By DARREN HANDSCHUH
Waking up for another fulfilling day at work, I noticed it was quite cold in the house.Having lived in a sunny part of the world for the past 18 years, I am particularly sensitive to such atrocities and thought it must have been really cold outside, which would have been strange because it was only the first week of November.Looking out the window it didn't seem that cold, but it was sure cool in the family homestead.My wife, who was just returning from her morning exercise class, noticed it as well, so we began to explore the situation.Within seconds my sixth sense kicked in and I came to the brilliant conclusion that the furnace was not working.Had it been operating in its usual manner, there would have been this big whooshing sound when it got below a certain temperature because all furnaces make that whooshing sound moments before the sweet, soothing heat of a burning non-renewable resource fills the house.The whooshing sound was absent so that meant the heat was absent and that meant my toes were cold and I don't like having cold toes (really, who does?).I drew upon all of the expertise I had collected over the years when it came to furnace repair and set off to fix the problem, thus saving my family from having to endure the hardship of living in a home that was a little cooler than we would have preferred.First, I approached the thermostat. I stared at it for a second to evaluate the situation before gently tapping on the wall-mounted contraption.It didn't work, so I moved on to plan B: I moved the little lever thingy back and forth a few times thinking that might get things going, but still the gas-sucking giver of warmth in the basement refused to play along.Having exhausted my knowledge of thermostat maintenance and repair, I headed downstairs to check on the furnace itself. I knelt down to check the pilot light.Seeing it was burning away, I had officially reached the end of my ability to get a furnace to go whoosh and make heat.All the while, dollar signs were not really dancing through my head as much as they were smashing around like a cat trapped in a clothes dryer.I just knew it would be a major repair. I just knew the entire furnace was shot and I just knew it was going to cost thousands of dollars to fix.I started to think of how we were going to pay for it."Well, I guess the kids don't really need to go to university. Maybe a nice correspondence course or something. Perhaps something online from Paraguay."While thoughts of having to sell a lung to help pay for the new furnace crashed through my cranium, my oldest son walked over and said, "What about that switch, dad?"On the wall near the furnace was a switch with two words written on it: off and on.I may not know a lot about furnaces, but I do know a little about the English language and I knew those words just might play a role in solving this mystery.I felt I was on the right track, especially when you consider the switch was in the 'off' position."Houston, I think we found the problem."As soon as I flipped the switch, the furnace made the whooshing sound followed by the roaring sound that means heat is on the way.It was like the serenade of the first bird of spring as it sits in a tree while I sit on the deck sipping iced tea and marvelling at the wonders around me.I breathed a sigh of relief, but I kept the Paraguayan education system idea stored away for future reference, because you never know.My next question was, "If we have already used the furnace this year, how did it get switched off?"Seeing as it was Junior who brought the switch to my attention in the first place, I was pretty sure I had found the answer.His explanation was less than stellar."Well, um, I, aaaah, you see…."It turns out Junior was carrying a strip of plywood down the hall when he somehow hit the switch and accidentally turned it off, thus plunging our home into a marginally uncomfortable temperature zone.We all learned a lesson that day.I learned that I know absolutely nothing about furnace repair, my wife learned, well, basically, that I know absolutely nothing about furnace repair and Junior learned to watch out for rogue wall switches (and that his dad knows absolutely nothing about furnace repair.)
shoenews@shaw.ca
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
From the D'uh files
BY DARREN HANDSCHUH
You have to wonder about the wisdom of people some times.
Making headlines recently is the duck genocide at an oil sands facility where some 500 water fowl were killed in a gooey lake of death.
People are up in arms about the poor beaked beasts and the icky death they endured, as well they should be. The mallard holocaust even made CNN.
The mantra of environmentalists was save the creatures and blast the company for the damage it was doing to the environment and how evil and dangerous the corporate suits are as they sit in their ivory tower and count money while innocent ducks get sucked into the black ponds of doom.
So, in an effort to save face, the corporate executives came up with the touching move of flying three ducks to a rehab centre aboard the company jet.
We are talking about three whole ducks here. That should polish their image in light of the hundreds that have died. Good job.
Correct me if I am wrong, but does this not make sense to anyone else out there? How much pollution was pumped into the air from the jet in what amounts to a PR effort to save three members of Daffy’s extended family?
Sure the ducks may survive, which is a good thing, but the temperature of the earth rose four degrees from the pollution created saving their lives.
It’s kind of like using a stick of dynamite to catch fish because you are worried about losing some fishing line in the water.
Here’s a nutty idea, why not bring the material needed to save the ducks to the ducks?
What a plan. Instead of flying a few feathered friends first class to the rehab centre, maybe bring the rehab centre to the ducks.
Another item from the ‘You-have-got-to-be-kidding-me’ file is one of a lady holding a fundraiser to help her ailing pooch.
Apparently Fido has some sort of eye dilemma going on and the worried owner is holding a party at a night club to raise money for a medical procedure.
The hound has two problems actually: a growth coming out of his eye and his teeth need to be fixed because he chews rocks.
It sounds like this dog went to ‘special’ obedience school.
I know dogs are not the smartest creatures on the planet, and I admit I had a canine that bit a few rocks as a puppy (he soon got over it and his teeth were fine), but I find this scenario a little odd to say the least.
It’s going to cost $1,400 to have the dog repaired. I am an animal lover and have had pets my entire life, including several dogs, so I know how much you come to care about them, but at $1,400 Bowser may just have to live with the deficiencies and cut back on the rock consumption. There was no mention the dog’s life was in peril, so perhaps a re-evaluation of priorities is needed.
I know it’s easy for me to say because it is not my dog, but that is a lot of money to spend on something that licks its own butt.
“I’m sorry kids, we were going to take Fido in and get him looked after, except last night he ran away.”
But I have to admit, the silly beasts do become part of the family, so I can appreciate the effort made to repair said animal. The organizer even lined up a variety of door prizes and the entire event will, of course, have a dog theme.
No word if fire hydrants are going to replace urinals in the men’s room and I hope no one decides to mark their territory in the canine sense because that would get kind of messy to say the least.
According to the pet owner, admission is by donation as long as the donation is $5 minimum. In other words, “Gimme five bucks and you can enjoy a sense of satisfaction by helping a dog so he is not laughed at by other dogs.”
We all know how cruel animals can be.
“Hey, Fido, what are ya gonna do? Gum me to death? Oooh, your flat teeth are so scary.”
And that is just from the cats in the neighbourhood. The dogs would be even less understanding.
Any cash raised over and above the money needed to provide the hound with the required plastic surgery and dentures will be donated to the SPCA, a noble cause indeed.
The fundraiser scheme got me thinking (which is generally not a good thing.)
If the fix-my-dog cash generator plan works, maybe other personal fundraisers could be held.
I would like to have a buy-Darren-a-new-motorcycle fundraiser, where people would get together and donate money for me to purchase a new machine.
Any money left over would go towards purchasing a more expensive motorcycle.
Not quite as noble a cause as saving Bowser from a lifetime of having a gimpy eye and being able to eat only pureed food, but a motorcycle can become like a member of the family and…I know, I know no one is buying this in the least.
OK, so maybe a fundraiser for a personal toy won’t work, but if anyone wants to send me some money anyway, I would let them.
shoenews@shaw.ca
You have to wonder about the wisdom of people some times.
Making headlines recently is the duck genocide at an oil sands facility where some 500 water fowl were killed in a gooey lake of death.
People are up in arms about the poor beaked beasts and the icky death they endured, as well they should be. The mallard holocaust even made CNN.
The mantra of environmentalists was save the creatures and blast the company for the damage it was doing to the environment and how evil and dangerous the corporate suits are as they sit in their ivory tower and count money while innocent ducks get sucked into the black ponds of doom.
So, in an effort to save face, the corporate executives came up with the touching move of flying three ducks to a rehab centre aboard the company jet.
We are talking about three whole ducks here. That should polish their image in light of the hundreds that have died. Good job.
Correct me if I am wrong, but does this not make sense to anyone else out there? How much pollution was pumped into the air from the jet in what amounts to a PR effort to save three members of Daffy’s extended family?
Sure the ducks may survive, which is a good thing, but the temperature of the earth rose four degrees from the pollution created saving their lives.
It’s kind of like using a stick of dynamite to catch fish because you are worried about losing some fishing line in the water.
Here’s a nutty idea, why not bring the material needed to save the ducks to the ducks?
What a plan. Instead of flying a few feathered friends first class to the rehab centre, maybe bring the rehab centre to the ducks.
Another item from the ‘You-have-got-to-be-kidding-me’ file is one of a lady holding a fundraiser to help her ailing pooch.
Apparently Fido has some sort of eye dilemma going on and the worried owner is holding a party at a night club to raise money for a medical procedure.
The hound has two problems actually: a growth coming out of his eye and his teeth need to be fixed because he chews rocks.
It sounds like this dog went to ‘special’ obedience school.
I know dogs are not the smartest creatures on the planet, and I admit I had a canine that bit a few rocks as a puppy (he soon got over it and his teeth were fine), but I find this scenario a little odd to say the least.
It’s going to cost $1,400 to have the dog repaired. I am an animal lover and have had pets my entire life, including several dogs, so I know how much you come to care about them, but at $1,400 Bowser may just have to live with the deficiencies and cut back on the rock consumption. There was no mention the dog’s life was in peril, so perhaps a re-evaluation of priorities is needed.
I know it’s easy for me to say because it is not my dog, but that is a lot of money to spend on something that licks its own butt.
“I’m sorry kids, we were going to take Fido in and get him looked after, except last night he ran away.”
But I have to admit, the silly beasts do become part of the family, so I can appreciate the effort made to repair said animal. The organizer even lined up a variety of door prizes and the entire event will, of course, have a dog theme.
No word if fire hydrants are going to replace urinals in the men’s room and I hope no one decides to mark their territory in the canine sense because that would get kind of messy to say the least.
According to the pet owner, admission is by donation as long as the donation is $5 minimum. In other words, “Gimme five bucks and you can enjoy a sense of satisfaction by helping a dog so he is not laughed at by other dogs.”
We all know how cruel animals can be.
“Hey, Fido, what are ya gonna do? Gum me to death? Oooh, your flat teeth are so scary.”
And that is just from the cats in the neighbourhood. The dogs would be even less understanding.
Any cash raised over and above the money needed to provide the hound with the required plastic surgery and dentures will be donated to the SPCA, a noble cause indeed.
The fundraiser scheme got me thinking (which is generally not a good thing.)
If the fix-my-dog cash generator plan works, maybe other personal fundraisers could be held.
I would like to have a buy-Darren-a-new-motorcycle fundraiser, where people would get together and donate money for me to purchase a new machine.
Any money left over would go towards purchasing a more expensive motorcycle.
Not quite as noble a cause as saving Bowser from a lifetime of having a gimpy eye and being able to eat only pureed food, but a motorcycle can become like a member of the family and…I know, I know no one is buying this in the least.
OK, so maybe a fundraiser for a personal toy won’t work, but if anyone wants to send me some money anyway, I would let them.
shoenews@shaw.ca
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Bears have the right of way
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
I saw a story recently where wildlife officials were warning the motoring public to be cautious of bears.
Do we really need an official warning for that? When you drive the mountain roads and highways of B.C., shouldn’t you watch for bears all of the time?
It’s not like when you hit a gopher or something. With a gopher there’s a small thump and another groundhog is off to rodent heaven.
Hitting a 500-pound black bear would be a little more traumatic to you and your car.
I have never hit a bear in a car before. However, having lived my entire life in B.C., I have had vehicular interaction with a variety of other animals.
I have hit the aforementioned gopher in the past, as well as a squirrel, a couple of coyotes, a deer and I even had a seagull fly into the grill of my car once.
Now, this creature has the ability to fly and can soar through the heavens at will. Instead, this one decided it was much better to fly two-feet off the ground where it had an up close and personal experience with the front bumper of my motorized carriage.
That is natural selection at its finest. Natural selection is where nature weeds out the weak, the lame, and in this case, the stupid.
The deer was not too bright either. It was in Northern B.C. a couple summers ago and this critter – which some consider nature’s cow and we all know how smart they are – was running along the side of the road.
I slowed down as I neared the beast, which is good because it made far too much sense to the deer to stay on the side of the road or even run off into the woods. Noooo, it was a much better idea to turn 90 degrees onto the road and run head first into the side of my van. That is the kind of stupid that impresses us all.
So technically, I didn’t hit the deer as much as the deer hit me. There was a little thump as it bounced off the side of my van before it altered its course and took off into the woods.
“Great plan genius. Maybe next time you could skip the whole smashing into a vehicle thing and just go straight to the running into the woods part. I’ll be seeing you during hunting season.”
I am sure he had quite a story to tell his little deer friends when he got back into the woods.
“Man, you should have seen it. There was this big, green beast with bright eyes and a hard shell. I hit that sucker as hard as I could and the last I saw of it, it was taking off down the highway knowing it messed with the wrong deer.”
The closest I have ever come to hitting a bear was when my dad and I were coming back from a fishing trip when I was a wee lad.
We were driving a little Toyota truck and we had just rounded a corner on a dirt road deep in the woods when my dad jammed on the brakes.
Standing in the middle of the road was the largest bear I had ever seen in my life. Growing up in a rural setting, I had seen quite a few bears over the years, but none were as big as this hombre.
It was the first and only time I have seen a grizzly bear in the wild, and it was one of the coolest things I have ever witnessed.
This guy was the top of the food chain and it was easy to see why.
Upon seeing the size of this thing I realized I would never have to worry about being killed by a bear, because if this one came charging at me, I would die of a heart attack long before he managed to get his massive paws on me.
The bear was casually sauntering down the middle of the road and when we pulled up behind him. He just kind of turned his head toward us with a look of, “Yeah, and what are you gonna do about it,” and kept meandering along without a care in the world.
This guy knew he was the king of the mountain and I am sure he could have totaled the truck with a single swat.
The bruin walked another 20 metres along the road before heading down a trail that led to a creek, still completely unconcerned about the presence of the tiny pink creatures in the little blue truck.
My dad and I looked at each other, both realizing we had just seen something rather magical in the majesty of such a creature, and both being happy he was not having a bad day and felt like beating up a Toyota.
Needless to say, the next time we went fishing in that area, we paid a little more attention to the shoreline in case our friend decided the fish we had caught would make a better snack for him than a meal for us.
And believe me, if he wanted the fish, he could have them. He could also have the keys to the truck, our credit cards, our fishing poles and the boat if he wanted.
Who am I to argue?
shoenews@shaw.ca
I saw a story recently where wildlife officials were warning the motoring public to be cautious of bears.
Do we really need an official warning for that? When you drive the mountain roads and highways of B.C., shouldn’t you watch for bears all of the time?
It’s not like when you hit a gopher or something. With a gopher there’s a small thump and another groundhog is off to rodent heaven.
Hitting a 500-pound black bear would be a little more traumatic to you and your car.
I have never hit a bear in a car before. However, having lived my entire life in B.C., I have had vehicular interaction with a variety of other animals.
I have hit the aforementioned gopher in the past, as well as a squirrel, a couple of coyotes, a deer and I even had a seagull fly into the grill of my car once.
Now, this creature has the ability to fly and can soar through the heavens at will. Instead, this one decided it was much better to fly two-feet off the ground where it had an up close and personal experience with the front bumper of my motorized carriage.
That is natural selection at its finest. Natural selection is where nature weeds out the weak, the lame, and in this case, the stupid.
The deer was not too bright either. It was in Northern B.C. a couple summers ago and this critter – which some consider nature’s cow and we all know how smart they are – was running along the side of the road.
I slowed down as I neared the beast, which is good because it made far too much sense to the deer to stay on the side of the road or even run off into the woods. Noooo, it was a much better idea to turn 90 degrees onto the road and run head first into the side of my van. That is the kind of stupid that impresses us all.
So technically, I didn’t hit the deer as much as the deer hit me. There was a little thump as it bounced off the side of my van before it altered its course and took off into the woods.
“Great plan genius. Maybe next time you could skip the whole smashing into a vehicle thing and just go straight to the running into the woods part. I’ll be seeing you during hunting season.”
I am sure he had quite a story to tell his little deer friends when he got back into the woods.
“Man, you should have seen it. There was this big, green beast with bright eyes and a hard shell. I hit that sucker as hard as I could and the last I saw of it, it was taking off down the highway knowing it messed with the wrong deer.”
The closest I have ever come to hitting a bear was when my dad and I were coming back from a fishing trip when I was a wee lad.
We were driving a little Toyota truck and we had just rounded a corner on a dirt road deep in the woods when my dad jammed on the brakes.
Standing in the middle of the road was the largest bear I had ever seen in my life. Growing up in a rural setting, I had seen quite a few bears over the years, but none were as big as this hombre.
It was the first and only time I have seen a grizzly bear in the wild, and it was one of the coolest things I have ever witnessed.
This guy was the top of the food chain and it was easy to see why.
Upon seeing the size of this thing I realized I would never have to worry about being killed by a bear, because if this one came charging at me, I would die of a heart attack long before he managed to get his massive paws on me.
The bear was casually sauntering down the middle of the road and when we pulled up behind him. He just kind of turned his head toward us with a look of, “Yeah, and what are you gonna do about it,” and kept meandering along without a care in the world.
This guy knew he was the king of the mountain and I am sure he could have totaled the truck with a single swat.
The bruin walked another 20 metres along the road before heading down a trail that led to a creek, still completely unconcerned about the presence of the tiny pink creatures in the little blue truck.
My dad and I looked at each other, both realizing we had just seen something rather magical in the majesty of such a creature, and both being happy he was not having a bad day and felt like beating up a Toyota.
Needless to say, the next time we went fishing in that area, we paid a little more attention to the shoreline in case our friend decided the fish we had caught would make a better snack for him than a meal for us.
And believe me, if he wanted the fish, he could have them. He could also have the keys to the truck, our credit cards, our fishing poles and the boat if he wanted.
Who am I to argue?
shoenews@shaw.ca
The joys of pregnancy
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
We visited a lot of relatives this year and many of my kin had little ones running around.
As I watched the young parents interact with their infants (ie: changing poopy diapers) I thought, “Man, am I glad that is over.”
However, it did take me back to becoming a dad for the first time and I have to admit entering into fatherhood was rather thrilling.
Parenthood is an adventure not for the weak or the lame or the overly bright.
The adventure begins at the moment of conception (which for the guy is the best part) and doesn’t end until, well, I will have to get back to you on that one.
Many years ago, some good friends of ours had become pregnant with their first child.
Accident, I mean, Lee was a bit of a surprise for them and as soon as our friend, Marcia, learned she was up the spout, she immediately wanted my wife to get pregnant so they could go through the misery, um, I mean, joy of being pregnant together.
My wife and I had agreed to wait until a certain date before we started trying to get knocked up, so we made some vague comment that we will do what we can.
Hey, it’s not my fault our friends had never heard of birth control.
The decided upon date arrived and soon it was I who was looking at the prospect of becoming a dad.
By that time, our friend was just slightly smaller than a 1967 VW Bug as she was nearing her due date.
Watching Marcia balloon up like a float in a Macy’s Day parade, I was pretty sure what was in store for my wife.
At around the eight-month mark, I jokingly said told my wife she so big she was starting to form her own atmosphere.
She jokingly threw a 14-inch butcher knife at me.
I kid, of course. I did say the atmosphere bit, but as my wife and I share the same sense of humour, she found it funny and laughed, but I have to admit it was a smother-him-with-a-pillow-while-he-sleeps sort of laugh.
For all you men out there, before making any comment about your wife when she is pregnant you must be absolutely certain she shares your humour and will find it funny.
If not, be prepared to sleep with one eye open.
And no matter what, not under torture, whippings, wedgies or merciless noogies are you ever to say, “Yes, your butt does look big.”
Her butt could be the size of an ocean-going freighter and your job as her hubby is to keep a straight face (which can be a bit of a challenge) and say, “No honey, you look just like the day we got married.”
Even if you have to grease up her hips so she can walk down the hall the answer is always, “No, baby, you can barely tell you are pregnant.”
She will likely know you are lying because there are mirrors in the house, but she will appreciate your effort to make her feel better.
For the record, I think anyone who expects their wife to maintain a slim and trim figure while she is pregnant is selfish and a moron.
When a woman is pregnant she has to eat for two, she retains water and in general her entire body has to change to accommodate the baby.
The Missus was packing on the pounds like a Kodiak getting ready for a winter slumber, but, like I said, that is what happens when one is pregnant.
Not that I have ever been pregnant. If I was that would make one helluva column, but I am the father of a trio of sproggs and I have stood by my wife as she grew a tiny human in her body three times.
My wife bonded with Junior the instant she learned she was pregnant, but it was not until I heard his heartbeat for the first time that the gravity of the situation sunk in. It was like that for all three and they are moments I will forever cherish.
No matter what a man achieves – climbing Mount Everest, building a space ship, burping the entire theme to Hockey Night In Canada – it fails to compare with a woman’s God-given ability to create an entire human being basically from scratch.
I may have received an award from work, but she made a pair of lungs. It’s kind of hard to compare the two.
Pregnancy also brought with it a complete new wardrobe full of tantalizing garments like preggo pants with the stretchy front piece, great big shirts and my personal favourite, massive granny-style undergarments.
If we were stranded on a deserted island we could have sewn three of those together to make a sail.
Yes, those days are far behind, and in a way I miss them, but not enough to wish they would return.
shoenews@shaw.ca
We visited a lot of relatives this year and many of my kin had little ones running around.
As I watched the young parents interact with their infants (ie: changing poopy diapers) I thought, “Man, am I glad that is over.”
However, it did take me back to becoming a dad for the first time and I have to admit entering into fatherhood was rather thrilling.
Parenthood is an adventure not for the weak or the lame or the overly bright.
The adventure begins at the moment of conception (which for the guy is the best part) and doesn’t end until, well, I will have to get back to you on that one.
Many years ago, some good friends of ours had become pregnant with their first child.
Accident, I mean, Lee was a bit of a surprise for them and as soon as our friend, Marcia, learned she was up the spout, she immediately wanted my wife to get pregnant so they could go through the misery, um, I mean, joy of being pregnant together.
My wife and I had agreed to wait until a certain date before we started trying to get knocked up, so we made some vague comment that we will do what we can.
Hey, it’s not my fault our friends had never heard of birth control.
The decided upon date arrived and soon it was I who was looking at the prospect of becoming a dad.
By that time, our friend was just slightly smaller than a 1967 VW Bug as she was nearing her due date.
Watching Marcia balloon up like a float in a Macy’s Day parade, I was pretty sure what was in store for my wife.
At around the eight-month mark, I jokingly said told my wife she so big she was starting to form her own atmosphere.
She jokingly threw a 14-inch butcher knife at me.
I kid, of course. I did say the atmosphere bit, but as my wife and I share the same sense of humour, she found it funny and laughed, but I have to admit it was a smother-him-with-a-pillow-while-he-sleeps sort of laugh.
For all you men out there, before making any comment about your wife when she is pregnant you must be absolutely certain she shares your humour and will find it funny.
If not, be prepared to sleep with one eye open.
And no matter what, not under torture, whippings, wedgies or merciless noogies are you ever to say, “Yes, your butt does look big.”
Her butt could be the size of an ocean-going freighter and your job as her hubby is to keep a straight face (which can be a bit of a challenge) and say, “No honey, you look just like the day we got married.”
Even if you have to grease up her hips so she can walk down the hall the answer is always, “No, baby, you can barely tell you are pregnant.”
She will likely know you are lying because there are mirrors in the house, but she will appreciate your effort to make her feel better.
For the record, I think anyone who expects their wife to maintain a slim and trim figure while she is pregnant is selfish and a moron.
When a woman is pregnant she has to eat for two, she retains water and in general her entire body has to change to accommodate the baby.
The Missus was packing on the pounds like a Kodiak getting ready for a winter slumber, but, like I said, that is what happens when one is pregnant.
Not that I have ever been pregnant. If I was that would make one helluva column, but I am the father of a trio of sproggs and I have stood by my wife as she grew a tiny human in her body three times.
My wife bonded with Junior the instant she learned she was pregnant, but it was not until I heard his heartbeat for the first time that the gravity of the situation sunk in. It was like that for all three and they are moments I will forever cherish.
No matter what a man achieves – climbing Mount Everest, building a space ship, burping the entire theme to Hockey Night In Canada – it fails to compare with a woman’s God-given ability to create an entire human being basically from scratch.
I may have received an award from work, but she made a pair of lungs. It’s kind of hard to compare the two.
Pregnancy also brought with it a complete new wardrobe full of tantalizing garments like preggo pants with the stretchy front piece, great big shirts and my personal favourite, massive granny-style undergarments.
If we were stranded on a deserted island we could have sewn three of those together to make a sail.
Yes, those days are far behind, and in a way I miss them, but not enough to wish they would return.
shoenews@shaw.ca
Monday, March 16, 2009
Young luv is weird
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
As I watch my children get older, I harken back to the days of my youth and think, “Am I ever glad that is over.”
I remember that transitional stage of life when I went from being a kid to a young man and all the confusion that came with it.
The biggest area of confusion revolved around members of the female persuasion.
I can remember the actual moment girls became girls in a much more significant manner.
It was near the end summer holidays going into Grade 8 and I saw a girl from school who had always been a Tomboy.
She was one of the best athletes in the school and her nickname was Sam, which was an abbreviation of her last name.
I had known her since Grade 2 and never thought of her as anything more than one of the first picks when choosing a team.
But seeing her at the mall a few days before school started again, she went from being Sam to being Shelly.
Anyone standing close by may have heard a barely audible ‘ping’ as my brain switched from ‘Girls are icky’ to ‘Helloooo ladies.’
From that point on girls took on a whole new meaning.
The problem was communicating those new-found feelings. It is no secret that young men are not the greatest communicators in the world.
Actually, many fully grown men have a hard time communicating which might explain the never ending series of wars.
While girls could most often express their feelings verbally and with insight, guys would likely just mumble something before pushing the girl in the shoulder.
Nothing says “I like you” like smacking someone on the arm.
The way a young man communicated with a young girl was also dependent on the environment.
If it was winter and a young lad was smitten with a young lass, there was a good chance the lass was going to end up face first in the snow or clobbered by a snow ball as the young lad attempts to express his feelings.
Not possessing the words to say how he feels, the young man decides hurling a ball of compressed ice particles at the fair maiden will get the message across without the need for verbal interaction.
When he gets older, he figures out intelligent banter is a much more effective way of getting a girl’s attention.
Mind you, pushing someone in a snow bank does get their attention, but usually not in a positive way.
Girls have a much different – and more civilized – approach to the opposite gender. The girl will try to engage the young man in conversation, or maybe try to help him with his school work or something as a way of spending time with him on a meaningful and intellectual level.
For the guy, in the winter anyway, young love is expressed with projectiles of the snow variety.
In the non-winter months other methods of communication must be devised. In elementary school, chasing a girl with a snake that was found in the tall grass was one way of saying, “You’re kind of cool.”
At that age, the young Romeo may not know why he feels this way, but for some reason he feels the need to scare a particular girl.
If a snake could not be found then a bug, worm or other objects could be used. They just had to be scary or gross, because as every young man knows, a young girl will like you if you frighten them or make them feel nauseous.
As they head into the teen years, snakes and other such critters are replaced by more mature forms of communication.
For example, young men will try to impress the girls with their video-playing skills. He is sure she will be amazed at his ability to get Scooter to level nine without stopping even once.
He will spend hours and hours impressing his love interest, who, no doubt, will sit in absolute awe of what a big, strong man he is because he can defeat the ice dragon before it melts his suit of armor.
Guys will also try to impress the opposite sex with acts fuelled by testosterone.
In the animal world, gorillas beat their chest and jump around to show how big and strong they are, while in the human world, um, well, actually it’s not that different.
They may not actually thump their chests, but teenage boys will find a plethora of other ways to strut their stuff.
Thank God for sports, or teenage boys would be walking around with sore chests and girls would be wondering what they are doing.
shoenews@shaw.ca
As I watch my children get older, I harken back to the days of my youth and think, “Am I ever glad that is over.”
I remember that transitional stage of life when I went from being a kid to a young man and all the confusion that came with it.
The biggest area of confusion revolved around members of the female persuasion.
I can remember the actual moment girls became girls in a much more significant manner.
It was near the end summer holidays going into Grade 8 and I saw a girl from school who had always been a Tomboy.
She was one of the best athletes in the school and her nickname was Sam, which was an abbreviation of her last name.
I had known her since Grade 2 and never thought of her as anything more than one of the first picks when choosing a team.
But seeing her at the mall a few days before school started again, she went from being Sam to being Shelly.
Anyone standing close by may have heard a barely audible ‘ping’ as my brain switched from ‘Girls are icky’ to ‘Helloooo ladies.’
From that point on girls took on a whole new meaning.
The problem was communicating those new-found feelings. It is no secret that young men are not the greatest communicators in the world.
Actually, many fully grown men have a hard time communicating which might explain the never ending series of wars.
While girls could most often express their feelings verbally and with insight, guys would likely just mumble something before pushing the girl in the shoulder.
Nothing says “I like you” like smacking someone on the arm.
The way a young man communicated with a young girl was also dependent on the environment.
If it was winter and a young lad was smitten with a young lass, there was a good chance the lass was going to end up face first in the snow or clobbered by a snow ball as the young lad attempts to express his feelings.
Not possessing the words to say how he feels, the young man decides hurling a ball of compressed ice particles at the fair maiden will get the message across without the need for verbal interaction.
When he gets older, he figures out intelligent banter is a much more effective way of getting a girl’s attention.
Mind you, pushing someone in a snow bank does get their attention, but usually not in a positive way.
Girls have a much different – and more civilized – approach to the opposite gender. The girl will try to engage the young man in conversation, or maybe try to help him with his school work or something as a way of spending time with him on a meaningful and intellectual level.
For the guy, in the winter anyway, young love is expressed with projectiles of the snow variety.
In the non-winter months other methods of communication must be devised. In elementary school, chasing a girl with a snake that was found in the tall grass was one way of saying, “You’re kind of cool.”
At that age, the young Romeo may not know why he feels this way, but for some reason he feels the need to scare a particular girl.
If a snake could not be found then a bug, worm or other objects could be used. They just had to be scary or gross, because as every young man knows, a young girl will like you if you frighten them or make them feel nauseous.
As they head into the teen years, snakes and other such critters are replaced by more mature forms of communication.
For example, young men will try to impress the girls with their video-playing skills. He is sure she will be amazed at his ability to get Scooter to level nine without stopping even once.
He will spend hours and hours impressing his love interest, who, no doubt, will sit in absolute awe of what a big, strong man he is because he can defeat the ice dragon before it melts his suit of armor.
Guys will also try to impress the opposite sex with acts fuelled by testosterone.
In the animal world, gorillas beat their chest and jump around to show how big and strong they are, while in the human world, um, well, actually it’s not that different.
They may not actually thump their chests, but teenage boys will find a plethora of other ways to strut their stuff.
Thank God for sports, or teenage boys would be walking around with sore chests and girls would be wondering what they are doing.
shoenews@shaw.ca
Costly kitty
I came home from work the other day to find my son’s cat stoned out of his mind.
It’s not because he was running with the wrong crowd or anything, but because he just had some minor surgery.
A few days prior, something had bit him on the butt, just to the side of his tail on his haunches. I guess that’s what that area of a cat is called anyway. What do I know about animal anatomy, so to make my life easier I will refer to it as his butt.
Anyway, he came sauntering into the house one day with a cut on his butt and he would express his displeasure anytime someone would pet him and touch the affected area.
We decided we had better take the critter to the vet who informed us the wound had abscessed and he was in need of a medical procedure.
In other words, “Your cat is going to help pay for my vacation to Mexico.”
The vet figured it was a bite of some sort, which we suspected ourselves because it did not look like a scratch from a catfight.
It was likely a dog, but if you ask Gilbert the Wonder Cat, he would probably say it was a 900-pound grizzly bear, or a pack of coyotes or something.
I can just see him talking to his little cat friends.
“So there I was, my back to the fence staring down 12 mangy, flea-infested coyotes. The first one lunged and I took him out with one swing. I managed to lay a whoopin’ on 11 of the filthy dogs before No. 12 snuck up from behind and bit me on the butt. But don’t worry, I know what he looks like and one day, revenge shall be mine.”
Either way, something took a small chunk out of his hindquarters.
My wife called me at work and told of the woes of Gilbert and what needed to be done and when I walked in the door after work the first thing I saw was Junior’s cat with a white cone around his neck, a shaved butt and 10 stitches.
That’s more stitches than even I have had at once. The most stitches I have ever received at one time is seven. That was in my pinky finger when I accidentally chopped it a little bit with a hedge trimmer, but the story of attacking yard maintenance equipment is to be told another day.
Because of the surgery, Gilbert had to be knocked out and was still rather buzzed at the end of the day.
When I came home, he was sitting in a half-crouch looking at the floor. He was just sitting and staring.
I could almost hear him singing, “Lucy in the skyyyy with diiiaaaamonds.”
He would look at his paw and go, “Wow man, that is like my paw. My claws go out, my claws go in, that is soooo cool.”
He would walk around for a few seconds in a half crouch before stopping to stare at the floor some more. He spent a good 15 minutes looking at a toy that was left lying on the ground.
Maybe he was trying to communicate with it, who knows.
Once the drugs began to wear off, the cone started to become an irritant. He tried to shake his head until it came off, but soon realized it was futile.
That does not mean he was pleased with his new fashion accessory and he made some unique meowing noises that I can only assume is a cat version of swearing.
Along with the stitches and the bald patch on his butt where the vet had to shave him, was a small rubber tube.
I looked at the tube for a second and asked my wife, who is a nurse, what the tube thing was for.
“Oh, he needs that to drain the abscess,” was her matter-of-fact reply.
“Wait. Stop. Hold it. Whoa. Whoa. Whooooaaaaa. Did you just say it was to drain the abscess?”
“Yes, the abscess has to drain so it will heal properly.”
“OK, let me get this straight. This fur ball is going to be walking around the house draining abscess goop all over my home. That is disgusting.”
I had visions of him walking across the floor and it looking like a giant snail had just crossed the room.
My medically knowledgeable wife explained there would not be very much drainage and that the tube had to be cleaned daily.
That is definitely a medical procedure and seeing as how she is trained medical personnel…
I can barely handle looking at the tube sticking out of him, so the odds of me being able to clean it are pretty slim to say the least.
“It doesn’t bother me at all,” said the missus before going into one of her medical stories that make me queasy just to think about.
“There was this one guy who had nine drain tubes in his abdomen and he…”
At this point in our conversation I stuck my fingers in my ears and said “la-la-la-la” until she got the idea and stopped talking about it.
Gilbert will get the drain taken out in about a week, but the stitches have to be in for two weeks, which means he has to wear the cone for another 10 days or so and he is not allowed outside until the stitches come out.
Mind you looking the way he does that is probably for the best because cats can be cruel and they would all just point and laugh.
shoenews@shaw.ca
It’s not because he was running with the wrong crowd or anything, but because he just had some minor surgery.
A few days prior, something had bit him on the butt, just to the side of his tail on his haunches. I guess that’s what that area of a cat is called anyway. What do I know about animal anatomy, so to make my life easier I will refer to it as his butt.
Anyway, he came sauntering into the house one day with a cut on his butt and he would express his displeasure anytime someone would pet him and touch the affected area.
We decided we had better take the critter to the vet who informed us the wound had abscessed and he was in need of a medical procedure.
In other words, “Your cat is going to help pay for my vacation to Mexico.”
The vet figured it was a bite of some sort, which we suspected ourselves because it did not look like a scratch from a catfight.
It was likely a dog, but if you ask Gilbert the Wonder Cat, he would probably say it was a 900-pound grizzly bear, or a pack of coyotes or something.
I can just see him talking to his little cat friends.
“So there I was, my back to the fence staring down 12 mangy, flea-infested coyotes. The first one lunged and I took him out with one swing. I managed to lay a whoopin’ on 11 of the filthy dogs before No. 12 snuck up from behind and bit me on the butt. But don’t worry, I know what he looks like and one day, revenge shall be mine.”
Either way, something took a small chunk out of his hindquarters.
My wife called me at work and told of the woes of Gilbert and what needed to be done and when I walked in the door after work the first thing I saw was Junior’s cat with a white cone around his neck, a shaved butt and 10 stitches.
That’s more stitches than even I have had at once. The most stitches I have ever received at one time is seven. That was in my pinky finger when I accidentally chopped it a little bit with a hedge trimmer, but the story of attacking yard maintenance equipment is to be told another day.
Because of the surgery, Gilbert had to be knocked out and was still rather buzzed at the end of the day.
When I came home, he was sitting in a half-crouch looking at the floor. He was just sitting and staring.
I could almost hear him singing, “Lucy in the skyyyy with diiiaaaamonds.”
He would look at his paw and go, “Wow man, that is like my paw. My claws go out, my claws go in, that is soooo cool.”
He would walk around for a few seconds in a half crouch before stopping to stare at the floor some more. He spent a good 15 minutes looking at a toy that was left lying on the ground.
Maybe he was trying to communicate with it, who knows.
Once the drugs began to wear off, the cone started to become an irritant. He tried to shake his head until it came off, but soon realized it was futile.
That does not mean he was pleased with his new fashion accessory and he made some unique meowing noises that I can only assume is a cat version of swearing.
Along with the stitches and the bald patch on his butt where the vet had to shave him, was a small rubber tube.
I looked at the tube for a second and asked my wife, who is a nurse, what the tube thing was for.
“Oh, he needs that to drain the abscess,” was her matter-of-fact reply.
“Wait. Stop. Hold it. Whoa. Whoa. Whooooaaaaa. Did you just say it was to drain the abscess?”
“Yes, the abscess has to drain so it will heal properly.”
“OK, let me get this straight. This fur ball is going to be walking around the house draining abscess goop all over my home. That is disgusting.”
I had visions of him walking across the floor and it looking like a giant snail had just crossed the room.
My medically knowledgeable wife explained there would not be very much drainage and that the tube had to be cleaned daily.
That is definitely a medical procedure and seeing as how she is trained medical personnel…
I can barely handle looking at the tube sticking out of him, so the odds of me being able to clean it are pretty slim to say the least.
“It doesn’t bother me at all,” said the missus before going into one of her medical stories that make me queasy just to think about.
“There was this one guy who had nine drain tubes in his abdomen and he…”
At this point in our conversation I stuck my fingers in my ears and said “la-la-la-la” until she got the idea and stopped talking about it.
Gilbert will get the drain taken out in about a week, but the stitches have to be in for two weeks, which means he has to wear the cone for another 10 days or so and he is not allowed outside until the stitches come out.
Mind you looking the way he does that is probably for the best because cats can be cruel and they would all just point and laugh.
shoenews@shaw.ca
Friday, March 13, 2009
Bald is best, baby
So what is the big deal about hair loss?
What’s wrong with showing a little scalp?
As you may have guessed I am of the forehead enhanced group and I don’t have a problem with it.
But some people do. They arrange their hair in goofy configurations – known throughout the land as a comb over – to cover their shame.
There are advertisements for laser hair therapy, or LHT for those in the know, and a whole truck load of ways to make the locks last longer.
There are even clubs for bald guys who wish they were hair guys.
I don’t get it.
Like with so many other woes of society – such as every movie Pauly Shore has ever made – Hollywood is to blame.
You will notice there are no bald people in the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy.
More than 200 hours worth of movie and there is barely a scalp to be seen in all of Middle Earth. Oh sure, there is one bald Hobbit in the opening and closing scenes, but that’s it.
Other than that, the only ones without hair are the Orcs.
Is Hollywood saying losing your hair is akin to being some hideous creature with bad teeth and a skin condition that really should be looked at?
What if Frodo was bald? Or Legolas? Would that be so bad?
Instead, the main characters have more hair than a 1980s rock band.
The monstrous ‘90s hit “Jurassic Park” did have a few hair-challenged characters, but they were all eaten by dinosaurs.
The balding lawyer was the first to go – chomped by a T Rex.
The balding computer technician played by Samuel L. Jackson was also a dino pate when he was set upon by a flock of velociraptors which obviously preferred a hairless meal because they also ate the balding big game hunter.
So who survived? People with hair, that’s who. All the heroes with their lovely locks lived to be part of the sequel.
So once again Hollywood is screwing the bald man.
Do people with hair know how tough it is to be bald? Do they appreciate the hell we must endure on a rainy day and we don’t have a hat?
Do they know what it’s like to feel that great, big freezing drop of water fall from the eves of a building and land with a smack on an uncovered cranium?
No, they don’t because they have a little helmet of hair between them and that Volkswagon-size drop of water acting like a personal ozone layer.
On TV it’s the same story. People with hair are running around being the hero and saving the damsel in distress while the bald guy waits in the wings and is treated like the drunk uncle nobody talks about.
“OK. The script says it’s time for someone to get killed, quick, send in the bald guy.”
And the bald guy shows up just in time to get munched on by a dinosaur with an eating disorder or to get splatted by a falling piano.
There are a few exceptions to the rule. Take Bruce Willis for example.
True, he may have started his career with hair, but he is now one of us – a brother of the scalp. Fortunately shaving your head bald is en vogue so he can get away with it.
The trend of shaving one’s head is proof that deep down inside, hair people want to be bald people.
Ron Howard is bald, but he always wears a hat – obviously he has not come to terms with his condition. Accept it Ron, you are a bald man.
But the ratio of bald actors to hairy ones remains seriously lopsided. It’s an attempt by Hollywood to keep the bald man down.
It’s like Hollywood is terrified some sort of weird hair leprosy will strike them down if they associate with the follicle-diminished.
So it’s time for baldies to unite. Stand tall and stand proud. And when one of the hair people come close, reflect the sun off your forehead and blind them.
It won’t give you any more hair, but you might feel better knowing you have just fried their retinas.
shoenews@shaw.ca
What’s wrong with showing a little scalp?
As you may have guessed I am of the forehead enhanced group and I don’t have a problem with it.
But some people do. They arrange their hair in goofy configurations – known throughout the land as a comb over – to cover their shame.
There are advertisements for laser hair therapy, or LHT for those in the know, and a whole truck load of ways to make the locks last longer.
There are even clubs for bald guys who wish they were hair guys.
I don’t get it.
Like with so many other woes of society – such as every movie Pauly Shore has ever made – Hollywood is to blame.
You will notice there are no bald people in the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy.
More than 200 hours worth of movie and there is barely a scalp to be seen in all of Middle Earth. Oh sure, there is one bald Hobbit in the opening and closing scenes, but that’s it.
Other than that, the only ones without hair are the Orcs.
Is Hollywood saying losing your hair is akin to being some hideous creature with bad teeth and a skin condition that really should be looked at?
What if Frodo was bald? Or Legolas? Would that be so bad?
Instead, the main characters have more hair than a 1980s rock band.
The monstrous ‘90s hit “Jurassic Park” did have a few hair-challenged characters, but they were all eaten by dinosaurs.
The balding lawyer was the first to go – chomped by a T Rex.
The balding computer technician played by Samuel L. Jackson was also a dino pate when he was set upon by a flock of velociraptors which obviously preferred a hairless meal because they also ate the balding big game hunter.
So who survived? People with hair, that’s who. All the heroes with their lovely locks lived to be part of the sequel.
So once again Hollywood is screwing the bald man.
Do people with hair know how tough it is to be bald? Do they appreciate the hell we must endure on a rainy day and we don’t have a hat?
Do they know what it’s like to feel that great, big freezing drop of water fall from the eves of a building and land with a smack on an uncovered cranium?
No, they don’t because they have a little helmet of hair between them and that Volkswagon-size drop of water acting like a personal ozone layer.
On TV it’s the same story. People with hair are running around being the hero and saving the damsel in distress while the bald guy waits in the wings and is treated like the drunk uncle nobody talks about.
“OK. The script says it’s time for someone to get killed, quick, send in the bald guy.”
And the bald guy shows up just in time to get munched on by a dinosaur with an eating disorder or to get splatted by a falling piano.
There are a few exceptions to the rule. Take Bruce Willis for example.
True, he may have started his career with hair, but he is now one of us – a brother of the scalp. Fortunately shaving your head bald is en vogue so he can get away with it.
The trend of shaving one’s head is proof that deep down inside, hair people want to be bald people.
Ron Howard is bald, but he always wears a hat – obviously he has not come to terms with his condition. Accept it Ron, you are a bald man.
But the ratio of bald actors to hairy ones remains seriously lopsided. It’s an attempt by Hollywood to keep the bald man down.
It’s like Hollywood is terrified some sort of weird hair leprosy will strike them down if they associate with the follicle-diminished.
So it’s time for baldies to unite. Stand tall and stand proud. And when one of the hair people come close, reflect the sun off your forehead and blind them.
It won’t give you any more hair, but you might feel better knowing you have just fried their retinas.
shoenews@shaw.ca
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)