By DARREN HANDSCHUH
I saw it coming about 100 metres away.
At first it was this black speck off in the distance, but as I cruised down the highway at the legally posted speed limit on my Katana, the black dot got bigger and bigger until it looked like an eagle wearing a bug costume.
It was Jurassic bug.
This sucker was huge. I could literally see it coming. There was little I could do to avoid it as it was flying right down the middle of the road. I had only a few seconds between spotting it and hitting it, or it hitting me.
It was kind of like the cow of bugs – too dumb to get out of the way.
This thing was of such bulk I actually felt it hit my shoulder with a thud/splat combination.
I felt kind of bad because I am sure I had just killed the last of an ancient, 10-billion year old line of bugs that used to buzz T-Rex and his friends.
Somehow this thing had survived in some sort of stasis and awoke just seconds before flying into my riding jacket at 90 kilometres an hour (the posted speed limit.)
When I got to work I was mildly repulsed at the bug guts-black jacket motif I had created.
A buddy of mine took a junebug to the visor once at about 160 k.p.h. and the impact actually damaged the clear plastic screen bolted to his cranium protector.
It snapped his head back and nearly knocked him off his bike, but it also gave him a great story to tell about flying critters and bikes without windjammers.
Another bug incident happened to a different friend who was riding down a lonely road late at night.
He was ahead of me and as he came around a tight corner and under a street light, he rode into a solid mass of white moths.
He gritted his teeth and plowed through. Problem was, when he gritted his teeth he must have opened his lips a little bit because he immediately pulled over and scrapped several of the winged beasts from his pearly whites.
I had a full-face helmet on so I just sat back, watched and had good chuckle as he scrapped bug guts from his gums.
It is reasons like this I cannot understand how anyone can ride a motorcycle without some sort of face shield. Be it a big windscreen, a full-faced helmet or something.
Years ago when I used to have a life, a few of us would get together and go screaming down to the Coast for a couple of days of fun and frivolity.
Often we would pop into a bike shop in Washington State where – at the time anyway – riders did not have to wear a helmet.
I can remember crossing the border, strapping the helmet to the back of the bike and thinking, “Is this ever going to be cool, tearing down the road, the wind in your face feeling free.”
I had thoughts alright, but they were more along the lines of, “Does this ever suck. The wind is plastering my face and all the dirt, grit and bugs are sandblasting my pretty features.”
OK pretty is waaaay too much of a stretch, but if anyone wanted to get rid of wrinkles, just go for a high-speed ride without a helmet and all the crap in the air would blast those wrinkles away.
Of course if you crash without a helmet, wrinkles would be the least of your worries.
If you survive cracking your cranium, there is a good chance you will be getting crayons for Christmas for the rest of your life.
I think I rode for about five minutes without a helmet before pulling over and putting that wonderful piece of cloth, foam and fibreglass back on.
I did learn one thing – you do have to be tough to ride without a helmet – you might not be too bright, but you have to be tough.
I kept looking at the ground and thinking the only thing between my skull and the pavement was a thin layer of hair and for me it was a very thin layer of hair.
I also thought about that junebug my friend encountered and realized riding without a helmet is not that cool after all.
In less time than it takes to boil and egg, I accepted I was a wimp and wanted my helmet back. I missed the protection if offered and felt naked without it and nobody wants to see me naked – trust me on this one.
I have to shower in the dark because I do not even want to see myself naked.
Anyway, with my favourite piece of riding gear strapped firmly where it should be the ride continued and life was good – and relatively bug free.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
Speck-tacular view
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
It was supposed to be a nice leisurely stroll with the family hound through the woods of one of our lovely provincial parks.
Instead, it was an agonizing journey of pain and discomfort all because of a tiny, little piece of tree bark.
As luck would have it that tiny, little piece of tree bark managed to hit me square in the eye.
At first, it was no big deal. Things hit people in the eye all the time and this felt no different that any other speck of whatever that has landed on my peepers.
So, I pulled the upper eyelid over the lower (something I learned in first aid), and felt I had resolved the issue as I had many times in the past. However, the speck had a different plan.
As we kept walking I noticed my eye was stinging a little bit and by the halfway mark of the walk I could not keep the eye open and it was watering like Brian Mulroney's mouth at mention of the word kickback.
Of course, it had to be at the exact halfway mark of the stroll when the speck decided to make a full-fledged attack on my eyeball.
That meant at least a 20-minute to walk back to the car and then a 15-minute drive home, all the while I was in so much discomfort I literally could not see. Fun times for sure.
When we finally got home, I rinsed my eye with 326 gallons of water, and not Canadian gallons, but those big ol' American gallons.
Problem was, the eye was still killing me. My wife put a patch on my eye so I would not irritate it any further, and off we went to the walk-in clinic.
At 6'4” it is already hard to blend in to the crowd, but throw a big, white patch on one eye and I might as well have been holding a sign that said, 'Hey everyone, look at my gimpy eye.'
Too bad it did not happen on Halloween, because I could have dressed like a pirate no one would have been the wiser.
While waiting in the doctor's office, I took the patch off and asked my wife if I looked better without it. The look of horror on her face said it all and I put the patch back on.
It would seem my right eye had swollen up to just slightly smaller than the eye of a blue whale and was red enough to guide Santa's sleigh.
I told the doc what happened, she flushed the eye with some sort of freezing, antibacterial, voodoo potion and within a minute the eye felt better. Mind you after how it had been feeling, having a crow peck it out and fly away with it would have felt better.
I also had a small cut on the eyeball itself which was the main cause of the discomfort. Leaving the doctor's office I climbed in the car and looked in the mirror.
“Holy moly, what the hell is that,” I exclaimed while looking at the deformed, Quasimoto-esk looking eyeball. It really did look terrible.
I looked like I went a couple rounds with Evander Holyfield, but instead I just had my butt kicked by a piece of wood that was a million times smaller than I was.
Because I wasn't having enough fun, the goop Doctor Feelgood put in my eye was orange, and some of it had overflowed, so not only was my eye big and puffy, but the eyelids top and bottom were a funky orange colour.
Having missed lunch, the Missus and I stopped for a bite to eat. She asked if I wanted to wash the orange stuff off, but I was hungry, I did not want to even touch the eye and besides I figured I would give people something to talk about.
People did not mean to stare, but c'mon who wouldn't look at a big puffy orange eyeball?
I know I would.
It was supposed to be a nice leisurely stroll with the family hound through the woods of one of our lovely provincial parks.
Instead, it was an agonizing journey of pain and discomfort all because of a tiny, little piece of tree bark.
As luck would have it that tiny, little piece of tree bark managed to hit me square in the eye.
At first, it was no big deal. Things hit people in the eye all the time and this felt no different that any other speck of whatever that has landed on my peepers.
So, I pulled the upper eyelid over the lower (something I learned in first aid), and felt I had resolved the issue as I had many times in the past. However, the speck had a different plan.
As we kept walking I noticed my eye was stinging a little bit and by the halfway mark of the walk I could not keep the eye open and it was watering like Brian Mulroney's mouth at mention of the word kickback.
Of course, it had to be at the exact halfway mark of the stroll when the speck decided to make a full-fledged attack on my eyeball.
That meant at least a 20-minute to walk back to the car and then a 15-minute drive home, all the while I was in so much discomfort I literally could not see. Fun times for sure.
When we finally got home, I rinsed my eye with 326 gallons of water, and not Canadian gallons, but those big ol' American gallons.
Problem was, the eye was still killing me. My wife put a patch on my eye so I would not irritate it any further, and off we went to the walk-in clinic.
At 6'4” it is already hard to blend in to the crowd, but throw a big, white patch on one eye and I might as well have been holding a sign that said, 'Hey everyone, look at my gimpy eye.'
Too bad it did not happen on Halloween, because I could have dressed like a pirate no one would have been the wiser.
While waiting in the doctor's office, I took the patch off and asked my wife if I looked better without it. The look of horror on her face said it all and I put the patch back on.
It would seem my right eye had swollen up to just slightly smaller than the eye of a blue whale and was red enough to guide Santa's sleigh.
I told the doc what happened, she flushed the eye with some sort of freezing, antibacterial, voodoo potion and within a minute the eye felt better. Mind you after how it had been feeling, having a crow peck it out and fly away with it would have felt better.
I also had a small cut on the eyeball itself which was the main cause of the discomfort. Leaving the doctor's office I climbed in the car and looked in the mirror.
“Holy moly, what the hell is that,” I exclaimed while looking at the deformed, Quasimoto-esk looking eyeball. It really did look terrible.
I looked like I went a couple rounds with Evander Holyfield, but instead I just had my butt kicked by a piece of wood that was a million times smaller than I was.
Because I wasn't having enough fun, the goop Doctor Feelgood put in my eye was orange, and some of it had overflowed, so not only was my eye big and puffy, but the eyelids top and bottom were a funky orange colour.
Having missed lunch, the Missus and I stopped for a bite to eat. She asked if I wanted to wash the orange stuff off, but I was hungry, I did not want to even touch the eye and besides I figured I would give people something to talk about.
People did not mean to stare, but c'mon who wouldn't look at a big puffy orange eyeball?
I know I would.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Hurry up and slow down
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
Is there an optional speed limit no one has told me about?
Maybe it is a plot by some sort of secret society to make me late everywhere I go because for some reason I always – and I do mean always – get stuck behind some guy who is driving significantly below the posted speed limit.
The other day I was stuck behind Sponge Bob Slow Pants who decided to cruise down a 50 kilometre-an-hour stretch of road at a blistering 30 km/h.
He actually reached 40 km/h at one point before hitting the brakes and bringing it down to a much more sensible snails pace.
People were walking along the road and he was waving them past and yelling, “Go around. Go around.”
Eventually Sheriff Slow Poke and The Barely Moving Posse turned off the road and I managed to reach a death-defying 50 km/h until I came to the highway.
I was then able to maintain the speed limit all the way along the four-lane portion of the highway – until I reached a two-lane section, then guess who was in front of me?
Seeing as the posted speed limit was 80 km/h it made perfect sense for this guy to travel at 60 km/h.
That 80 km/h is more of a suggestion than anything else and besides, who needs to get where they are going on time anyway?
I am not saying drivers should rip along the highway at warp factor five, all I ask is they do the speed limit.
That’s all - nothing more and definitely nothing less.
My wife has even noticed I always seem to get behind the guy who finds the posted speed limits outrageous and knows the world is a safer place if everyone would just slow down.
Never mind the 576 cars lined up behind him, they can just slow it down and enjoy the drive.
Perhaps it is some sort of cosmic payback for my youth. As a teen I had been known to drive in a manner not in accordance with the posted speed limit.
I thought about going to an exorcist because it seemed my right foot was possessed and wouldn’t listen to my brain when told to ease off the gas peddle.
The only time my foot would listen was when my brain noticed those pretty red and blue lights flashing in the rearview mirror.
Maybe by always getting stuck behind Johnny Go Slowly it will all balance out in the end. When the distance I have travelled in my life time is compared to the amount of time it took to get there, it will be exactly the speed limit.
I also have the unique ability to hit just about every single light red. Again, I am not exaggerating.
I live in Vernon and work in Kelowna, so that means I get to commute five days a week (gas companies love me.)
There are 10 traffic lights between the office and my home. I have driven the road so often I actually know how many lights there are and I have taken the time to count and memorize the number – how sad is that.
Anyway, on any given day I manage to hit the vast majority of those lights red. For a few days in a row I actually hit every single light red and that includes two pedestrian-controlled lights.
I stopped at one light and there was not another car to be seen in any direction, but as soon as I approached the intersection – yellow, red, stop.
I have to admit I found this extremely annoying and often found myself looking to the heavens and asking, “Why? Why to I have to hit every light red?”I never did get an answer, but it may just be God teaching me the value of patience. I don’t have a problem with that, I just wish it would happen faster so I could get through those green lights on occasion.
Is there an optional speed limit no one has told me about?
Maybe it is a plot by some sort of secret society to make me late everywhere I go because for some reason I always – and I do mean always – get stuck behind some guy who is driving significantly below the posted speed limit.
The other day I was stuck behind Sponge Bob Slow Pants who decided to cruise down a 50 kilometre-an-hour stretch of road at a blistering 30 km/h.
He actually reached 40 km/h at one point before hitting the brakes and bringing it down to a much more sensible snails pace.
People were walking along the road and he was waving them past and yelling, “Go around. Go around.”
Eventually Sheriff Slow Poke and The Barely Moving Posse turned off the road and I managed to reach a death-defying 50 km/h until I came to the highway.
I was then able to maintain the speed limit all the way along the four-lane portion of the highway – until I reached a two-lane section, then guess who was in front of me?
Seeing as the posted speed limit was 80 km/h it made perfect sense for this guy to travel at 60 km/h.
That 80 km/h is more of a suggestion than anything else and besides, who needs to get where they are going on time anyway?
I am not saying drivers should rip along the highway at warp factor five, all I ask is they do the speed limit.
That’s all - nothing more and definitely nothing less.
My wife has even noticed I always seem to get behind the guy who finds the posted speed limits outrageous and knows the world is a safer place if everyone would just slow down.
Never mind the 576 cars lined up behind him, they can just slow it down and enjoy the drive.
Perhaps it is some sort of cosmic payback for my youth. As a teen I had been known to drive in a manner not in accordance with the posted speed limit.
I thought about going to an exorcist because it seemed my right foot was possessed and wouldn’t listen to my brain when told to ease off the gas peddle.
The only time my foot would listen was when my brain noticed those pretty red and blue lights flashing in the rearview mirror.
Maybe by always getting stuck behind Johnny Go Slowly it will all balance out in the end. When the distance I have travelled in my life time is compared to the amount of time it took to get there, it will be exactly the speed limit.
I also have the unique ability to hit just about every single light red. Again, I am not exaggerating.
I live in Vernon and work in Kelowna, so that means I get to commute five days a week (gas companies love me.)
There are 10 traffic lights between the office and my home. I have driven the road so often I actually know how many lights there are and I have taken the time to count and memorize the number – how sad is that.
Anyway, on any given day I manage to hit the vast majority of those lights red. For a few days in a row I actually hit every single light red and that includes two pedestrian-controlled lights.
I stopped at one light and there was not another car to be seen in any direction, but as soon as I approached the intersection – yellow, red, stop.
I have to admit I found this extremely annoying and often found myself looking to the heavens and asking, “Why? Why to I have to hit every light red?”I never did get an answer, but it may just be God teaching me the value of patience. I don’t have a problem with that, I just wish it would happen faster so I could get through those green lights on occasion.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Keeping it clean
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
It’s interesting how men and women have different versions of clean.
A guy could look at a room and think, ‘Yup, that looks good to me.’
A woman could look at the same room and wonder what kind of barbaric hand-to-hand battle had occurred to make such a mess.
The difference is most noticeable when it comes to spring cleaning.
For a guy, spring cleaning means moving the couch when he vacuums. For a woman it means dismantling the couch, vacuuming every square inch of it and reassembling it to better than original.
When it comes to cleaning, men and women just do things differently.
For example, a few years ago my wife tried a little experiment.
There was a pair of clean wool socks next to my side of the bed. My wife was determined to leave them until I put them away.
After a few weeks, she was astounded they were still there.
“Those socks have been there for weeks and you haven’t even noticed.”To which I replied, “That’s where you are wrong. I did notice I just didn’t care. There’s a difference.”
I figured the socks weren’t hurting anyone, they were out of the way and if I needed them I knew where they were.
Spring cleaning for a guy means going through his closet and throwing out a couple of shirts that are too torn to wear even under a sweater and digging out the several pairs of pants that have mysteriously shrunk over the winter.
For a woman, it means hauling every single item of clothing out of the closet, trying each item on, assessing their value and comparing current fashion styles with what they have to determine what goes and what stays.
The process can take days.
“Does this still look good on me?”
“Yes it does.”
“No, I don’t think it does, I’m going to get rid of it.”
That’s what I meant to say actually, but I decided to say something else to see if you were on your game or not.
Helping in this area is not something for a man. Ladies, for future reference, call a friend to come over if you want an opinion on clothes.
Unless it is lingerie, most guys are not too interested in what you dig out of the closet.
And please, do not ask the question every man dreads, “Does this make me look fat?”
Even prehistoric cave men knew the answer to this one.
When the little woman threw on the latest in Wooly Mammoth fashion and looked at hubby while asking the infamous question, even a walnut-brained Neanderthal new enough to grunt, “No dear,” lest he get a brontosaurus bone upside the head.
The lady of the house could weigh slightly less than a Volkswagen Beetle and the universal answer would still be ‘No.’
The most frightening area of spring cleaning is the kid’s rooms.
Grown men have fled in terror as the missus’ eyes glass over with spring-cleaning fever and she seeks recruits to help with the task.
The woman will dig into the job with energy typically reserved for a piranha feeding frenzy.
Every toy car, gadget and plastic super hero has its own specific place.
I did not know this. To me, everything with wheels went in the car bin, super heroes went in another bin and whatever did not fall into those categories went in whatever bin still had room in it.
Again, for the cleaning-crazed woman of the house the job is an all day affair. For a guy it’s a two-hour task broken up by time spent playing with some of the cooler toys.
It is times like this I am thankful for weeds so I can get out of the house where all I have to worry about are bee stings and burning nettle.
It’s interesting how men and women have different versions of clean.
A guy could look at a room and think, ‘Yup, that looks good to me.’
A woman could look at the same room and wonder what kind of barbaric hand-to-hand battle had occurred to make such a mess.
The difference is most noticeable when it comes to spring cleaning.
For a guy, spring cleaning means moving the couch when he vacuums. For a woman it means dismantling the couch, vacuuming every square inch of it and reassembling it to better than original.
When it comes to cleaning, men and women just do things differently.
For example, a few years ago my wife tried a little experiment.
There was a pair of clean wool socks next to my side of the bed. My wife was determined to leave them until I put them away.
After a few weeks, she was astounded they were still there.
“Those socks have been there for weeks and you haven’t even noticed.”To which I replied, “That’s where you are wrong. I did notice I just didn’t care. There’s a difference.”
I figured the socks weren’t hurting anyone, they were out of the way and if I needed them I knew where they were.
Spring cleaning for a guy means going through his closet and throwing out a couple of shirts that are too torn to wear even under a sweater and digging out the several pairs of pants that have mysteriously shrunk over the winter.
For a woman, it means hauling every single item of clothing out of the closet, trying each item on, assessing their value and comparing current fashion styles with what they have to determine what goes and what stays.
The process can take days.
“Does this still look good on me?”
“Yes it does.”
“No, I don’t think it does, I’m going to get rid of it.”
That’s what I meant to say actually, but I decided to say something else to see if you were on your game or not.
Helping in this area is not something for a man. Ladies, for future reference, call a friend to come over if you want an opinion on clothes.
Unless it is lingerie, most guys are not too interested in what you dig out of the closet.
And please, do not ask the question every man dreads, “Does this make me look fat?”
Even prehistoric cave men knew the answer to this one.
When the little woman threw on the latest in Wooly Mammoth fashion and looked at hubby while asking the infamous question, even a walnut-brained Neanderthal new enough to grunt, “No dear,” lest he get a brontosaurus bone upside the head.
The lady of the house could weigh slightly less than a Volkswagen Beetle and the universal answer would still be ‘No.’
The most frightening area of spring cleaning is the kid’s rooms.
Grown men have fled in terror as the missus’ eyes glass over with spring-cleaning fever and she seeks recruits to help with the task.
The woman will dig into the job with energy typically reserved for a piranha feeding frenzy.
Every toy car, gadget and plastic super hero has its own specific place.
I did not know this. To me, everything with wheels went in the car bin, super heroes went in another bin and whatever did not fall into those categories went in whatever bin still had room in it.
Again, for the cleaning-crazed woman of the house the job is an all day affair. For a guy it’s a two-hour task broken up by time spent playing with some of the cooler toys.
It is times like this I am thankful for weeds so I can get out of the house where all I have to worry about are bee stings and burning nettle.
Here comes the swine
BY DARREN HANDSCHUH
Like I said, it was just a matter of time.
I predicted the dreaded ailment that had popped up in my humble abode a couple of weeks ago would eventually get yours truly, and I was right.
With two of three kids down with a flu-like ailment, I knew I was on the list.
My wife fell ill, which rarely happens, so I resigned myself to the fact there was nothing I could do to stop the germs from invading my middle-aged body.
I had as much chance of dodging the bug as a Gordon Campbell does of getting thank you cards for bringing in the HST. It's just not going to happen.
And if you are gonna get a flu, you might as well get the big one. Yup, we were struck down by the much talked about swine flu.
Was it bad?
Yes, it has lasted longer than any ailment I have had (I am going on two weeks of feeling icky) but it wasn't as intense as other bugs.
I had a case of the Norwalk virus a decade or so ago and it was the only time in my life I have prayed for either healing or death – both of which would have been a relief from how I was feeling.
The Norwalk is the barfing, scooting, dear-God-whatever-I-did-to-deserve-this-I am-sorry kind of flu – which is the kind I hate the most.
But don't get me wrong, the pig ailment was no trip to the farm either. It had the everything-hurts quality to it, but at least you weren't barfing so hard your liver fell out.
Fever, aches, pains, being incredibly tired and a chest so tight it feels like a fat guy is sitting on it was what the swine brought to my home.
At the height of the viral invasion I missed a few days of work (you have to look at the bright side of things), during which time I realized daytime TV is really bad, like evening TV is a bastion of high-quality entertainment.
When I returned to work, the reaction from my co-workers looked like it was scripted.
“So, how are you feeling?”
“Oh, not too bad. Better than the last few days.”
“So was it the swine flu?”“Yup, the doc is pretty sure.”
At that point, everyone who engaged in the conversation would take a step backward, involuntary or not, several people did it.
According to the doc and my wife, who is a nurse, I was beyond the contagious stage of the ailment when I returned to work, but just admitting you had the swine is enough to drive people away.
Hmmm, I wonder if I called the in laws and mentioned...
Anyway, the H1N1 was not exactly a preferred way to spend my time. It is kind of weird because I know some people who had it and barely felt any ill effects at all.
Then there were others, like myself, who were knocked flat on their backs – literally – by the global virus.
I can see why the swine is so dangerous. For people with respiratory challenges, it could present a very serious problem.
I am not exactly the picture of health – unless the picture is a flabby, pasty white, bald guy – but I have been blessed with strong lungs and a fairly decent immune system, but still the H1N1 took a pretty good chunk out of my week.
But at least the worst is behind me, as far as the swine goes. I hope it is anyway.
I ingested enough flu medication to make an elephant loopy, but when war is declared, one must use every weapon available.
So for those who haven't got it yet, good luck and I hope the swine passes you by. For all my fellow pork ailment sufferers, think of how much you will appreciate being healthy when that day comes.
Like I said, it was just a matter of time.
I predicted the dreaded ailment that had popped up in my humble abode a couple of weeks ago would eventually get yours truly, and I was right.
With two of three kids down with a flu-like ailment, I knew I was on the list.
My wife fell ill, which rarely happens, so I resigned myself to the fact there was nothing I could do to stop the germs from invading my middle-aged body.
I had as much chance of dodging the bug as a Gordon Campbell does of getting thank you cards for bringing in the HST. It's just not going to happen.
And if you are gonna get a flu, you might as well get the big one. Yup, we were struck down by the much talked about swine flu.
Was it bad?
Yes, it has lasted longer than any ailment I have had (I am going on two weeks of feeling icky) but it wasn't as intense as other bugs.
I had a case of the Norwalk virus a decade or so ago and it was the only time in my life I have prayed for either healing or death – both of which would have been a relief from how I was feeling.
The Norwalk is the barfing, scooting, dear-God-whatever-I-did-to-deserve-this-I am-sorry kind of flu – which is the kind I hate the most.
But don't get me wrong, the pig ailment was no trip to the farm either. It had the everything-hurts quality to it, but at least you weren't barfing so hard your liver fell out.
Fever, aches, pains, being incredibly tired and a chest so tight it feels like a fat guy is sitting on it was what the swine brought to my home.
At the height of the viral invasion I missed a few days of work (you have to look at the bright side of things), during which time I realized daytime TV is really bad, like evening TV is a bastion of high-quality entertainment.
When I returned to work, the reaction from my co-workers looked like it was scripted.
“So, how are you feeling?”
“Oh, not too bad. Better than the last few days.”
“So was it the swine flu?”“Yup, the doc is pretty sure.”
At that point, everyone who engaged in the conversation would take a step backward, involuntary or not, several people did it.
According to the doc and my wife, who is a nurse, I was beyond the contagious stage of the ailment when I returned to work, but just admitting you had the swine is enough to drive people away.
Hmmm, I wonder if I called the in laws and mentioned...
Anyway, the H1N1 was not exactly a preferred way to spend my time. It is kind of weird because I know some people who had it and barely felt any ill effects at all.
Then there were others, like myself, who were knocked flat on their backs – literally – by the global virus.
I can see why the swine is so dangerous. For people with respiratory challenges, it could present a very serious problem.
I am not exactly the picture of health – unless the picture is a flabby, pasty white, bald guy – but I have been blessed with strong lungs and a fairly decent immune system, but still the H1N1 took a pretty good chunk out of my week.
But at least the worst is behind me, as far as the swine goes. I hope it is anyway.
I ingested enough flu medication to make an elephant loopy, but when war is declared, one must use every weapon available.
So for those who haven't got it yet, good luck and I hope the swine passes you by. For all my fellow pork ailment sufferers, think of how much you will appreciate being healthy when that day comes.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
I know I'm next
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
I know it is just a matter of time.
Eventually it will get me, and I am not looking forward to it at all.
You see, I have three kids in school and that means every single bug that is running around the city will end up in my home.
I sort of feel like a condemned man: you know it's going to happen, there is no escaping it.
Currently two of the brood have some form of illness .
Junior No. 1 has the flu, not the throwing up until your spleen goes numb flu, but the chilly, achy, coughing, feeling crappy, I've-fallen-and-I-don't-want-to-get-up kind of flu.
That kind of flu I can live with actually. You may be out of commission for a few days, but it is the barfing-so-hard-your-hair-hurts flu I really hate, and I don't even have that much hair, well, not on my head anyway.
Junior No. 2 has a cold and sounds like a seal during mating season. His best friend has the same cold and the two hack and cough the day away, sometimes in perfect stereo, which means double the germs swirling around my home, with me in the bullseye.
Like I said, it is only a matter of time before one of the ailments strikes me down, and I hate being sick.
Of course the big concern right now is the swine flu, which also goes by the much-less gripping name of the H1N1.
I don't even know what H1N1 stands for, but I do know it is one nasty bug that I would rather avoid than play host to.
As far as I know the ailment named after a pig has not landed in my home and I hope it stays that way, but there is no shortage of viruses more than willing to pay us a visit.
And as flu and cold season gets into full swing, the germ incubator called school will be the first place the bugs head.
In an effort to combat the germ invasion, I use hand sanitizer by the gallon. It is almost to the point where I am pouring the stuff in an industrial-sized sprayer and hosing down the house. Just because I am destined to become ill doesn't mean I won't go down fighting.
Door knobs, once simply device used to open doors, have now become a thing of dread. I can't actually see all the little germs dancing around the brass surface, but they are there, waiting, always waiting.
And don't even get me started on the 'OK' button of an ATM machine. That is the one button everyone has to touch.
I know this is sounding rather Howard Hughes-ish, but the older I get, which I do every single day, the less I want to have a cold or a flu.
I am not running around in a sterilized suit or anything (but the thought has crossed my mind), I am just being cautious.
When I was younger, I could pretty much ignore a cold and just carried on as normal, but as Father Time continues to slap me around, colds seem a lot harder to tolerate.
The flu has always been a problem and has shut me down a few times, and with the swine making the rounds, one can never be too careful.
Fortunately I married a nurse, so medical expertise is close at hand.
“Honey, I don't know what's wrong with me. I think I have anthrax or the plague or something. My stomach is kind of burning and its making these weird rumbling sounds.”
“It's called being hungry, go get something to eat.”
“So I don't have dengue fever then? Are you sure? Maybe I have malaria. Is there malaria in the Okanagan? What if it's Congo-Crimean hemorrhagic fever? What will I do then?”Fortunately my wife is also very patient.
I know it is just a matter of time.
Eventually it will get me, and I am not looking forward to it at all.
You see, I have three kids in school and that means every single bug that is running around the city will end up in my home.
I sort of feel like a condemned man: you know it's going to happen, there is no escaping it.
Currently two of the brood have some form of illness .
Junior No. 1 has the flu, not the throwing up until your spleen goes numb flu, but the chilly, achy, coughing, feeling crappy, I've-fallen-and-I-don't-want-to-get-up kind of flu.
That kind of flu I can live with actually. You may be out of commission for a few days, but it is the barfing-so-hard-your-hair-hurts flu I really hate, and I don't even have that much hair, well, not on my head anyway.
Junior No. 2 has a cold and sounds like a seal during mating season. His best friend has the same cold and the two hack and cough the day away, sometimes in perfect stereo, which means double the germs swirling around my home, with me in the bullseye.
Like I said, it is only a matter of time before one of the ailments strikes me down, and I hate being sick.
Of course the big concern right now is the swine flu, which also goes by the much-less gripping name of the H1N1.
I don't even know what H1N1 stands for, but I do know it is one nasty bug that I would rather avoid than play host to.
As far as I know the ailment named after a pig has not landed in my home and I hope it stays that way, but there is no shortage of viruses more than willing to pay us a visit.
And as flu and cold season gets into full swing, the germ incubator called school will be the first place the bugs head.
In an effort to combat the germ invasion, I use hand sanitizer by the gallon. It is almost to the point where I am pouring the stuff in an industrial-sized sprayer and hosing down the house. Just because I am destined to become ill doesn't mean I won't go down fighting.
Door knobs, once simply device used to open doors, have now become a thing of dread. I can't actually see all the little germs dancing around the brass surface, but they are there, waiting, always waiting.
And don't even get me started on the 'OK' button of an ATM machine. That is the one button everyone has to touch.
I know this is sounding rather Howard Hughes-ish, but the older I get, which I do every single day, the less I want to have a cold or a flu.
I am not running around in a sterilized suit or anything (but the thought has crossed my mind), I am just being cautious.
When I was younger, I could pretty much ignore a cold and just carried on as normal, but as Father Time continues to slap me around, colds seem a lot harder to tolerate.
The flu has always been a problem and has shut me down a few times, and with the swine making the rounds, one can never be too careful.
Fortunately I married a nurse, so medical expertise is close at hand.
“Honey, I don't know what's wrong with me. I think I have anthrax or the plague or something. My stomach is kind of burning and its making these weird rumbling sounds.”
“It's called being hungry, go get something to eat.”
“So I don't have dengue fever then? Are you sure? Maybe I have malaria. Is there malaria in the Okanagan? What if it's Congo-Crimean hemorrhagic fever? What will I do then?”Fortunately my wife is also very patient.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Dogs don't need custumes
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
I had a good chuckle over it actually.
The 'it' I am referring to is Halloween costumes for dogs.
I saw a story on how people dress their dogs up for the annual candy gathering extravaganza, and I found the whole thing rather amusing in a you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me sort of way.
One lady even dresses her two pugs in different costumes year after year. One pug was brown, the other black, so their costumes matched accordingly.
There is professional help available for people who feel a need to dress their pooch up like a flower or super hero.
I know people dress their hounds in jackets, sweaters and even little booties, but at least these clothes have a functional purpose.
Bowser needs to be kept warm in the winter, so there is a valid reason.
But a Halloween costume for a hound? That I do not get – at all.
Sure, I will dress up my children and tell them to run around the darkened city streets soliciting candy from strangers, but I will not dress up a dog.
I have had a dog pretty much my entire life and I have never looked at it and thought, “You know what that dog needs? A frilly flower head piece with a matching skirt.”
But I tip my hat to whoever came up with this scam, er, I mean idea of Halloween costumes for pets.
And of course, there are many suckers, er, I mean pet owners out there who will shell out perfectly good money to make their perfectly good dog look perfectly ridiculous.
There are, of course, numerous outfits from movie stars to monsters to the flower ensemble I mentioned earlier.
The part I dislike the most about the whole Halloween pet costume gimmick is that I did not think of it.
It is like the guy who invented the Pet Rock. A genius through and through. Take a rock, paint it, glue a couple of eyes on it and - whamo – a millionaire is born. Like I said, brilliant.
And like the Pet Rock, costumes for animals are totally pointless. Unless you have taught your dog to ring a doorbell and hold a candy sack in its mouth what's the point of dressing them up.
“Oh, but they are so cute dressed up.”
I got news for ya, God already took care of the cute when it comes to dogs, they really don't need our help.
Surely there has to be something better to spend your money on.
Instead of getting Fluffy that Terminator outfit, maybe sponsor a child in Africa or something.
As you have already guessed, I am not dressing Murphy the Wonder Mutt in any sort of get up.
He will be celebrating Halloween as a little brown dog, which is perfect for him.
The last few Halloweens I have gone out as a middle-aged, pot-bellied, balding father of three, and I must admit, I have that costume down to perfection.
I did dress up as Cher a few years back, my wife was Sonny of course, and everyone agreed I was the ugliest woman they had ever seen, which suited me just fine.
Despite the fact I made Barbara Streisand look like a Florida beach hotty, everyone constantly tried to grab my ample bosom, which was fun until one of them popped, then I looked like a boob-clops, which is sort of like a cyclops only with one, well, you know.
As for the masquerading mutts, all of my friends have dogs and none of them dressed any of their critters up, which is one of the reasons we hang out together.
If I have offended anyone who enjoys putting Fido in a costume, sorry about that. Maybe you could dress the mutt up like a Ninja and it could exact some revenge, like pooping on my front lawn or something without being seen.
I had a good chuckle over it actually.
The 'it' I am referring to is Halloween costumes for dogs.
I saw a story on how people dress their dogs up for the annual candy gathering extravaganza, and I found the whole thing rather amusing in a you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me sort of way.
One lady even dresses her two pugs in different costumes year after year. One pug was brown, the other black, so their costumes matched accordingly.
There is professional help available for people who feel a need to dress their pooch up like a flower or super hero.
I know people dress their hounds in jackets, sweaters and even little booties, but at least these clothes have a functional purpose.
Bowser needs to be kept warm in the winter, so there is a valid reason.
But a Halloween costume for a hound? That I do not get – at all.
Sure, I will dress up my children and tell them to run around the darkened city streets soliciting candy from strangers, but I will not dress up a dog.
I have had a dog pretty much my entire life and I have never looked at it and thought, “You know what that dog needs? A frilly flower head piece with a matching skirt.”
But I tip my hat to whoever came up with this scam, er, I mean idea of Halloween costumes for pets.
And of course, there are many suckers, er, I mean pet owners out there who will shell out perfectly good money to make their perfectly good dog look perfectly ridiculous.
There are, of course, numerous outfits from movie stars to monsters to the flower ensemble I mentioned earlier.
The part I dislike the most about the whole Halloween pet costume gimmick is that I did not think of it.
It is like the guy who invented the Pet Rock. A genius through and through. Take a rock, paint it, glue a couple of eyes on it and - whamo – a millionaire is born. Like I said, brilliant.
And like the Pet Rock, costumes for animals are totally pointless. Unless you have taught your dog to ring a doorbell and hold a candy sack in its mouth what's the point of dressing them up.
“Oh, but they are so cute dressed up.”
I got news for ya, God already took care of the cute when it comes to dogs, they really don't need our help.
Surely there has to be something better to spend your money on.
Instead of getting Fluffy that Terminator outfit, maybe sponsor a child in Africa or something.
As you have already guessed, I am not dressing Murphy the Wonder Mutt in any sort of get up.
He will be celebrating Halloween as a little brown dog, which is perfect for him.
The last few Halloweens I have gone out as a middle-aged, pot-bellied, balding father of three, and I must admit, I have that costume down to perfection.
I did dress up as Cher a few years back, my wife was Sonny of course, and everyone agreed I was the ugliest woman they had ever seen, which suited me just fine.
Despite the fact I made Barbara Streisand look like a Florida beach hotty, everyone constantly tried to grab my ample bosom, which was fun until one of them popped, then I looked like a boob-clops, which is sort of like a cyclops only with one, well, you know.
As for the masquerading mutts, all of my friends have dogs and none of them dressed any of their critters up, which is one of the reasons we hang out together.
If I have offended anyone who enjoys putting Fido in a costume, sorry about that. Maybe you could dress the mutt up like a Ninja and it could exact some revenge, like pooping on my front lawn or something without being seen.
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