They're right, you can't herd a cat

So there I was, pitted against a wily beast.

A creature of such cunning, such prowess I knew the odds were heavily against me.

But I refused to give up.

First, I tried sneaking up on the beast from behind, but my ninja-like skills have been slowed by old age, well middle age anyway, and the furred critter made good its escape.

Perhaps enticing the beast with food would bring it close enough for me to get my hands it.

And then again, perhaps not.

Said beast remained just out of arms reach, foiling an otherwise brilliant plan.

A few other attempts were made to grab the wayward animal, but in the end I had to admit defeat.

I had been outsmarted and outmaneuvered by a one-year-old cat.

Young Daughter wanted a pet of her own, so a year ago we picked up a kitten.

Her name is Lisa, a.k.a. Little Cat, and she is your typical cat that does typical cat things.

We decided she would be an outside cat, so we let her explore the backyard in short stints and she seemed fine with that because every little sound scared the snot out of her.

A bug farted and she sprinted for the backdoor like a pack of wolves were after her. Sure it was pretty big bug, but she is not exactly coming across as a fierce creature.

And I am OK with that as it should improve her survival odds in the great outdoors.

And it's not like we live in the deep forest or harsh jungle. We live in your typical suburban neighbourhood mostly devoid of vicious predators.

There are, however, coyotes in the surrounding hills and we occasionally hear them howling and yipping at night.

And that is why I ended up spending a good portion of my evening trying to herd a cat into the house.

It was near dark and Lisa bolted out the back door as fast a cat can bolt, which all cat owners know is pretty fast.

In a flash she was out the door and down the stairs.

She jumped the fence and settled in our neighbour's yard as my wife muttered some words under her breath while watching Little Cat take off.

Not wanting Lisa to spend the night outside, my wife made numerous attempts to corral the kitty back into the house, but to no avail.

You know what they say about herding cats?

Well, it's true. It is an impossible task.

So with my wife stressed out and Young Daughter having a slight meltdown at the prospect of her beloved kitty surviving on her own through the night, I was asked to assist. (Like I am some sort of cat-herding expert or something.)

I spent the next while trying to get Little Cat into the house where there was no risk of coyotes, eagles, cougars, polar bears or any other nasty chompers that might want to have a snack before bedtime.

I tried to explain to everyone that this is what outside cats do: they go outside. She will not have been the first feline in history to spend the night outdoors and I had all the confidence in the world there was a pretty good chance Lisa could do it.

But to appease the Missus and Young Daughter, I did my best to get Little Cat into the house.

However, as darkness enveloped the land, I knew it was a lost cause and finally convinced everyone there was nothing more we could do.

Reluctantly, everyone headed into the house, leaving Lisa to her fate and all hoping she would return in the morning – which she did.

As soon as the Missus got up, she checked for Little Cat who was sitting at the back door with a very proud look on hear face.

She had done it, she survived her first night in the wilds of suburbia with out so much as a scratch.

The Missus was relieved, Young Daughter, oh, hell, we were all relieved.

I learned a couple things that day: Little Cat can make it on her own and it really is impossible to herd a cat.

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

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

Wacky Olympics sports are, well, wacky

So the International Olympic Committee has recognized Frisbee as an official Olympic event.
Why not?
It's a popular pastime with many people and I personally know a few aging hippies who do not go anywhere without a Frisbee.
Kind of makes you wonder what the drug tests will find.
Doctor: “Hmmm, it seems you have multiple recreational drugs in your system, but no performance-enhancing drugs.”
Aging hippie Olympian: “What, man. Hey, are you going to eat that doughnut.”
All kidding aside, there some very amazing Frisbee players out there. By the way, Frisbee is the name of the company that invented the flying disc, but it has become synonymous with the activity so people just call it frisbee. Like Bandaid, a brand name, but so common people call anything that covers a wound a bandaid.
But I'm sure you already knew all that so I will move on.
Anyway, there are some incredible flying disc players out there and I spent many an hour in my youth throwing a small, round piece of plastic back and forth with my friends.
No comment on what else we were doing at the time.
Beer is not a performance-enhancing drug anyway so it's all good.
Frisbee can join a variety of interesting Olympic events that have come and gone over the years, such as solo synchronized swimming.
Um, correct me if I'm wrong, but shouldn't that just be called swimming, or fancy swimming, or dance swimming or whatever. How can it be synchronized if you are by yourself?
The solo synchro event lasted only a couple of Olympics. Gee, I wonder why.
The 1908 Olympics featured tug-o-war as an official event. That was also the year they had the dreaded Red Rover, Red Rover Come on Over competition and the gruelling egg toss.
In the 1900s, live pigeon shooting was actually an Olympic event. It only lasted a single Olympics (for good reason) and 300 live pigeons were blasted with shotguns.
I am not sure who won the gold in that event, but I heard is last name was Palmer and his great grandson went on to be a dentist.
Probably not true, but it would make sense.
The 1900 Olympics were an odd year with some very odd sports. Along with massacring pigeons, athletes competed in the underwater swimming competition. The rules were simple: points were awarded for the longest distance and the most time spent under water.
Not a great spectator sport and it was dropped after just one outing. Motorboating was held in 1908 where 'athletes' simply drove their motorized boats around a course. The fastest boat won, simple as that.
I am not sure how much athletic prowess it takes to sit in a boat and drive around in circles, but based on the many rednecks I have seen doing the same thing on mountain lakes, the hardest part would be not spilling your beer in the corners.
Rope climbing was dropped from the official Olympic line up in 1932. But according to a news feature I just read, professional rope climbers are keeping the sport alive.
First of all, I did not even know there was such a thing as professional rope climbers. How does someone become a professional rope climber in the first place?
Can't skate? Can't dribble a ball? Too clumsy for soccer? Perhaps rope climbing is your call in life.

So why not add flying disc throwing to the Olympics? It is something a lot of people can do or have done in the past, it is visual and it will give all those old hippies something to do.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

I'll never win a 'discussion' with my wife

Trying to outrun a dog is like trying to win an argue with your wife: there is no point because it is not going to happen.

The dog will always outrun the human, and a wife will always out argue her husband.

Now there may be some men out there who are guffawing at my conclusion, but deep down they know I am are right.

I am speaking from experience on both scenarios.

No, I have never tried to outrun a police dog or anything, but even a mangy mongrel can outrun a human without even trying.

Even if the dog is really fat, or weight enhanced I guess is the politically correct term, they can still run pretty quick, albeit for a much shorter distance than a fit dog, which is the same in the human world.

A fit person can certainly run far and maybe even fast, but not fast or far enough to outpace a hound.

Chubby, er, I mean weight-enhanced people, can't run very far or very fast because they are simply not equipped with the physical ability to run.

When it comest to having a 'discussion' with my wife, I am not properly equipped for the task either.

My wife is much better at 'discussing' things than I am.

My theory is, it is because the lady members of the planet are much more in tune with their emotions, they tend to talk more – which has been scientifically proven – so they have a much greater vocabulary and they are simply better at putting those words into intelligent sentences that make man's feeble attempt at arguing, well, feeble.

I witnessed a couple having a 'discussion' not too long ago.

I was not eavesdropping – OK maybe I was a little, but that was only because if seemed like the man was actually winning a 'discussion' with his wife.

They were not yelling or anything, but they were exchanging opinions on a situation in their relationship and, darn it, if the guy was did not seem to be winning.

He was making some good points and you could see he actually had the upper hand.

I felt chanting “Go, bro go. Go, bro go” because I was witnessing something more rare than an honest politician – a husband winning an argument, er, discussion.

The man's wife was obviously on the defensive, but then things changed.

She must have kicked it into high gear or something because there was a definite shift in momentum.

It's like in a hockey game where one team is dominating, but then the other team finds that burst of energy, that deep-down desire to win.

As the second ticked by, the woman was definitely gaining speed.

“Hang in there bro. You can do it, think, man, think. There must be something left in your mental arsenal you can use to battle back with.”

There wasn't.

As her onslaught of verbal prowess grew, the man began to grasp for answers, for any comeback he could come up with, but to no avail.

By the time they were done their meal, the man was clearly defeated in the battle of the sexes.

They did not seem hostile towards each other, or seething with venomous anger, but at the end of the day it was wife one, hubby zero.

Thus continued the circle of life, the way things are, the way they have always been and the way they will always be.

So if you ever see me running down the street with a dog chasing me, don't worry I am just trying to avoid a 'discussion' with my wife.

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.

Safety first around water - because I swim like a stone

I'm not a big fan of water.

Yes, I do shower on a regular basis, like once a month whether I need it or not.

I am kidding of course. I wouldn't be able to stand to be near myself if I showered only once every four weeks.

The kind of water I am referring to is the kind that goes over my head – namely a lake, ocean or deep stream.

I don't mind pools so much because I know I can sink to the bottom, push off and shoot to the top.

In a lake or ocean, who knows where the bottom is.

The problem is swimming – I am not very good at it.

I never took lessons as a kid and while we did have a pool, it was an above ground pool and was only four feet deep, so when I got tired of swimming I just stood up.

I can flap my arms and kick my legs enough to achieve some forward motion in a body of water, but I am hardly an Olympic-ready aqua fiend.

But even more concerning than my lack of swimming prowess is the fact I can't float.

I know, it's weird, but the second I stop thrashing about in the water I sink like a stone.

I have tried floating on my back like I have seen so many others do, but with very limited success.

It is more like a slow sinking than an actual floating.

For an oh-so-brief while I do manage to keep my face above water – barely. But I know it will not last and I have to start treading water again or I will be doing my Davey Jones impression.

My buddy can float on water like a walrus (which is sort of how he's built actually) and if I were ever in a boat that capsized all I would have to do is grab hold of him and float around until the rescue ship arrived.

In fact, I would invite others to share the ample wealth of his floating girth.

I am not exactly a small man and I do have some blubber on my frame, but I still go under the water faster than a frightened fish.

My dad is the same way. He sinks like a stone tied to a rock.

Like father, like son I guess.

But instead of the lack of floating ability, why couldn't I have inherited his hair. I am nearing the cueball stage of life, while he has more hair than an '80's rock band.

At 81 years old, he has more hair on his head than I have had on mine for more than 20 years.

Do I get that genetic trait?

No, I have to get the one where I have the buoyancy of a lead pipe – filled with cement.

So knowing I am a weak swimmer and have the floating ability of iron ore, I am understandably uncomfortable around water.

When I am in a boat I prefer to wear a life jacket – be it a small fishing boat or ski boat.

When the children were younger, I wore one “as an example that is it safety first.”

I did not care if I was the only adult in the 20-foot ski boat wearing a red life preserver, I was doing it for the children.

I'm quite safety concious that way.

But I will admit when there were no young children in the watercraft, I did bow to peer pressure and not wanting to look like a total weinie, I did not don my floating garment.

But I always made sure it was close at hand and would even casually make sure my foot was sticking through one of the openings so if I went in the water, it was coming with me.

After all, it is safety first.

I'm a cold-water wimp and I don't care

Call me a wimp if you must, but I do not like cold water, or even coolish water for that matter.

I don't recall if cold water bothered me in my younger years, but I suspect it did not because kids and teens are not too bright and have a built in tolerance for such things as cold water and even cold weather.

I can remember running out to my car in -10C weather wearing a T-shirt and thinking there is no point in grabbing a jacket because my car will be warm in a few minutes and then I won't need a jacket so why should I waste 20 seconds of my life digging it out of the closet (where my mom kept putting it for some reason) only to have to take it off again.

With logic like that it's amazing I didn't die of pneumonia, or a case of the stupids or something.

Anyway, cold-weather follies aside, I don't ever recall worrying about how cold the swimming pool was or how cold the lake was on a hot summers day.

I just dove in, splashed around and had fun.

Now that I am much older and wiser – I grab a hoodie if it even looks cool outside – I have developed an aversion to cold water.

And I am not just talking about North-Atlantic-hit-an-iceberg cold, I am talking about local lakes kind of cold.

Some may not even notice the water temperature, but I have a tough time plunging into the frigid waters around me.

I am fine at first as I make my descent into the icy depths of an area pond, but then things change.

As the water goes above my knee I start to slow my forward advance, my breathing becomes a little sharper and I might even stutter a word or two.

A little farther out into the water I reach what I call the red zone: the area between mid-thigh and my man nipples.

This is the most temperature-sensitive area of my body. As my suit starts to get wet I slow down even more, my breath becomes noticeably sharper and I know at any second a certain part of my anatomy that does not do well in cold water is about to be dunked.

And once that milestone is passed, then I have to get my stomach wet. Now one would think based on the size of my stomach I would have enough insulation to fend off the Arctic-like assault on my senses, but nope – it is just plain cold.

But then things change again, and for some reason my chest and shoulder regions are immune to the borderline freezing temperatures that is a mountain lake – but first I have to get that far in.

I don't like cold water because it is cold – simple as that.

A hot tub, hot springs or pretty much any form of water with the pre-curser of 'hot' in it is more my speed.

I have never met a hot tub I didn't like, or a hot spring that couldn't entice me to enter its warm bosom of relaxation.

The problem is there are not a lot of hot tubs or hot springs at the local beaches, so I try to force myself to dip into the water and endure the deathly cold.

Sure there are kids and little old ladies floating around while I tenuously make my way from shore, but the shame of being a water wussy does not outweigh my distain for cold water.

So if you see a tall, middle-aged balding guy standing in water up to his knees shivering like he just fell off the Titanic, come over and say 'Hi.'

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

I will talk to them, but I will not share food with them

I would have to classify myself as an animal person.
I am not covered in fur or anything (especially on my head), but I have had a dog my entire life and do enjoy having a non-human around the homestead (mother-in-laws don't count).
We also currently have a cat, so furred beasts are something I like to have around, most of the time anyway.
We all know they are not human, but we often treat them like they are. While they eat gross things and clean themselves with their tongue, they still become members of the family.
Disgusting and annoying members of the family, but members none the less. Mind you, teenagers can also be disgusting and annoying, but with them you cannot just throw them outside because they will simply come back in. They will then proceed to eat everything in the fridge, before heading to the pantry for a post-lunch, pre-supper snack. Which, of course, is followed by the post-supper, pre-bedtime snack.
Anyway, I have to admit to talking to my pets like they could actually understand what I was saying. I wasn't asking their opinion on anything or expecting an answer, but a pet is a good "person" to tell how your day went or what is bothering you etc.
They don't talk back, you won't hurt their feelings and no matter what, they are always happy to see you.
That last part applies mainly to dogs. Cats are happy to see you if they are in the mood.
Dogs are one of the few living things on this planet that you can have their boy bits removed and they still greet you at the door.
Fish could care less no matter what is going on and a tarantula is not a pet - it is a stain on the carpet should it ever get out of its enclosure.
I am sure some may disagree, but in general, if it has scales, fangs, venom or the potential to kill me, I do not consider it a pet in the traditional sense of the word.
They are certainly not pets in the cuddly sense of the word.
I know people who have spiders, snakes and lizards, but the only critters I have ever had as pets is cats and dogs.
I have already admitted to talking to them, but that is about as far as I am willing to go to make them more "human."
I will not put clothing on an animal simply because it makes them look 'cute.'
Cats and dogs were born with all the clothing they need, and God already took care of the cute part, so additional help from me is not needed.
There are people who dress up their beasts just to be fashionable and I even saw a dachshund, a.k.a. a wiener dog, wearing a little leather jacket.
It was real leather, I kid you not.
Who in their right mind would spend that kind of money to buy a leather jacket for a dog? What's next, a little Harley Davidson for the mutt to ride around the backyard on?
I am not poking fun at people who do dress up their pets, well, actually I am. Sorry about that.
The amount of money people can spend to make their pet 'human-like' is mind boggling.
I just don't get it.
But dressing up a dog is not the most bizarre interaction people can have with their mutt. It is people who share food - like an ice cream cone - with their hound that is truly strange behaviour.
Why? I refer you to the whole dogs-clean-themselves-with-their-tongue information I provided earlier.
Dogs also eat a wide array of truly hideous items, so considering I do not even like it when a dog licks me, I doubt we will be sharing any food with the critter.
I will talk to the mutt, but I will not share a plate with him. You have to draw a line somewhere.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

How did the world survive before 'The Tape?'

It is by far one of the greatest inventions ever created by the human race.

The automobile: handy, but hard on the environment.

The computer: a vital part of modern life but a real pain in the...

Those may be fine inventions that have helped human kind, but sitting very close to the top of the list is The Tape.

Men already know what tape I am talking about. There could be only one sticky item of which I speak and that is duct tape.

I can hear men throughout the Valley grunting their approval for the multi-talented creation that men, real men I might add, have embraced throughout the world.

I love The Tape.

I do not know how the world survived without it. Had they had a whole bunch of The Tape on Titanic, well, let's just say the movie would had to have a much different ending.

Instead of what's his name sinking to a frozen death, he would run around like a man possessed, taping up the hull saving the ship and the fair maiden.

What else on this planet other than The Tape could have pulled off such heroics. Nothing, that's what.

Your arm got cut off in an industrial accident? No problem, just grab The Tape, a few well-placed strips and it's as good as new.

The Tape also comes in a variety of colours, greatly increasing its applications to everything from fixing clothing (yes, I did close a rip in an old jacket  with The Tape one time) to holding the international space station together.

Is there no end to the marvels of the shiny wonder.

But even though there are more uses for The Tape than there are corrupt politicians, my wife still mocks one of man's greatest achievements.

I know, I don't understand it either. She just does not see the value of this invaluable aid to humanity.

Despite witnessing first-hand the prowess of The Tape, still she mocks.

Without The Tape, a return trip from Saskatoon would have been a disaster. It was in the spring and we had a van load of six people and enough luggage to trek across the Andes and back crammed into every nook and cranny the silver Mazda had.

I even put on a roof-top carrier because the teenage girl we were bringing back from Toon Town had as much luggage as the rest of us combined. She had a make-up box that was just slightly smaller than a pool table. Why she needed that much face goop is beyond me.

Anyway, we were heading down the No. 1 with a blistering wind crossing the road. The air was moving at approximately 3,000 km/h and the dust was so thick in spots it was a near, um, brown out I guess you would call it.

A big rig passed in the other direction and nearly ripped the lid off of the car top carrier. I remember looking in the rearview mirror and seeing all these bags of stuff bouncing down the road. It did not fully register those were our bags until I spotted one of my daughter's dollys in a green dress skip across the asphalt.

I laid on the breaks, pulled over and ran back to collect everything. We did not lose anything, but we still had hundreds of kilometres to drive with a car top carrier that had seen better times.

What to do, what to do? I only had to think for a few seconds before the answer became clear.

The Tape.

I grabbed a role of the silver-coloured saviour and wrapped it around the front of the carrier, thus sealing it from blowing open, thus saving the trip and the world, thus once again proving it is an invaluable addition to the human race.

Viva la Tape.

That was many years ago. The Missus still mocks, but for at least a few hours on that fateful day, The Tape rule supreme and even the little woman had to admit The Tape was a darned fine invention.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

There's hot and then there's summer heat

I used to love the heat.

When I was a young lad and had a head full of hair and a stomach full of muscles, it could not get too hot.

Now that I am at a stage in life where my hair has fallen out and my ab muscles have been replaced with a layer of ab flab, my summer attitude has changed as well.

Growing up, scorching hot summers were just a way of life. It happened every year and as far as I was concerned, the hotter the better.

I can remember running around pretty much the entire summer in shorts and no shirt. No one worried about nasty things like UV rays and getting too much sun, we just worried about having as much fun in the sun as we could.

Sunscreen was used occasionally, but in no time it had all been sweated away. Nowadays, you can't even look out a window without slathering on SPF 10w30 suntan lotion. The stuff is so thick if you jump in a lake with it on, the oil slick looks like the Exxon Valdeze passed by.

We would go from backyard pool to backyard pool – without sunscreen – for days on end. It was a little swarm of young boys in swimming trunks descending upon a home where the noise level would go up and the amount of Kool Aid would go down.

Ahhh, Kool Aid, what kid did not drink gallons of Kool Aid in the heat of a summer's day? Red, orange, blue – it all tasted the same, but we didn't care – it was Kool Aid.

Anyway, my love affair with the sun carried on for years. All through my teen years and well into my 20s I adored the sun and the heat it brought with it.

But gradually, things began to change.

I found myself less enamoured with the sun and the blazing rays of warmth it drenched my part of the world with.

At first, it was no more than noticing how hot it was that particular day. Over the years, it progressed from noticing how hot it was to complaining about how hot it was, to full-fledged whining about how hot it was.

By the time the real heat of July and August hit, I found myself to be a complete and total heat-wave wimp.

“It's too hot. Why is it so hot? It doesn't need to be this hot. Anything over 28C is unnecessary and is just Mother Nature showing off. 'Oooo, I'm Mother Nature, look how hot I can make it.'”

The older I get, the less I like the blast furnace that is summer in this region. Of course the older I get, the larger I get as well.

My body is substantially more enhanced than it was back in the good ol' days and I am sure that has a lot to do with my lack of joy over the rising mercury.

I find these days I look like a decorative water fountain in the heat, with sweat spewing water out of my pores in every direction.

I know, not a pretty picture, especially when I exercise in the summer months. I look like I went swimming with my clothes on after just a few minutes on the treadmill.

My new-found aversion to heat makes me really appreciate a loving and caring God who gave someone the idea to invent air conditioning.

So if you need me, I will be sitting in my air-conditioned basement, complaining about how hot it is outside and longing for the days of my youth.

Shirt shopping seriously sucks

It was supposed to be a simple task.

Run to the local store, buy a couple of new shirts for work, come home, put one on, go to work.

How simple is that?
Not that simple actually.

I quickly learned the world is not geared to someone of my physical stature.

The problem is I am an XXL human living in a M world.

At 6'4” and almost 260 pounds I am pretty far from average size and it would seem the world is only interested in providing attire for those of regular frame and girth.

I am neither.

My quest began a few weeks ago and led me to just about every store on the city that sells men's clothing.

I went to one clothing store that had roughly 27 million medium-sized shirts and one – yes, only one – shirt that would fit me.

I am not really a lime-green-with-yellow-flowers kind of guy so I did not even get that one.

I can see why it was in the discount section and probably will be for many months to come.

The story was played out time and again as I went to store after store in my noble quest to look good on the job.

I did find three shirts that would fit me at a high-end store, but I would chew tinfoil before I would pay $90 for a single shirt. Sure it was a nice shirt, but it was not that nice.

I have spent less than that on a shirt, pants, socks and dinner after shopping.

Having failed finding what I need locally, I went online to see what I could find and did not meet with much better results.

There were some shirts in my size, but they all were in a style called 'slim fit.'

OK, let's review: if I am looking for an XXL shirt, odds are I am not slim.

It was explained to me the slim fit look was for people with broad shoulders and narrow waist who want to show off their physique.

How many people out there match that description? Probably a lot less than would match how I look.

I have broad shoulders, but my waist is far from narrow. I am not exactly a big tub of goo, but I am not svelte like I was back in the younger days either, so a slim fit amounts to me looking like a sausage rolled into a piece of cloth.

Not the look I was hoping for.

There were a few in the 'classic fit' (see out of shape fit) but it appears many clothing chains think large people have no sense of fashion because those were some of the ugliest shirts I have ever seen.

I guess the obvious solution is to lose weight – which I have been doing, but I am sure most people will agree weight goes up like a rocket and comes down like a helium balloon.

So, until I drop the 20 or so pounds needed to don a slim-fit shirt, I am left with the task of finding attire that will fit my larger-than-average frame.

It took a while, but I did finally find a couple shirts that I feel comfortable in and do not make me look like a fashion reject.

And on a side note, could someone please explain to me how one XXL shirt can be so much smaller than another XXL shirt? Who does the measuring and how did they get the job in the first place?

I have run into the same problem with pants, shoes and socks.

Anyway, I have completed my quest, have two new shirts and am ready for work.

I will likely need a couple more shirts in a few years, better start looking now.