I would never consider myself a tough guy, but I am not exactly a dainty little flower either.
I played hockey which results in bumps and bruises of all sorts. I rode dirt bikes to the very edge of catastrophe and street bikes even farther.
When you do such activities at that level of enthusiasm, you are going to crash and you are going to get hurt – it is that simple.
I have been in numerous dirt-bike wipeouts and several street-bike mishaps, but I walked away from all of them, a little scuffed perhaps, but I still walked away.
Road rash absolutely sucks, and is one of the most painful things you can inflict upon yourself short of taking your mother-in-law on a multi-day road trip (which I have done.)
I have also done martial arts for many years. While I train for the exercise aspect of the sport, you do occasionally get hurt.
That is why I found the doctor’s office incident so bizarre.
I was at the local practitioner of medicine for a minor thing when I mentioned I had skin tags.
These are a little build up of excess skin that your body can not think of anything to do with so they kind of grow like a flesh-tone zit.
I know, very appealing.
It is not like I was covered in the things to the point I could star in a Stephen King feature, but I had a few and when I mentioned them to the doc, his eyes lit up.
“We can take care of those right now,” he said with the enthusiasm of med student.
He scampered out of the room and came back with this little plastic shield thingy in one hand, a canister with a squeeze-pump in the hand and a look of glee on his face.
The canister contained dry ice that he was going to spray on the skin tags.
I do not know how often he does this procedure, but anytime a man gets to use a tool of any sort, it often brings a smile.
The doc put the little plastic shield thingy around one of the tags, squeezed the pump, released the spray and scored a direct hit on the zit wannabe.
The part he did not mention was it would sting. That kind of caught me by surprise, but it was only a minor amount of pain, so it was no big deal, right?
Wrong.
Out of nowhere, the room started to grow dim, I became light headed, I started to lose my balance and felt for sure I was going to hit the ground faster than the ethics of a Senator.
The doc had a few sprays to do, and each one brought a minor stinging sensation.
With each spray I got closer to taking a carpet nap, but I fought to maintain control while thinking how silly it is that such a minor amount of pain should cause such a reaction.
“C’mon you big baby. Don’t be such a big baby,” was the pep talk I gave myself as the world around me continued to fade.
I managed not to go face first into the wall on my way to to the floor, and when he was done I was on my way – my very wobbly way.
I thought the worst was over, but after walking two minutes to the grocery store to meet the Missus I once again thought I was going out.
All I could think of was how embarrassing it would be to pass out in the middle of the grocery store.
“Attention associates, clean up on aisle two –middle-aged bald guy passed out, bring a gurney for the big baby.”
Fortunately I managed to take some deep breaths and the moment passed, saving me the trauma of having a forced snooze in the middle of the produce aisle.
I have experienced a lot more pain than that before – I fractured both big toes in a single hockey game once and never missed a shift – but for some bizarre reason the sting nearly sent me sprawling.
Go figure.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Tornado makes for memorable vacation
The horrific events in Oklahoma recently have brought back some memories of my own personal encounter with a tornado.
How did a born-and-raised B.C. boy end up staring down the business end of a twister? Let's just say it was not on the vacation brochure.
I witnessed the raw power of Mother Nature when I was about 12 years old and the family was venturing out on one of our annual marathon road trips into the United States.
We were heading to Lousianna because my parents actually knew some people down there whom they had not seen in many years.
It was the first time I had ever heard a Southerner speak (this was long before Duck Dynasty or any other southern red neck show) so it was interesting to hear people say, 'Y'all.'
Appearantly, when you are down south certain vowels are optional when you speak. Why? Beats me, but that's the way they did it.
We spent a couple weeks with our American bretheran, and to this day I still say Y'all. It is just something I picked up and it stuck with me like a language tattoo. I also occasionally say po-lice, with an emphasize on the 'po' part. Other than that, I remained a true Canadian, eh.
Anyway, on our way to the land of gumbo (whatever that is), we ended up in a campground in the middle of Tornado Alley.
We were a family of six in a big blue van hauling a tent trailer and as we were setting up for the evening, we noticed the sky looking rather ominous. And by ominous, I mean apocalyptic kind of ominous.
We went about our business as the heavens grew darker, and eventually the wind and rain became a concern.
Then my dad heard someone say two words that sent us into a near panic - 'tornado watch.'
We were from B.C., so what did we know about tornados? Nothing, that's what. We dialed in to the emergency radio station where the announcer said if you hear what sounds like a freight train, that is a tornado.
We had been hearing that sound for the last 20 minutes. We all looked to dad for guidance, not considering this was his first tornado as well.
But he knew what to do and we were ready to abandon camp and head for cover.
The announcer confirmed a tornado was on the ground and we spent several tense minutes listening to the radio and trying to figure out exactly where the twister was. Being tourists, we had knew few reference points and had a hard time pinpointing its location.
It turned out to be a lot closer than we thought. The tornado broke up less than two miles from our campsite. It was heading straight for us.
It wasn't a huge tornado and fortunately no lives were lost, but it was one of the most memorable and definitely the most terrifying family vacation moment ever.
It wasn't until many years later I started to wonder what dad was thinking as we huddled in our van listening to an emergency radio channel while a storm unlike any we had ever seen raged nearby.
I remember my little brother looked terrrified, mom sat in prayerful silence and my two sisters were on the verge of tears born of fear and stress.
But somehow dad looked calm.
Perhaps I saw the situation through they eyes of a pre-teen who knew his dad was the biggest and strongest person alive and he would never let anything bad happen to us.
I can recall a look of conern, but not fear on his face. On the inside, he was likely as scared as any of us, but with all eyes upon him, he did not show it.
He told us of his plan should the tornado get closer and I found great comfort knowing Dad had everything under control.
Eventually the radio announcer said the storm had broken up and our moment of tornado terror was over.
I am sure no one was more relieved than my father.
How did a born-and-raised B.C. boy end up staring down the business end of a twister? Let's just say it was not on the vacation brochure.
I witnessed the raw power of Mother Nature when I was about 12 years old and the family was venturing out on one of our annual marathon road trips into the United States.
We were heading to Lousianna because my parents actually knew some people down there whom they had not seen in many years.
It was the first time I had ever heard a Southerner speak (this was long before Duck Dynasty or any other southern red neck show) so it was interesting to hear people say, 'Y'all.'
Appearantly, when you are down south certain vowels are optional when you speak. Why? Beats me, but that's the way they did it.
We spent a couple weeks with our American bretheran, and to this day I still say Y'all. It is just something I picked up and it stuck with me like a language tattoo. I also occasionally say po-lice, with an emphasize on the 'po' part. Other than that, I remained a true Canadian, eh.
Anyway, on our way to the land of gumbo (whatever that is), we ended up in a campground in the middle of Tornado Alley.
We were a family of six in a big blue van hauling a tent trailer and as we were setting up for the evening, we noticed the sky looking rather ominous. And by ominous, I mean apocalyptic kind of ominous.
We went about our business as the heavens grew darker, and eventually the wind and rain became a concern.
Then my dad heard someone say two words that sent us into a near panic - 'tornado watch.'
We were from B.C., so what did we know about tornados? Nothing, that's what. We dialed in to the emergency radio station where the announcer said if you hear what sounds like a freight train, that is a tornado.
We had been hearing that sound for the last 20 minutes. We all looked to dad for guidance, not considering this was his first tornado as well.
But he knew what to do and we were ready to abandon camp and head for cover.
The announcer confirmed a tornado was on the ground and we spent several tense minutes listening to the radio and trying to figure out exactly where the twister was. Being tourists, we had knew few reference points and had a hard time pinpointing its location.
It turned out to be a lot closer than we thought. The tornado broke up less than two miles from our campsite. It was heading straight for us.
It wasn't a huge tornado and fortunately no lives were lost, but it was one of the most memorable and definitely the most terrifying family vacation moment ever.
It wasn't until many years later I started to wonder what dad was thinking as we huddled in our van listening to an emergency radio channel while a storm unlike any we had ever seen raged nearby.
I remember my little brother looked terrrified, mom sat in prayerful silence and my two sisters were on the verge of tears born of fear and stress.
But somehow dad looked calm.
Perhaps I saw the situation through they eyes of a pre-teen who knew his dad was the biggest and strongest person alive and he would never let anything bad happen to us.
I can recall a look of conern, but not fear on his face. On the inside, he was likely as scared as any of us, but with all eyes upon him, he did not show it.
He told us of his plan should the tornado get closer and I found great comfort knowing Dad had everything under control.
Eventually the radio announcer said the storm had broken up and our moment of tornado terror was over.
I am sure no one was more relieved than my father.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Jerry, Jerry, Jerry - you have got to be kidding me
I spent about 90 minutes in the Chair of Doom the other day where the dentist used all sorts of power tools on my pearly whites.
Right on cue, when he had a drill, suction thingy, several fingers and that stupid rubber dam installed he decided it was the perfect time for some small talk.
Other than a 'yes' or 'no' answer (which typically come out as 'oog' and 'ug'), it is pretty hard to carry on a conversation. I am not sure why dentists do that, but I think it is a little game they like to play to keep their day interesting and they compare notes at quitting time about all the fun they had trying to make someone talk who has enough hardware in their mouth to build a Smart Car.
While laying back on that sterile, plastic recliner every dentist in North America has, I had plenty of time to think about things.
As I always do when I am in The Chair, I thought, “Wow, does this ever suck.” Which was immediately followed by the thought, “Wow, does this ever suck.”
The third thought was, well, you get the idea. Eventually I tired of thinking how much being in The Chair sucked and moved on to other things, like paying attention to the TV the dentist has in the ceiling of the little room where The Chair and associated power tools are located.
This is a great idea because instead of thinking how much it sucks to be trapped in The Chair on a beautiful sunny day while having a high-speed drill rattling your brain, you can reach distraction by watching some daytime TV.
It only took a few minutes for me to realize just how trashy some daytime TV is (compared to evening and nighttime TV, which is 'classy' from start to finish.)
I am convinced Jerry Springer on his own is enough to damn humanity to judgement, and I reached that conclusion after five minutes.
The episode was about some guy who slept with a stripper and wanted to tell his wife. His wife wanted to tell him she slept with his cousin who was married to her best friend.
Yikes, I needed a score card to keep track of who was doing what.
Every few seconds a fight would break out and the audience would stand up and chant “Jerry, Jerry, Jerry...”
Springer has been on TV for many years, so obviously some people eat this trash up. Personally, I don't get it.
I really don't care if Jim-Bob slept with Suzie-May who is not only his cousin, but his wife's-friend's-aunt's-sister'
But inspite of feeling like I needed a shower, I kept watching. At one point, the dental assistant looked to see what I was viewing and I felt embarrassed at my choice of entertainment.
It is like a car wreck, brought to you daily from some seedy trailer park filled with inebriated and morally challenged hillbillies who have nothing better to do than jump from bed to bed.
Springer had several groups of people who, for some reason, feel it is necessary to tell millions of viewers just how trashy they are.
For me, that is the most baffling part of the whole situation: their willingness to air their dirty laundry in front of the TV cameras.
The more I watched, the more of an appreciation I gained for my wife. We have been married for 25 years this summer and she has proven to be a wonderful partner and terrific mom.
As I watched these 'ladies' admit to actions akin to porno movies, I felt even more blessed to be married to the Missus.
By the time Jerry was done lowering the IQ points of millions of people, the dentist was done drilling holes in my teeth and I was done with Mr. Springer.
I will likely never return to the fiesta of TV trash, but at least I found something more distasteful than having to spend time in the Chair of Doom.
Right on cue, when he had a drill, suction thingy, several fingers and that stupid rubber dam installed he decided it was the perfect time for some small talk.
Other than a 'yes' or 'no' answer (which typically come out as 'oog' and 'ug'), it is pretty hard to carry on a conversation. I am not sure why dentists do that, but I think it is a little game they like to play to keep their day interesting and they compare notes at quitting time about all the fun they had trying to make someone talk who has enough hardware in their mouth to build a Smart Car.
While laying back on that sterile, plastic recliner every dentist in North America has, I had plenty of time to think about things.
As I always do when I am in The Chair, I thought, “Wow, does this ever suck.” Which was immediately followed by the thought, “Wow, does this ever suck.”
The third thought was, well, you get the idea. Eventually I tired of thinking how much being in The Chair sucked and moved on to other things, like paying attention to the TV the dentist has in the ceiling of the little room where The Chair and associated power tools are located.
This is a great idea because instead of thinking how much it sucks to be trapped in The Chair on a beautiful sunny day while having a high-speed drill rattling your brain, you can reach distraction by watching some daytime TV.
It only took a few minutes for me to realize just how trashy some daytime TV is (compared to evening and nighttime TV, which is 'classy' from start to finish.)
I am convinced Jerry Springer on his own is enough to damn humanity to judgement, and I reached that conclusion after five minutes.
The episode was about some guy who slept with a stripper and wanted to tell his wife. His wife wanted to tell him she slept with his cousin who was married to her best friend.
Yikes, I needed a score card to keep track of who was doing what.
Every few seconds a fight would break out and the audience would stand up and chant “Jerry, Jerry, Jerry...”
Springer has been on TV for many years, so obviously some people eat this trash up. Personally, I don't get it.
I really don't care if Jim-Bob slept with Suzie-May who is not only his cousin, but his wife's-friend's-aunt's-sister'
But inspite of feeling like I needed a shower, I kept watching. At one point, the dental assistant looked to see what I was viewing and I felt embarrassed at my choice of entertainment.
It is like a car wreck, brought to you daily from some seedy trailer park filled with inebriated and morally challenged hillbillies who have nothing better to do than jump from bed to bed.
Springer had several groups of people who, for some reason, feel it is necessary to tell millions of viewers just how trashy they are.
For me, that is the most baffling part of the whole situation: their willingness to air their dirty laundry in front of the TV cameras.
The more I watched, the more of an appreciation I gained for my wife. We have been married for 25 years this summer and she has proven to be a wonderful partner and terrific mom.
As I watched these 'ladies' admit to actions akin to porno movies, I felt even more blessed to be married to the Missus.
By the time Jerry was done lowering the IQ points of millions of people, the dentist was done drilling holes in my teeth and I was done with Mr. Springer.
I will likely never return to the fiesta of TV trash, but at least I found something more distasteful than having to spend time in the Chair of Doom.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Thrilled to be working on my son's car with him
A few weeks ago, Junior bought his first car.
Well, technically he borrowed the money from his parents to buy his first car, but he is slowly and surely paying it off.
He is good about stuff like that. For a first car, it is nice. It's a 1998 Cavalier Z22 with barely 105,000 kilometres on it. It is a shiny red, five speed that we acquired at a good price.
My first car was a red 1972 Toyota Corrolla. It had a four speed hooked up to a 1,200 CC engine and was, without argument, the slowest car in my entire high school.
I am pretty sure the school’s lawnmower could go faster, but it was a car and it was all mine. Looking back, it was the perfect car for someone with my enthusiasm for driving: it was slow, it got great gas mileage, and it was slow.
I drove it for three whole days before getting into an accident. It was a minor fender-bender when I clipped the back bumper of a rather large truck, ripping the front right fender from where it was supposed to be.
I sheepishly drove the car home and showed my dad who was less than impressed with the customization I had done.
Eventually I found a replacement fender, painted it a similar colour and the only way you could tell it was in an accident was by looking at it.
It was still pretty obvious the car had been crunched, but considering what was in store for the little car that could, an odd-looking fender was the least of it.
Numerous speeding tickets (I guess it wasn’t slow enough) and at least one accident later – I rear-ended a car that stopped on the bridge and sliding into the ditch in the snow does not count as accidents – it was time to get rid of the beater-mobile. I had put on more than 48,000 kilometres in less than 18 months and the car was a little rough around the edges, and in the middle, and the front, and back and...
I sold the Crash-olla and purchased a very beat up 1969 Nova. It was rusted, blew more smoke than a Woodstock reunion and was in need of some serious repairs. I loved it.
The next couple of years would see me scouring every auto wrecker in the city, looking for one part after another.
One particular wrecker had a great selection of old Chevys and quickly became my favourite stop. It got to the point where the guys behind the counter would look up, see it was me and simply point to the back, allowing me free access to roam and find what I needed.
While Junior's car is much cooler than my little Crash-olla, and in way better shape that my Nova, we still made a trip to the wreckers the other day because he wanted to replace the shifter knob.
It was almost magical to be heading to the wrecker with my son to retrieve a part needed for his automobile.
Being a small item, the man behind the counter said, “The Chevys are on the far fence, help yourself.”
Awesome, now I could traipse through a car graveyard with my son on a quest to find a needed part.
As we searched, we talked about this car and that car before finding the part we needed. The shifter knob was not a perfect match, but we drilled it out a little bit so it would fit.
Once it was attached, we spent the next hour going over all the modifications he wanted to make from a thumping stereo (just like dad's) to fancy rims (just like dad's) to a bevy of motor modifications.
“All it takes is time and money, son. You'll get there eventually.”
It took me almost three years to transform my rusted-out Nova into a beautiful three-tone blue cruising machine with a rebuilt motor, chrome rims and a stereo loud enough to be heard in space. Finances dictated the engine remain stock, but at least it was a good looking car.
I sold my beloved Nova 20 years ago to pay for bills life had thrown at my wife and I. I miss that car to this day.
But now, I get to go through the car-customizing process again with my son.
How cool is that.
Well, technically he borrowed the money from his parents to buy his first car, but he is slowly and surely paying it off.
He is good about stuff like that. For a first car, it is nice. It's a 1998 Cavalier Z22 with barely 105,000 kilometres on it. It is a shiny red, five speed that we acquired at a good price.
My first car was a red 1972 Toyota Corrolla. It had a four speed hooked up to a 1,200 CC engine and was, without argument, the slowest car in my entire high school.
I am pretty sure the school’s lawnmower could go faster, but it was a car and it was all mine. Looking back, it was the perfect car for someone with my enthusiasm for driving: it was slow, it got great gas mileage, and it was slow.
I drove it for three whole days before getting into an accident. It was a minor fender-bender when I clipped the back bumper of a rather large truck, ripping the front right fender from where it was supposed to be.
I sheepishly drove the car home and showed my dad who was less than impressed with the customization I had done.
Eventually I found a replacement fender, painted it a similar colour and the only way you could tell it was in an accident was by looking at it.
It was still pretty obvious the car had been crunched, but considering what was in store for the little car that could, an odd-looking fender was the least of it.
Numerous speeding tickets (I guess it wasn’t slow enough) and at least one accident later – I rear-ended a car that stopped on the bridge and sliding into the ditch in the snow does not count as accidents – it was time to get rid of the beater-mobile. I had put on more than 48,000 kilometres in less than 18 months and the car was a little rough around the edges, and in the middle, and the front, and back and...
I sold the Crash-olla and purchased a very beat up 1969 Nova. It was rusted, blew more smoke than a Woodstock reunion and was in need of some serious repairs. I loved it.
The next couple of years would see me scouring every auto wrecker in the city, looking for one part after another.
One particular wrecker had a great selection of old Chevys and quickly became my favourite stop. It got to the point where the guys behind the counter would look up, see it was me and simply point to the back, allowing me free access to roam and find what I needed.
While Junior's car is much cooler than my little Crash-olla, and in way better shape that my Nova, we still made a trip to the wreckers the other day because he wanted to replace the shifter knob.
It was almost magical to be heading to the wrecker with my son to retrieve a part needed for his automobile.
Being a small item, the man behind the counter said, “The Chevys are on the far fence, help yourself.”
Awesome, now I could traipse through a car graveyard with my son on a quest to find a needed part.
As we searched, we talked about this car and that car before finding the part we needed. The shifter knob was not a perfect match, but we drilled it out a little bit so it would fit.
Once it was attached, we spent the next hour going over all the modifications he wanted to make from a thumping stereo (just like dad's) to fancy rims (just like dad's) to a bevy of motor modifications.
“All it takes is time and money, son. You'll get there eventually.”
It took me almost three years to transform my rusted-out Nova into a beautiful three-tone blue cruising machine with a rebuilt motor, chrome rims and a stereo loud enough to be heard in space. Finances dictated the engine remain stock, but at least it was a good looking car.
I sold my beloved Nova 20 years ago to pay for bills life had thrown at my wife and I. I miss that car to this day.
But now, I get to go through the car-customizing process again with my son.
How cool is that.
Monday, May 27, 2013
A shopping we will go and go and go and...
I thought it would be a fun little thing for us to do - some together time while spending money, who wouldn’t enjoy that?
Do to a nasty sewage backup – that is not the fun part, believe me – we had to replace several damaged items in our basement.
The insurance company was really good and signed off on our claim without a single word of complaint, sending us a cheque to replace our damaged goods, allowing us a small shopping spree.
The Missus and I discussed the new pantry we wanted to get, along with a few other items that were, um, soiled by the backed-up-pipes calamity of 2013.
I am not a real big fan of shopping. There are a few exceptions, but generally it is not my favourite sport.
The Missus, however, has taken it to a whole different level and this is where things started going off the rails.
Heading out to area stores, I figured we would go in, get what we need and get out seeing as we already knew what we wanted.
After 25 years of marriage, you would think I would have learned by now, but no one ever accused me of being a genius – ever.
Our shopping plan was going perfectly, until we arrived at the store that is.
I went straight to the aisle we were looking for, located the pantry we wanted and was pleased that we would be out of there in a matter of minutes.
Then I turned around and saw the Little Woman at the other end of the aisle checking out different cabinets and pantries.
“Um, Honey, Sweetheart, the one we want is right here. See, I am touching it right now. Look, there it is.”
Barely glancing up, my wife informed me she kind of liked the one she was looking at.
OK, no problem, let’s get that one.
“I don’t know. I like this one, but the other one is nice too.”
Thus starting a debate with herself that would result in us leaving the store without either one so she could think about it for a while.
So she thought about it, then thought about it some more, looked at the space, and spent the next couple of days thinking about it.
Meanwhile I was thinking I could have already had the pantry assembled and stocked with enough food to get us through the apocalypse, or until my teen age son and his friends came by – which, by the way, often feel like the same thing.
Anyway, there was still an empty space where our new pantry should be and we continued to dig through boxes to find the dried foods we were seeking.
My wife then went online to search out more pantries, resulting in a trip to a different store to look at different cabinets that looked very similar to the ones we had already looked at, but were different enough to make her go home and think it over for a couple of days.
Sigh.
I am beginning to notice a pattern here. Another trip to a another store uncovered even more pantries. They looked very much like the other ones we had investigated, but they were different enough for my wife to want to go home and think about it and…you know the story by now.
We made several trips to various stores before settling on a pantry that looked a lot like the first one we were checking out. It might have been for all I know because by that point, I had lost track.
I lugged the big box full of wood to my humble home, assembled it and loaded it with food, happy the pantry ordeal had finally been resolved.
However, I was not out of the shopping woods yet – not by a long shot.
You see, the hallway carpet also had to be replaced and when we walked into the flooring store I almost hit the floor as I looked at the dozens of options available to us.
Noooooooooo....
Darren Handschu
Do to a nasty sewage backup – that is not the fun part, believe me – we had to replace several damaged items in our basement.
The insurance company was really good and signed off on our claim without a single word of complaint, sending us a cheque to replace our damaged goods, allowing us a small shopping spree.
The Missus and I discussed the new pantry we wanted to get, along with a few other items that were, um, soiled by the backed-up-pipes calamity of 2013.
I am not a real big fan of shopping. There are a few exceptions, but generally it is not my favourite sport.
The Missus, however, has taken it to a whole different level and this is where things started going off the rails.
Heading out to area stores, I figured we would go in, get what we need and get out seeing as we already knew what we wanted.
After 25 years of marriage, you would think I would have learned by now, but no one ever accused me of being a genius – ever.
Our shopping plan was going perfectly, until we arrived at the store that is.
I went straight to the aisle we were looking for, located the pantry we wanted and was pleased that we would be out of there in a matter of minutes.
Then I turned around and saw the Little Woman at the other end of the aisle checking out different cabinets and pantries.
“Um, Honey, Sweetheart, the one we want is right here. See, I am touching it right now. Look, there it is.”
Barely glancing up, my wife informed me she kind of liked the one she was looking at.
OK, no problem, let’s get that one.
“I don’t know. I like this one, but the other one is nice too.”
Thus starting a debate with herself that would result in us leaving the store without either one so she could think about it for a while.
So she thought about it, then thought about it some more, looked at the space, and spent the next couple of days thinking about it.
Meanwhile I was thinking I could have already had the pantry assembled and stocked with enough food to get us through the apocalypse, or until my teen age son and his friends came by – which, by the way, often feel like the same thing.
Anyway, there was still an empty space where our new pantry should be and we continued to dig through boxes to find the dried foods we were seeking.
My wife then went online to search out more pantries, resulting in a trip to a different store to look at different cabinets that looked very similar to the ones we had already looked at, but were different enough to make her go home and think it over for a couple of days.
Sigh.
I am beginning to notice a pattern here. Another trip to a another store uncovered even more pantries. They looked very much like the other ones we had investigated, but they were different enough for my wife to want to go home and think about it and…you know the story by now.
We made several trips to various stores before settling on a pantry that looked a lot like the first one we were checking out. It might have been for all I know because by that point, I had lost track.
I lugged the big box full of wood to my humble home, assembled it and loaded it with food, happy the pantry ordeal had finally been resolved.
However, I was not out of the shopping woods yet – not by a long shot.
You see, the hallway carpet also had to be replaced and when we walked into the flooring store I almost hit the floor as I looked at the dozens of options available to us.
Noooooooooo....
Sunday, May 19, 2013
My name is Darren and I am not addicted to my cell phone
I think of it as a cosmic balancing of the universe.And I am OK with that.You see, I have a cell phone and that drives my wife crazy. Right now wives everywhere are rolling their eyes, shaking their heads and muttering under their breath about their own hubby’s cellular mistress.But this problem may surprise many wives out there - I am not addicted to my cell phone.In fact, I can’t stand the stupid thing.My wife on the other hand is no more than 30 centimetres away from hers at any given point in time.If it buzzes, rings or beeps she is on it faster than a dog on a three-legged cat.The youngsters are even worse. My son sends more texts in a day than I thought were humanly possible.As for me, I am not too attached the infernal device and I waited - perhaps better described as resisted - for a long time to get a cell phone.“But if you had one, then we could get in touch with you no matter where you are or what you are doing.”And that is exactly why I waited so long to get one. I don’t really want people to get in touch with me no matter where I am or what I am doing.And it is this attitude that drives the Little Woman absolutely bonkers.“Why do you even have a cell phone?” she has asked on more than one occasion.“Mostly because you made me get one,” is oft my reply as I watch the steam shoot out of her ears.I admit cell phones can be handy little devices in case of emergency. Like when you can’t find the Missus in the mall and if you spend one more minute rambling around the centre for shopping your head will explode.Then a phone comes in handy to send a quick text, connect with the Missus and plead my case for leaving.They also come in handy for keeping in touch with the children, who are usually scattered to the wind with their friends.But when I am doing yard work, exercising or engaged in a variety of other activities, I do not want to stop and answer the stupid phone – so I don’t, and that drives my wife nuts.But like I said, I consider it balancing out one annoying trait she has that drives me nuts.I can move pretty fast when the occasion calls for it. If we are running late I can fly around the house and get ready faster than The Flash on Red Bull. At work, I can move so fast there’s smoke coming off my keyboard.However, my wife only has one speed – medium/slow. That’s it. That is the only speed she can move at.It doesn’t matter what the situation is, how late we are running or where we have to be, she moves at medium/slow.It took many years for me to accept this is just how she is. No amount of talking, prompting or complaining will get her to move any faster.Believe me, I have tried and tried and tried…It still drives me crazy, but after 25 years of wedded bliss, it is just something I have learned to live with.And that brings us back to that infernal electronic gizmo so many people have.The way I see it, I have gotten used to her medium/slow pace, so she is going to have accept I am unable to bond with my cell phone.After having the electronic device from hell for less than three years (I told you I waited a long time to get one) I have no plans of increasing my cellular prowess.She will just have to get used to it, and one of these days I am going to summon up enough courage to tell her that.Hmmmm, maybe I could send her a text.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Big 5-0 here I come
I am not quite there yet, but I am rapidly closing in on my 50th birthday.
That is half a century on this earth, five decades, 600 months, 18,250 days, 438,000 hours – you get the idea.
I thought by now I would be a lot smarter than I am, but I am still not as smart as my teenage children.
I never went through a mid-life crisis when I turned the big 4-0, but they say 40 is the new 30, so that makes 50 the new 40 (whatever that is supposed to mean).
Or maybe I am just having a delayed reaction to watching my youth disappear in the rearview mirror of life.
I wondered what I was supposed to act like when I turned 40. I still liked the same things I did when I was 30, or even 20 for that matter. I still liked motorcycles, martial arts and hanging out with friends.
Now that 50 is looming like a big rig careening toward me in the wrong lane on the highway of life ready to splatter me on the grill like a potbellied, bald bug, I must admit to feeling some pangs of mid-life troubles. I know I hide it well, but it true.
It is a bit of a falsehood actually, because mid-life at 50 means I will live to 100 and based on my less-than-stellar younger years, I doubt that will happen.
I wouldn’t complain if I did, but I am not counting on it.
So as I look in the mirror at my ever-whitening beard and the growing crop of wrinkles showing up where they never used to be, I have been reflectively looking back on my life and asking, “What the hell happened?”
It seems like just yesterday I was a snot-nosed punk in my teens ready to take on the world with enough energy and not enough smarts to actually try it.
Now, all of my children are teenagers. That can’t be right. When I was a teen, my parents seemed so old, so if my kids are now in their teen years that must mean I am, um, moving on...
The thing is, I don’t feel old. I don’t imagine my parents did at this age either.
My oldest will be out of his teens this summer. As he reaches another milestone in his life, I find myself thinking about what I was doing at his age and hoping he never finds out what I was doing at his age.
I was not really bad at that age (or any age for that matter), but there are a few things I would prefer my kids don’t do.
To the best of my knowledge they haven’t, but then again my parents never knew what I was up to so who knows what they are actually doing. I prefer to think they are spreading good will among their fellow man and helping little, old ladies across the street.
The thing that hit me between the eyes like a thunderbolt from the heavens was when I realized that when I got married, my dad was not much older than I am now.
I never gave it much thought back then. I never looked at life through my parent’s eyes (who does at that age), but as the years pile on I see things through more mature lenses.
It is interesting to see life from this point of view. I can look back and recall how I was feeling, what I was thinking and just how downright dumb I was all those years ago.
But at the time, I thought I was pretty darn smart.
Hopefully, the years will continue to tick by, and one day I hope to be a cranky old man sitting in my favourite chair, complaining about the government, these young whippersnappers, cold drafts and looking back at when I turned 50 and marveling at what a young punk I was.
That is half a century on this earth, five decades, 600 months, 18,250 days, 438,000 hours – you get the idea.
I thought by now I would be a lot smarter than I am, but I am still not as smart as my teenage children.
I never went through a mid-life crisis when I turned the big 4-0, but they say 40 is the new 30, so that makes 50 the new 40 (whatever that is supposed to mean).
Or maybe I am just having a delayed reaction to watching my youth disappear in the rearview mirror of life.
I wondered what I was supposed to act like when I turned 40. I still liked the same things I did when I was 30, or even 20 for that matter. I still liked motorcycles, martial arts and hanging out with friends.
Now that 50 is looming like a big rig careening toward me in the wrong lane on the highway of life ready to splatter me on the grill like a potbellied, bald bug, I must admit to feeling some pangs of mid-life troubles. I know I hide it well, but it true.
It is a bit of a falsehood actually, because mid-life at 50 means I will live to 100 and based on my less-than-stellar younger years, I doubt that will happen.
I wouldn’t complain if I did, but I am not counting on it.
So as I look in the mirror at my ever-whitening beard and the growing crop of wrinkles showing up where they never used to be, I have been reflectively looking back on my life and asking, “What the hell happened?”
It seems like just yesterday I was a snot-nosed punk in my teens ready to take on the world with enough energy and not enough smarts to actually try it.
Now, all of my children are teenagers. That can’t be right. When I was a teen, my parents seemed so old, so if my kids are now in their teen years that must mean I am, um, moving on...
The thing is, I don’t feel old. I don’t imagine my parents did at this age either.
My oldest will be out of his teens this summer. As he reaches another milestone in his life, I find myself thinking about what I was doing at his age and hoping he never finds out what I was doing at his age.
I was not really bad at that age (or any age for that matter), but there are a few things I would prefer my kids don’t do.
To the best of my knowledge they haven’t, but then again my parents never knew what I was up to so who knows what they are actually doing. I prefer to think they are spreading good will among their fellow man and helping little, old ladies across the street.
The thing that hit me between the eyes like a thunderbolt from the heavens was when I realized that when I got married, my dad was not much older than I am now.
I never gave it much thought back then. I never looked at life through my parent’s eyes (who does at that age), but as the years pile on I see things through more mature lenses.
It is interesting to see life from this point of view. I can look back and recall how I was feeling, what I was thinking and just how downright dumb I was all those years ago.
But at the time, I thought I was pretty darn smart.
Hopefully, the years will continue to tick by, and one day I hope to be a cranky old man sitting in my favourite chair, complaining about the government, these young whippersnappers, cold drafts and looking back at when I turned 50 and marveling at what a young punk I was.
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