the gorgeous people.

Hmm, perhaps the gorgeous people were avoiding the marginally good looking people, and there really is a party where everyone looks like a super model.

Odd that I have never been to one of those parties. My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail (that's my excuse and I'm sticking too it.)

To tell the truth, I really do look like a movie star. Sure, the star is Alfred Hitchcock, but he is still a star so I will take it.

Besides, beauty comes from the inside so on the outside I may be bald and flabby, but on the inside I'm a super model.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

Cheer up, it's Christmastime

“You know it must be near Christmas because people are getting grouchy.”
A buddy of mine made that comment after a grueling afternoon of gift shopping. It certainly does not fit with the spirit of Christmas, but I it does hold a sliver of truth.
Many people are filled with the joy of Christmas and the blessings of the Yule Tide season, but there are a few who are full of something else.
After my Scrooge-like friend made the comment I spent some time a local shopping oasis – the mall – and dang it if he wasn’t right.
Some people were a little on the grumpy side - especially when it came to finding a parking spot. Yikes, some folk out there are downright nasty in their quest to park as close to the front door as possible.
Personally, I could care less if I have to walk a block or so to get to the front door, but in just a few minutes I observed some very Grinchy behaviour among the festive season shoppers.
“Hey, I was going to park there!”
“Too bad, I got here first.”
“Yeah, well, then ‘bless’ you, pal.”
Not exactly a Disney Christmas moment.
I even had a kindly, grandma-type lady yell, scream and make a rather unpleasant gesture because I got to a parking spot 10 seconds before she did.
I clearly got there first because I had my car turned off before she even pulled up, but I guess her Granny vision saw the spot from a distance and knew it was destined to be hers.
However, in the spirit of Christmas, I started my car and reversed out of the spot, while giving the universal signal she can have the spot with a wave of my hand and a smile on my face.
She replied once again with a different universal signal while pulling her car into the now-vacant prime parking space.
Even after I gave her a really good parking spot, the Granny from Hell was still not feeling the festive mood. I wonder what she was shopping for - rat tails and eye of newt, no doubt.
Were the Wisemen riled up because they had a hard time finding a parking space for their camels when they went to the manger to see Baby Jesus?
Of course not, and these guys did not have to walk a block to get to the front door, they had to ride stinky, uncomfortable camels for who knows how along across the blazing desert just to deliver a few gifts to a baby. Mind you it’s not every day the son of God is born so I guess it was worth the effort.
Since that hallowed day, the theme of Christmas has been peace on earth and good will toward man. Not ‘50 per cent off selected items while quantities last’ as it has become in more recent times.
Or being barraged by ad campaigns that brainwash your child into needing a certain toy or they will grow up bitter and warped and put you in an old folk’s home first chance they get.
But even I am letting the Grinch in me come out as I bemoan the lack of Christmas spirit. Not everyone is miserable during the happiest time of the year – only those who get swindled by the nonsense of the season rather than enveloped by the joy. There is still a lot of good will out there. Many people smile a little easier, offer a friendly ‘Hello’ to those they don’t know and even go out of their way to help others with no expectation of personal gain.
Which is exactly what Christmastime is supposed to be like – remember, good will and all that stuff.
If the opposing forces stuck in the trenches of the First World War can put down their guns and stop killing each other for a day to share the joy of Christmas, surely we can be civil to each other in the mall parking lot.
That is not too much to hope for, is it?
Merry Christmas everyone.

Sorry ladies, we really don't know how you feel

Ladies, if I may, I would like to offer some free relationship advice.
I would like to talk about communication between men and women - neither of whom actually speak the same language.
Men can communicate, but not in the same way you ladies can. When guys get together there is tremendous communication about important things like hockey, cars, the job and other matters men can relate to one another about.
What men rarely talk about is emotions.
"Y'know Bob, when you said my moustache looked cheesy, it made me feel all bad inside. It made me feel less attractive."
"I'm sorry Frank, I meant it as a joke. C'mere, gimme a hug. I love you, man."
I have never, and I mean ever, been a part of such a conversation and I have been a guy for as long as I can remember.
Because men rarely talk to each other about emotions and feelings and all that gooey stuff, we are not very good at talking to our spouses about those same topics.
Women talk freely about their feelings and emotions and how their emotions make them feel.
Practice makes perfect, and when it comes to talking about inner-most feelings, men are sadly out of practice, while women could make it an Olympic event.
My wife could easily make the national team on sharing feelings, while I would be relegated to the water boy.
So here is where I will impart my meagre wisdom upon the world whether they want it or not.
When it comes to talking about feelings and emotions, ladies, I implore you to talk slowly, use simple terms and most importantly of all never assume we know how you feel, because we don't - ever.
It is not that men are dumb (I know, there's lots of room for argument there), or we don't care (still more room), it's just we can't pick up subtle hints the lady in our life thinks is a blaring clue as to what is wrong.
If there is a problem, subtle hints work about as well as trying to knock out an elephant with a feather.
But if you say it in simple, straight-forward terms, the chances are much better our man brains will be able to connect with that little, tiny, minuscule part of our gray matter that controls emotions.
Yes, men (most men anyway) do have an area where they can look at and examine their emotions. It is typically buried under a pile of brain clutter consisting of information about motorcycles, hockey, movies and why beer and nachos are possibly the greatest food combination ever devised by the human race.
But once you get through all that stuff, the emotional brain does exist. Subtle hints have little chance of penetrating the man brain and getting past all the other stuff we men find interesting and important.
Not that our significant other's feelings are not important, they are, honest, really, I mean that, but over the centuries men have had to concern themselves with matters other than our emotions such as hunting for food, defending their land from attacking hoards and watching the play offs.
I doubt there is a man alive, now or through out the history of time, who has not had the line, 'Well you should know how I feel' dropped on them.
We don't know. It's that simple.
After more than two decades of marriage, I can tell when something is bothering my wife, but she has also learned after 27 years subtle hints don't work and the direct approach is most often used, thus allowing me to detect how she is feeling.
See how it works? My wife tells me how she is feeling and I recognize how she is feeling and then we have a big, happy talk about how she is feeling, I apologize for whatever it was that made her feel that way and life can get on as normal.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

Time to play 'What's your ailment?'

Anyone who has been to a doctor knows an appointment is more of a guideline than an actual time you will see said practitioner.
Appointments are made so people can rest assured that eventually, they will get in to see their doctor and are not just hanging out in a public waiting area half the day for the fun of it.
I can appreciate how busy doctors are and I understand stuff happens and appointments get delayed, so my new goal is to have as much fun with the waiting process as possible.
The challenge is to have fun in the mind-numbing vacuum of boringness that is a waiting room.
I can remember when doctor’s offices used to have National Geographic, or some other cool magazines.
The last time I was waiting for a doc, the magazines were the most uninteresting pieces of glossy fluff I have ever seen.
The lets-visit-the-doctor routine goes pretty much the same way every time it happens.
I check in with the receptionist upon arrival – because the sign tells me to and if I don’t will be lost in the waiting room black hole forever, which I am convinced is what happened to Jimmy Hoffa. He’s probably still in a waiting room, reading the latest issue of Modern Unions and Mobsters because he did not check in with the receptionist.
So after I check in, I spend a couple of minutes looking around before seeking out some reading material that will help make the minutes fly by.
In one doctor’s office I was impressed to find the magazines actually had a protective plastic binder around them.
That makes sense. You wouldn’t want that vintage May, 1972 copy of Better Quilts and Pillows to get damaged. How else would you know what kind of throw pillow goes best with orange shag carpet?
Fine literature like that deserves to live for all eternity (and probably will in the waiting room.)
After spending 18-43 seconds looking over the magazines and realizing watching a fly crawl across the wall is more exciting, I begin to check out my fellow doctor seekers.
This is a more in depth scrutiny of my waiting room brethren than the cursory glance I give when I first arrive.
That initial check is an absolutely vital part of the waiting room experience. Remember, these people are here to see a doctor because they are ill, and that means the room is full of koodies (which I believe is an actual medical term.)
The initial glance when you first walk in will give you some idea of the people you do not want to sit beside. The lady with the tissue permanently welded to her nose is the first person to avoid.
As is the guy who is coughing to so much his face has turned so red it could guide Santa’s sleigh.
Once the room is surveyed and you have checked in with the receptionist person, it is time to select your seat based on your cursory examination of the room. This is a very important decision because that will be your seat for the next seven to 10 days, depending on how far behind the doctor is running.
Once a chair has been selected and having exhausted the thrilling and educational stack of magazines it is time to check out the crowd and play ‘What’s your ailment.’
Mucus girl and phlegm boy are easy to figure out, as is the kid with cast and the lady in the neck brace, but there are always a few people who look absolutely fine.
Those are the ones I decide to give an ailment of my choice to. 
“Really. Wow, not many people contract malaria in Canada."
“Diphtheria. Now there’s a disease you don’t hear nearly enough about.”
I don’t even know what diphtheria is, and if it wasn’t for spell check I wouldn’t know how to spell it either, but being married to a nurse I hear about all sorts of nasty diseases that I can’t spell or pronounce and certainly do not want to contract.
During the wait, people come and go and every time the receptionist grabs a file you secretly hope it is your name being called so you can get out of the germ factory and on with your day. You know eventually your name will be called and when it is, it is like winning a mini lottery.
But, having your named called is a little misleading because all that happens is you leave the big waiting room and end up sitting in a smaller room that, without the doctor in it, is essentially another waiting room. But at least I know I am getting closer to my end goal so I cheerfully flip through the latest edition of Modern Squirrels and Muskrats while waiting those last few minutes for the doc.
For some reason that kind of wait seems limited to when I go to see the doctor.
When I go to the dentist, I am ushered into the chair of terror .04 seconds after walking in the front door.
I haven’t even taken my coat off before the receptionist starts dragging me into the room where people are going to stick sharp objects into my gums.
I don’t even know if my dentist has magazines because I am never in the waiting room long enough to read one.
I appreciate their efficiency, but when it comes to seeing a dentist I am an abject coward. I do not like going to the tooth doctor and I actually don’t mind waiting for a while, it gives me time to psych myself up.
It’s kind of a ‘Rah-rah, you can do it’ time.
The ‘What’s your ailment’ game cannot really be played at the dentist office anyway because I know what people are there for – their teeth.
The upside is, the sooner you get in, the sooner you get out, and when it comes to the dentist, getting out is all that matters.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

Teenage crisis averted - for now anyway

It was a disaster of near biblical proportions.

A calamity so great it threatened to destroy the very fabric of existence: Teenage Daughter missed her bus.

Oh, the humanity. The horror, the...wait a minute, that's not such a big deal.

Well, it may not be a big deal to an old guy like me, but to Teenage Daughter it is a catastrophe of Red Cross levels.

You see, because she missed the bus she would not be able to meet up with her friends, and if she could not meet up with her friends then she could not hang out with her friends and if she could not hang out with her friends, her life would be over and what's the point of carrying on.

Hearing the devastating situation brave Teenage Daughter was facing, I jumped to action. I dropped everything I was doing, ran to my car, hit the gas and raced to where Teenage Daughter was so I could re-unite her with her long-lost friends, thus preventing the fabric of human existence from being shredded and life on the planet would not cease to exist.

You are welcome.

I suspect the non-parents out there don't appreciate just how close the human race came to complete annihilation.

Missing that one bus could have set in motion a series of devastating events akin to the Mayan 2012 predictions of global doom.

Or at least that's how things were playing out in the mind of Teenage Daughter.

While I have never been a teenage girl myself, I am the proud father of such a being.

Teenage Daughter is a bright, funny, beautiful young woman who has such raging emotions and hormones she can go from cheerful one second to her head spinning around and puking green stuff the next.

Such is how the teenage girl mind works.

I did not know any of this when she was born. The day she arrived on this earth I saw a perfect little human. After having two sons, I was thrilled to have a daughter.

I literally wanted to run up and down the hospital hallways shouting “It's a girl! It's a girl!”

But, considering she was born at 1:20 a.m., I do not think others on that ward would have appreciated my jubilant display of joy.

It was a moment I will remember as clear as day for the rest of my life, as I will the birth of my sons.

When my boys were going through the teen years I thought, “This isn't so bad.”

For about year, each boy went through a phase where they were angry all the time, always at odds with us and each other. But that passed and some very charming young men emerged.

I soon learned having a teen daughter was a little more um, how should we put this - involved.

With the runaway emotional freight train that is a teen girl, it took some getting used to the rapid mood swings and outbursts of tears and laughter in the same 60 seconds.

Everyone I talk to with daughters share similar stories of woe and strife.

Apparently that is just how the teen girl brain develops as they struggle through those emotional days of not quite being an adult and definitely not being a child anymore.

But in the midst of the teenage-generated disasters, there is a wonderful young woman emerging. One who is fun to hang around with, one who is witty and charming and has a real heart for helping others, especially children.

Yes, somewhere under that emotional hurricane is an amazing young woman.

I know the days of chaos and strife will pass and my daughter will break free from her teenage cocoon an incredible young lady.

With each passing moment I know that day is getting closer.

In the meantime, I will continue to do my best to keep the fabric of the universe from collapsing and killing us all.

Again, you're welcome.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

Bear with me while I grow a brain

The more I think about it, the more amazed I am my friends and I never landed in the emergency room.

OK, well, a couple of us did, but considering all of the stupid stuff we did, the ER-to-stupidity ratio is stunningly low.

Reading a story about bear sightings triggered a memory of one such act of stupidity.

I was dirt bike riding with a buddy of mine named Rob. We were 14 years old, invincible, wise beyond all human understanding and had way more testicular fortitude than brains.

The way we used to ride should have been enough to warrant several interactions with someone in the emergency medical field, but somehow we managed to escape every situation unscathed.

From clipping a cow at 50 mp/h and walking away – after I was done tumbling through the field that is – to being run over by my own motorcycle, there was no shortage of situations that should have ended badly.

So what does riding a dirt bike like an immortal have to do with a bear? I'm getting to it.

You see, one of our favourite riding activities was exploring. We would find an old trail, path or logging road and see where it went.

On this particular warm summer's day, we were several kilometres deep in the bush and had not seen another human for quite a while when we came across the wild version of Winnie the Pooh.

This was not some cuddly, loveable bear. But a wild beast, and a fairly large one at that.

We roared up on our bikes, the bear saw us and immediately took off into a tree-filled gully.

We stopped our bikes and watched the beast smash its way through the trees.

We looked at each with the same look: wow, is that ever cool.

Then one of the dumbest ideas of my life formed and was quickly spoken: Hey, let's see where he went.

I know, I know – pure stupidity.

We hopped off our bikes and began working our way up the gully. We could not hear the black beast anymore, which meant it has run far enough away we could not hear it, or it had stopped moving and was somewhere ahead of us.

Now, I have never claimed to be overly bright, as I am sure this tale is validating, but even my teen aged brain had a moment of reason.

About 50 metres into the woods, we both stopped, looked at each other and agreed this is one of the dumbest things we have ever done.

Suddenly, bravado was replaced by near panic as we made out way back to our bikes. Slowly at first, then running as fast as we could as we were positive the creature was only a few feet behind us, angry at the intrusion and thirsting for our fresh, teen age blood.

The bikes were sitting at the side of the road and we jumped on them, pulled out the kick start and prepared to make a fast getaway.

Except for one slight problem: my friend's bike would not start.

We were dead. That's it, the bear was going to come out and get us both because my buddy's Honda decided it did not want to come to life.

He jumped on the kick starter with a ferocity I had never seen before. Sweat was pouring out of his helmet as we both kept a close eye on the forest around us.

Kick after kick, the bike would not start – until he noticed the engine kill switch was engaged.

He flipped the switch, the bike started and we took off like a couple of escaped criminals.

It was years before I told my dad about the bear story, and he looked at me with the same look I am sure many of you had throughout this tale of idiocy.

Did I mention I have never claimed to be overly bright?

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

Little cat loves to torment big cat

I am not sure, but I suspect my daughter's kitten may have a death wish.

No, the little squirt is not running with knives, or smoking cigarettes, but she will just not leave the big cat alone.

Before Lisa the Kitten showed up, we had Gilbert the Cat. Gil is now 12 years old and is in no mood to play with an energetic little ball of fluff that bounces around house like a furry tornado.

Gilbert is much more of a sit-back-and-relax kind of guy. He is the mellowest cat in the planet, which is probably why Lisa, or Squeak as I call her, has made it this far without serious harm or injury.

When the kitten was brought home, Gil was not too pleased. This surprised me because Gil is so laid back nothing riles him up – well, almost nothing.

There is one thing that sends Gilbert on the war path and that is another cat. He has been the feline ruler of our neighbourhood for years and still takes on all comers.

Gil is my son's cat and he is a rather large cat. One day he was sitting on the front steps, minding his own business when a new cat in the 'hood decided to take on the top dog, er, I mean the top cat.

When the intruder first came into our yard, Gil noticed him, but he played it cool, as he always does.

He made a low moaning sound as a bit of a warning, but the intruder car kept coming until he was within a foot of the Gilbert, King of the Kitties.

It was at that point Gil had enough.

My son was witness to the event and proudly proclaimed, “Gil hit the other cat so hard, it pooped.”

And indeed he did. Gil smacked the invader upside the head with such force the cat dropped a boomer before fleeing as fast as he could. He never ventured into our yard again.

But fortunately for Squeak, Gil is also a gentle cat and when the little one decided the big one was a great play partner, the young one was gently educated.

Squeak ran up to Gil and pounced with all the ferocity a 10-week-old kitten could muster. Gil growled, moaned and hissed, but the youngster kept coming.

So, Gil smacked her upside the head. But it was not with nearly as much force as he used on the intruder and he did it without any claws.

It was kind of a warning shot across the bow. However, youthful exuberance has not yet made way to aged wisdom and Squeak still desperately tries to play with Gil, who will smack her with an open paw, but has never hurt her.

She will ambush him from the back of the couch – smack. Jump at him from around a corner – smack. Sneak up behind him – smack.

I believe Squeak has figured out Ol' Gil is a gentle giant – a grumpy gentle giant, but a gentle giant nonetheless.

And fortunately, she is also learning Gil is the boss, the Alpha cat and is starting to treat him as such.

And that is bad news for the the dog.

Murphy the Wonder Dog is now Squeak's favourite target and she will stalk and hunt Murphy every chance she gets.

At first, Murphy would jump up, down or sideways to avoid the attack, but eventually he realized the attacks of the little cat were nothing worry about.

Now when she attacks Murphy just looks at her and keeps doing whatever it was he was doing.

Squeak the Mini Cat does not care and bounds away only to attack again a few minutes later – when she is done attacking my shoes, or the curtains, or lint, or...

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

So long Junior, I will miss you. Who knew?

So my oldest child has flown the coop.

While hardly a kid anymore – he is 22 years old after all – he will always be a child because I was there when he was barely old enough to lay in a crib and wiggle.

I know many people who watched as their children spread their wings and took off, but to be perfectly honest, at the time, I really didn't understand what the big deal was.

I moved out when I was a young man, just like billions of other young people have done throughout the course of time.

As the papa bear, it was my job to raise my children to the point where they are able to move out on their own, then it was “Don't let the door hit your butt on the way out.”

I know a papa bear might not be the best example of parenting in the wild because an adult male bear will attack any other male bear that comes in his territory, even his own child.

But considering male lions eat their young, I think I will with the bruin analogy.

I have never attacked my kids, nor threatened to eat them, so I guess I am doing OK.

Anyway, Junior reached an age where he wanted to take off on his own, to explore new worlds, to live in a different city than the one he was raised.

It was a day I had been thinking about for years, but when the day came I was not doing cartwheels across the lawn – mainly because I am way to old to be doing cartwheels across the lawn - but also because I was not that thrilled with Junior jumping from the nest.

What? What is this? What is this odd feeling I have? I did my job, I raised him as best I could and now I should be able to sit back, wave goodbye and get on with getting the other two out of the house.

But instead of seeing a young man spreading his wings, all I could see was the little boy who held so many grasshoppers in one hand their guts were squishing between his fingers.

Suddenly, the big, tough papa bear was feeling more like a hormonal tween.

During the eight-hour drive to his new city – I helped him move like any papa bear would – all I could think of was the days gone by and the moments a father shares with his young son.

Was I sad Junior was all grown up, something I had worked hard to help make happen?

I surprised even myself because I was.

That can't be right. I'm the big tough papa bear. It was the mama bear who was supposed to be sad little bear is leaving the clan. Papa bear is the one who was supposed to hold the door as Junior made an exit before doing a little dance because it was one down and two to go.

But there I was, the big tough papa bear feeling very melancholy about Junior leaving the cave.

I know it is how life works: you are born, you are a baby, then a kid, then a teen, then a young man and then you move out.

I was ready for it, prepared for it, at times I was almost longing for it so imagine my surprise when I was saddened by it.

With Junior gone there would be things like left overs in the fridge, gas in my car and finally a spare room where I could put my treadmill – yes I actually use the treadmill for more than collecting dust.

Hmm, perhaps there is some good to Junior flying the coop and striking out on his own. I just wonder if his flight will imitate that of a homing pigeon.

I guess we will have to wait and see.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

Clogged up complaint filter a matter of time

I wonder if there is a certain age where you feel free to complain about everything.

Is there a magic number you reach where you feel the uncontrollable urge to talk about everything you do not like no matter what it is or who is listening?

I have been commenting on the music “these young kids listen to” for some time so that doesn't count. There really is some terrible music out there, but then again there was some terrible music when I was a young lad as well. But there was also plenty of good music, so I am assuming there is some good music coming out of the current generation – and when I find some, I will let you know.

My dad pretty much hated everything I listened to in my youth – and the more he hated it, the more I liked it.

“I wouldn't give you 10 cents for that racket,” was heard on many occasions as I listened to such classical bands as AC/DC or Van Halen.

I am sure the generation before his complained about the noise these young kids were listening to, so like I said, complaining about music doesn't count because like my father before me, I was hardly in my advanced years when I noticed just how awful the new generation of music is.

But somewhere along the line, my dad, like so many his age, decided to have issue with all sorts of things.

And they are not shy about letting people know of their displeasure. Some are more vocal than others. I knew this one little old lady who was sweet as pie, but complained about pretty much everything all the time.
There was not much she did not dislike, find annoying or irritating and she had no problems letting those around her know of her displeasure.

Many of the older set do not seem to be able to contain their distain for something. So I know eventually I too will will reach a point where I have no inhibitions left when it comes to letting people know what I think of things.

And therein lies the answer to my question: it is not a certain age where you dislike things, but you reach a certain age where you don't care if you tell people about it.

Everyone has filters that keeps them from acting a certain way or saying certain things and apparently the filters on keeping your complaints in your head and not coming out of your mouth gets so clogged with age you have no choice but to verbalize your displease externally.

Near as I can figure, you eventually reach and age where you don't give a fat rats butt what people think of your opinion.

And once I realized that, I took a close look at myself and saw I am well on my way to losing my concern for what other people think.

I have never been overly fashion conscious, and I did try to keep my clothes at least somewhat trendy.

But as I pile on the years, I noticed I have become far less concerned with wearing “cool”clothes or having a certain look.

I wear what I want, when I want.

So it has begun. That particular filter is clogging fast and soon will be of no use.

It is just a matter of time before my 'complaint' filter gets clogged and all the things I dislike about the world spews forth in a verbal waterfall of annoyance and unrestrained comments – just like my father before me and his before him.

It is a right of age to sit around and talk about “these young kids” and this and that and eventually I plan on being right in the middle of it all.

I am not quite there yet, but am confident when I do reach that age I will have no problem telling anyone who will listen what I dislike about, well, everything.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

Tiny kitten takes over my home

Young Daughter wanted to get a pet. Her oldest brother had a series of hamsters when he was young, and she wanted a pet of her own as well.

Einstein was the first rodent I have ever welcome into my home and lived to the ripe old age of just over two years, which is pretty good for a little furball.

He was followed by another hamster, Fiona, which was the meanest, nastiest most hostile mouse wannabe I have ever seen.

At first my son tolerated the beast because he wanted a pet and missed his old pal Einstein. But when the hamster from hell took a bite out of his finger, she had to go. First we took her to the SPCA, but they said they would not take an animal with social issues.

She wasn't an alcoholic or anything, just grumpy, but either way they would not take her. I suggested we put Fiona in the backyard with our other pet, Gilbert the cat, and let nature take its course.

It would have been a tough scrap, but I was confident Gilbert would have won, although not as mean as Fiona, Gil was a cat and only in cartoons does a rodent beat a cat.

However, the Missus would have nothing to do with using the cat as a hired assassin, so we ended up taking the stupid rat to the vet to be whacked, er, I mean, humanely put down.

“For an extra $40 we can have her cremated and put her ashes in a box,” said the nice lady at the vet's office.

I paid less than $10 for the hamster, I am already kicking out $30 to have her put down and I really don't want the ashes of a violent rodent in my house, so I think I will pass. Thanks.

We got my oldest son another hamster that lived for a couple of years in peace and harmony with the world around him.

During all of this, my middle son wanted a pet so we got the aforementioned cat. We had a dog who passed, so we got another canine: the now-famous Murphy the Wonder Dog.

Young Daughter was not too crazy about any of the critters, so I was surprised when she wanted a pet of her own. She did not want a dog – she really does not like dogs – she didn't want a rodent, fish were about as fun as a pet piece of tape, so the type of critter she was interested in was pretty much narrowed down to a cat.

But she was not too fond of Gilbert.

“Keep Gilbert out of my room” was heard echoing through my home on many occasions, but the more she thought about it, the more she wanted a kitten of her very own.

I am not a huge cat person, and we already had Gilbert, but it was not fair she did not have a pet so it was off to the SPCA we went.

After looking at a few kittens she settled on a tiny, little black and gray bundle of cuteness that she named after her stuffed toy from when she was a wee child.

Sessa-Lisa, or Lisa for short, came home with us that day. Because Gilbert is the mellowest cat in the world he could have cared less.

Murphy the Wonder Dog was doing some wondering of his own. He was wondering what the heck had invaded his home now.

She weighs less than two pounds, but Lisa put 20-pound Murphy in the run from the moment she showed up.

With a hiss, growl and a smack on the nose Lisa unleashed the fury only a nine-week old kitten can – and it worked because the past few days Murphy has been as nervous as a mouse at a cat convention.

Lisa is also living in Young Daughter's room she is thrilled to have her.

So now I have two cats and a dog living under my roof. I am glad I do not have anymore children because I do not want anymore pets.

Mind you there is this cute little puppy for sale...

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

Don't 'bug' me when I'm driving

It is one of the most horrifying, unnerving experiences you can have while driving, and it happened to me just the other day.
I was cruising down the road, enjoying a sunny summer's day like I have done countless times. It was not so hot I had to have the air conditioning on, so I had my window open.

That's when it happened.

I actually heard the insect hit the door jam of my car and I saw a black mass out of the corner of my eye.

I knew the condor of bugs had just entered my vehicle, but what I didn't know was the status of the bug - what kind of bug it was and how pissed off it was over being clobbered by my import.

I glanced to my left and saw a black figure – roughly the size of a full-grown ostrich – on the top of my seatbelt near the window.

And then it was gone.

I do not want to say panic set it...

It did set in, I just don't want to say it.

When you come right down to it, there really are only two types of bugs on this planet: ones that will hurt you, and ones that won't.

The odds of a bug this large being some sort of engorged lady bug were very slim, so my mind immediately went to the kind of bug that can cause pain.

It was no longer on my the top of the seatbelt near my head, so that means it was in the car somewhere.

My first fear was it had fallen between me and the seat and it was getting ready to deliver the mother of all stings or bites – or both.

Travelling down the highway and 100-ish km/h is not a good time to have an insect attack. Well, no time is a good time, but barrelling down the blacktop is an even worse time.

I reached around behind my back trying to locate the beast before it took its revenge upon me for hitting it with my car.

I reached around as far as I could then sort of lifted myself off the seat as best I could to see it maybe the monster was on the seat – not an easy thing to do at highway speeds, but I know we have all done it.

The whole time I am searching, I am also waiting. Waiting for the searing pain that only an angry insect can deliver.

By now I had slowed down considerably and was pulling over to the side of the road, getting ready to evacuate my car like it was on fire.

I stopped, jumped out and danced around the side of the road for a minute with terrifying thoughts running through my mind.

What it went down my shirt and was just knocked out, soon to awaken and bring down its wrath upon me?

Not good.

So I thrashed about for a minute trying to make sure the Jurassic bug was not on my clothing.

It was not, so that means it was still in the car.

Gulp.

I looked at the driver's seat and found nothing. A gargantuan beast of this size could not easily hide, so it had to be in there somewhere.

I opened the back door and looked on the rear seat and again saw nothing.

Had I imagined it? Was the bug some sort of hallucination brought on by my dislike of insect vermin?
No, I know what I saw and heard, and what I saw and heard was a bug hit my car and and bounce inside.

It was in there alright. Perhaps it was hiding, healing and regaining its strength for an attack.

I then looked on the floor next to the seat and there it was – a wasp.

Not just any wasp, but a monster wasp, at least two pounds worth of wasp.

Well, maybe it wasn't that big, but it was big enough.

I have a shiny new car - please don't touch it

So I bought a new vehicle the other day, well it was new to me anyway.

It is the lowest mileage vehicle I have ever owned and so far I am enjoying it quite a bit.

But whenever you buy a new car you go through a period of time where you have all these concerns you did not have with the old clunker you moved up from.

My last car had about a bazillion kilometres on it and it showed. The thing smoked more than a Raggae band and leaked more oil than an Alberta pipeline.

The struts were shot so it was like riding an old chuckwagon and every single bump on the road nearly knocked the fillings out of your teeth.

It rattled, it clunked, it was loud and tired so the time had come to abandon the trusty metal steed for a new mode of transportation.

The old car owed me nothing. I put a lot of kilometres on it and had to do very little in the way of repairs – all right, I should have replaced the struts, but they were expensive and I didn't want to.

The nicest thing about an old, high-mileages car was you didn't really care if it got dirty, or scratched or even a little banged up.

The Missus and I even took it about 20 kilometres up a logging road scouting campsites earlier this year (a fun adventure with marginally functioning suspension.)

It came back covered in grime, dust and a little worse for wear, but by that point it really didn't matter.

The car has seen better days and when a spectacular deal on a much newer car with a fraction of the kilometres came along, I jumped at the opportunity to upgrade in a big way.

I have had the new car for almost two whole weeks so we are still in the honeymoon stage. The first couple days after getting it, I would just sit in it and check out the interior and the all the new-fangled controls I got to play with.

Once in a while I would look out the front window of my house to check out its profile before looking for an excuse – any excuse - to drive it.

While I was willing to go 'boony bashing' in the old car, I was hesitant to even drive this one across an unpaved parking lot lest a rock fly up and chip the pristine paint job.

I don't even like to park the new set of wheels under a tree because there are evil, evil birds out there just waiting to poop on a shiny red car.

“Wait, what's that? Dust! There is a thin layer of dust on my new car! Oh the horror, I must wash it – a lot.”

I know that might be a little over the top, but it is always an event to get a new car and I want to enjoy the feeling of having a new vehicle as much as possible.

And why not, I paid a lot of money to have that feeling and I want to enjoy it for as long as I can and as much as I can.

I had the same feeling with the last car I bought – although this one is much nicer with more options – and I know the feeling fades, but for the next little while I will still get a thrill every time I look out the window and see it sitting there on the street with cars going by...kicking up dust...and those evil birds, just waiting...

Excuse me, I have to go wash my new car. After all, I have not done it for almost two days.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

Little boys can be really gross

Boys can be gross little critters.
They don’t necessarily mean to be, it’s just the nature of possessing testosterone without the maturity to wield it.
Testosterone is kind of like the Force - once you learn how to control it, it can be of great benefit, but if it is unchecked it leads to the dark side and the dark side usually involves something that will gross out mom and dad.
Mind you when boys grow up, testosterone can still lead to some uncouth situations. I highly doubt it was a refined woman who invented the globally popular ‘Pull my finger’ gag.
Anyway, not too long ago I was talking to a lady who was appalled by the actions of some of the young boys in her neighbourhood.
The lads were around 10 years old and full of vinegar and puppy dog tails or what ever else they are supposed to be made of.
It would seem these future leaders of our nation decided it would be more fun to pee in their water guns and squirt each other than to just fill them with boring old water.
When she said this to myself and another father, I had to chuckle.
They looked at me like I was demented.
“You both only have girls, don’t you?”
They did and were thus unfamiliar with the minds of little men.
I doubt a girl would ever think of doing such a thing.
I know it is disgusting and I am certainly not endorsing it, but it is something little boys do, and parents who only have girls simply do not understand.
Most girls are all cute and sweet, while boys are more like chimpanzees on a sugar high. I am sure boys are where the term ‘perpetual motion’ came from, because it seems little boys never stop moving, doing things or looking for new adventures – which translates into getting in to trouble.
They don’t necessarily mean to get in trouble, it just kind of happens.
One day, my oldest son was looking at this small, black thing he took out of his pocket.
I assumed it was a rock or something and I asked what he had.
“It’s a bird’s stomach” was his matter-of-fact reply.
I stopped dead in my tracks and contemplated his response.
“A what?” was my somewhat horrified reaction.
“I also have what I think is a heart and a lung.”
My mind raced at the information I was hearing.
“OK, calm down. There are plenty of good psychiatrists in town. That’s it, all he needs is a little assistance. He will be fine. All little boys carry animal parts in their pocket – right?”
My next concern was how he came into possession of said body parts.
He went on to explain that he had found a dead bird behind the shed and decided to take it apart to see what was in it.
He always enjoyed taking things apart which, until that moment in time, I thought was a good thing. He was expanding his knowledge, exploring how things worked – now it was just a one-way ticket to Barf City.
He did not have any surgical tools or even a pocketknife, so he pulled it apart with his fingers.
I would just like to say – eeeeeeeewww. Now that is disgusting.
He did not know it was gross, he was just a curious seven year old with no concern for minor details like germs, bacteria, malaria or the plague.
Again, I doubt most girls would ever do that.
While girls are playing with dolls and having imaginary tea parties, Junior was performing a do-it-yourself autopsy.
“Go in the house and wash your hands – a lot. Use the entire bar of soap and don’t touch anything on the way in. Just keep your hands in the air. Wait, let me open the door and turn on the taps. NO, don’t touch me. NO, don’t touch the cat either.”
“Can I keep the stomach?”
“Noooooo.”
Boys just do things differently.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

Do you see what I see - probably not.

It would seem God gave men and women different eyes.

The mechanics are the same, with retinas and all those other eyeball thingies, but they just don't see the same things.

For example, there can be a few items on the kitchen counter and to a man's eyes they are just fine where they are, but to a woman they are clutterish (if that is even a real word) and they must be put away - immediately.

A guy can look at the items many times and not see a need to do something with them. That is not to say men are slobs. OK, some men are slobs, or neatness challenged as the politically correct world calls them, but I am talking about a couple of minor items here.

A woman, or more accurately my wife,  can look at a room and see a dozen things that need to be done, changed, moved, cleaned, burned, have an exorcism performed on them or simply left alone.

I can look at the same room and think, 'Looks good to me.'

So how come her eyes can see such a different world than mine do? Beats me.

However, I have noticed that once we step outside a role reversal takes place and I start to see thing she does not.

Our lawn can be three metres tall with a family of hillbillies living in it and she would not see a need to mow the grass. There could be more weed per square foot than Woodstock and she would simply walk by them every single day.

My man eyes however, see the need to get the motorized lawn chopper out and make the yard somewhat presentable. The weeds, of course, must go, the hedge has to be trimmed, the trees pruned and something must be done with that darned spreading juniper that is attempting to take over the entire front yard rock garden.

"We have a spreading juniper? What's a spreading juniper?" was pretty much my wife's response when I told of the cedar situation that is threatening to create havoc in the entire western hemisphere.

I will show her the bush that is just slightly smaller than a 747 and she will invariably respond, "Oh, I never noticed it before."

Funny how that excuse does not work when it comes to a pile of laundry.

"What do you mean you did not notice it? How could you not notice a pile of laundry next to the wash machine behind a closed laundry room door? It's so obvious. Juniper? What juniper?"

Let's just say the yard work has been left mostly to yours truly. Fortunately I have two big strong sons who willingly jump in and help me with the back 40.

OK, willingly might be a bit of a stretch. I think forcibly is a more accurate description of their helping out with the greenery.

Teen eyes are also different than adult peepers ñ man or woman. Human eyes must change over time, because teens do not see things that need to be done inside or outside, and once they enter their bedroom they must go completely blind, but that is another column.

My wife's eyes do notice the gas gauge now, which is a good thing. For a while she had a blind spot for that particular vehicular function and I would often jump in the car to go somewhere to find it had less gas than a squirrel fart.

But that's OK, I never quite did get the hang of noticing when we were out of conditioner (Hey, I'm a bald man, conditioner is not a real big concern for me.)

But eyes can be trained. My eyes have learned to notice when the floor needs to be vacuumed, but for some reason I am still somewhat blind to a pile of dirty dishes.

My wife has figured out the gas thing, but for some reason remains oblivious to the plight of the lawn.

Perhaps glasses might help us both.