Snowshoeing is fun, but gravity sucks

Did someone increase the Earth's gravitational pull and not tell me?
Because I did not get the memo.
My query is based on an experience I had on the weekend.
The Missus and I wanted to break free from the cabin fever gripping our souls and venture into the great outdoors where the air is fresh and you can pee on a tree without getting weird looks from your neighbours.
As this is not exactly hiking weather, we got our hands – well, our feet actually – on some snowshoes and headed for the back country to commune with nature and frolic in the woodland realm that is our majestic country.
This was the first time I had donned the large footwear in many years. The last time I ventured onto snow in such a manner was when I was a teenager in the army reserve.
We were on a two-day exercise in the middle of winter several kilometres in the mountains. We were flown in by Chinook helicopter -— those massive double-prop choppers –— and dumped somewhere in the mountains. Exactly where I am not sure, but I did know it had snow, a lot of snow.
So much in fact that when we jumped out of the back of the helicopter, the man in front of me disappeared. I mean one second he was there, the next he was gone.
As soon as I jumped out, I knew why because I sank up to my man nipples in snow and I was 10 inches taller than he was.
We managed to swim through the snow to the tree line where the powder was more manageable. I dug out the snowshoes I was issued and attempted to put them on. These were old-style snowshoe, and by old style I mean pre-Second World War vintage.
The age of the snowshoe was not a problem, but the fact they had no bindings to hold them to my feet made wearing them slightly more challenging.
I dug out some shoelaces from by backpack and fashioned some bindings so I could play soldier for the next 48 hours. Of course, at least half the snowshoes we were issued had no bindings, so everyone was getting creative in holding them to their feet.
We ran up hills, across fields, down hills and up more hills on those rickety old snowshoes, all the while carrying a rifle and a backpack full of stuff.
Now, fast forward 30 or so years and I have a very nice pair of snowshoes with the newest style bindings. They were light weight, stuck to my feet like glue and were easy to manage.
I did not have a backpack or weaponry of any sort, but the first steep hill we encountered nearly gave me a heart attack.
Which brings me to the question of when did Earth's gravitational pull increase so much? What other reason could there be?
I am a little older than the last time I snowshoed, well, OK, a lot older. I am also a little heavier, well, OK, a lot heavier, but still...
I have remained regularly active over the years (no, really, I have) and am not in horrific shape. Sure I am not exactly a mighty athlete (sumo wrestlers are athletes) but I did not think I was that out of shape, so it must be the increase in Earth's gravity that got me.
By the time the outdoor adventure was over, I was sweating like a fat guy in a sauna — or rather, a somewhat round guy on snowshoes.
Despite the challenges, sweat, a sore knee and general complaints from my flabby body, I had a great time and Missus and I plan on going out again.
I just hope Earth's gravity is back to normal by then.

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Copyright 2017, Darren Handschuh

I'm a weather wussy and I admit it

Dear Old Man Winter: Stop it.

I readily admit I am a weather wussy.

I am not a fan of snow, nor cold and when you put them both together as this fine nation does every year...well, let's just say a hacienda in Mexico sounds better every day.

My dislike of winter weather begins long before the snow flies. It actually starts when the frost begins.

You know those frigid morning where you haven't adjusted your schedule to accommodate the time you need to scrape off the diamond-hard layer of frozen water on your windshield.

And then there is the frost on the inside of the window. As the car is warming up and you have take a credit card out of your wallet and scrape the interior of your car windows, sending those little white snow-like bits of frost all over the dash.

And now you are late for work so, with the heater on full blast, you gingerly make your way out of your driveway while scrunching down to look through the tiny spot at the bottom of the windshield that the heater has managed to melt.

When you get to work, the windshield is clear and your car is toasty warm – just in time to park it for eight hours so it can return to being a car-sicle for you warm up again so you can go home.

At least you don't have to shovel frost, but you know when the frost comes, the white frozen water that falls from the sky is not that far behind.

One thing I do find very amusing about snow is all the people who say it caught them by surprise.

How does an entire season catch anyone by surprise. Unless you just moved here from that hacienda I was talking about, you know snow will eventually find its way to your doorstep.

It's too bad there was not some sort of warning the snow was coming. Perhaps a device with numbers, days of the week and months on it that would indicate what season it is.
I do not know what to call this device, but it sure would come in handy to help people figure out roughly when winter is going to make an appearance. We could even hang it on the wall where it would be easy to see.
Perhaps the old timers, which is pretty much anyone over two years old, could tell those drivers that every year, winter happens in Canada.
That way, they will not be caught by surprise.

When the first snow hits, local tire shops are swamped with surprised who people who thought maybe this year there would be no snow and are stunned to find out that there is.

Imagine that, snow in Canada in the wintertime.

The first snowfall of the year also brings with it accidents as all those surprised people forget that snow is not only cold, it is slippery.

Every year the RCMP issue an official warning, urging people to slow down and drive carefully.

That is right up there with the warning on a hair dryer that it is not to be used in the shower.

Do we really need an official warning to figure these things out?
I guess we do, actually, because there they are.

I do admit the first snow fall of the year (you know, the one that catches everyone by surprise) is usually the toughest one to drive in because you have to re-learn how a car handles in the snow.

But if you ease up on the gas pedal and remember that tip about snow being slippery, you should be just fine.

We still have a few more weeks of winter ahead of us so remember drive safe, defrost your windows and dream of that hacienda where the coldest thing you will have to worry about is the ice in your drink.

Copyright 2017, Darren Handschuh

Happy New Year, from Fatso

The New Year is almost a week old and area gyms are busier than they have been since last January.
Why?
Because for some reason people think the changing of the calendar will provide the motivation they need to lose weight, exercise more, spend less money, quit smoking, help others, blah, blah, blah.
If someone is not able to do these things in say, July, what makes them think changing the last two digits of the year will help them succeed.
You are still you no matter the date and if you are going to do something in January, why can't you do it at any other point in the year?
Losing weight and improving one's self are the most popular resolutions.
But according to an online survey, a mere eight per cent manage to keep their New Year's resolution.
That means a whopping 92 per cent did just as poorly this year as they did last.
I am proud to say I fall into the eight per cent category.
That's right, I actually kept a resolution that I made many years ago.
In fact, it is one I keep to this very day.
I remember the night well – sort of. I was with a bunch of friends and we were celebrating the changing of the year with copious amounts of liquid refreshments.
For some reason, getting plastered was mandatory for ringing in the new year. At least it was with the people I hung out with.
As the evening wore on and beer-infused bravado grew to the point of boisterous bellowing, the inevitable question of New Year's resolutions came up.
Many went the I-need-to-lose-weight route and other such standard plans. Some said they wanted to drink less – as they cracked open another bevvy – noting they would start cutting back tomorrow.
I thought about a resolution I could make and then it hit me. The grandest resolution of them all.
My resolution on that fateful New Year's eve was to never again make a New Year's resolution.
And I am happy to say I nailed it. I have kept that resolution ever since.
I have basically quit drinking. I do enjoy the occasional social adult recreational beverage, but I no longer drink so much I can't find my shoes even if I'm wearing them.
I quit smoking many years ago and I am trying to lose weight. OK, I want to lose weight.
I did make myself a promise I would lose 15 pounds and I am happy to say I only have 22 more to go.
Um, moving on, none of those achievements were the result of Jan. 1 promises to myself. Hmm, but now that I think about it, had I made a resolution to gain weight I would have been kicking butt on that one as well.
I realized many years ago that if I was going to do something to improve myself, there was no magical day that would give me the motivation to do it.
The changing of the calendar would not suddenly give me the energy to do sit ups, push ups and pull ups until I threw up.
Motivation comes from within and no one day will change that.
Actually, that is not entirely true. There is one day that can change your life: today.
One of my favourite sayings is "You can't start any sooner than today."
So starting today, I think I will go for a run, or perhaps a walk, or maybe a stroll is more my speed, after all Rome wasn't built in a day.



Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

Ball of lights from hell

Christmas is the time of year of good will toward man, woman, child and, yes, even in-laws.
It is also the time of year hydro executives salivate over.
Throughout the land, countless thousands of people brave the winter chill to get their festive lights strung up in hope that St. Nick will be able to use them as landing lights and visit their home.
Around my homestead, the tradition of putting up the lights unfolds much in the same manner every year. First, I dig through a stack of boxes at the back of the garage looking for the ones marked ‘outdoor lights.’
Of course, I forgot that I forgot to mark them last year, so I get to open every box I think might hold the beacons of the Yule Tide until I get the right one, which is, of course, the last one.
I then hoist the 40-pound ball of green wire and little lights out of its summer hiding spot and spend the next five hours trying to untangle them.
The good-cheer-o-metre is already falling a notch or two as I struggle to separate one set of lights from the other.
For a brief moment I contemplate simply hanging the entire ball of lights from the apple tree in my front yard and calling it art Noel.
The tangle would represent the chaos that can come with Christmas and the lights are beacons of hope in the midst of modern-day madness.
You’re right, I am not buying it either.
Once the lights are untangled and the appropriate amount of ‘special’ eggnog consumed, it is time to put up the glowing orbs of merriment.
Here is where I will impart a piece of wisdom I learned the hard way: always make sure the lights work before you string them up.
After spending hours untangling and stringing the lights, the good-cheer-o-metre takes a serious hit when you plug them in and only half of them work.
Some very un-Christmas like words may form in the back of you mind and you risk being put on the naughty list if those words should accidentally slip out.
Years ago, my wife and I decided we would buy one strand of lights for each Christmas we shared together and then when we are old and grey we can look at all the lights and think, “I am waaaay to old to be climbing an ice-covered ladder in the middle of winter to put these up.”
Or something like that anyway.
We kept the tradition of purchasing a single strand of lights and after a while the front yard was looking pretty good.
However, I began to notice a flaw in the plan. The more lights we got, the more work it was putting them up and the more time I had to spend outside in the cold plugging things in, wrapping them with electrician’s tape and spending countless hours searching for that one burned out bulb.
That messed up bulb has been my festive nemesis on more than one occasion and the longer it takes to find the problem, the more impact is has on the good-cheer-o-metre.
But thankfully, there are people out there who are like a secret Santa with a desire to help and save me from at least some of that work.
Once, such a special person visited our festive display under cover of night and relieved me of a lot of work by running off with several strands of light.
My son was heading to school the next morning and asked, “Hey, dad, what did you do with the lights?”
D-oh.
OK, that’s not exactly what I said, but it was pretty close. About three strands of lights had been ‘liberated’ from our front yard.
The good-cheer-o-metre took a definite hit, but in keeping with the love of the season I got over the act of a Scrooge and thought, “Oh well, they must have needed them more than I did.”
That’s what I thought, honest.
Despite the act of Grinchery by unknown bad guys, we continued with our humble decorations.
But of course, there is always that one guy in the ‘hood who has more decorations than Santa’s workshop.
You know the guy. He has so many lights UFOs think it’s a homing beacon.
With around seven-million lights, 4,000 figurines and at least 500 Santas of all shapes and sizes, the yard lights up the night sky to the point where you need sunglasses just to drive past. It generates so much heat the snow is starting to melt four houses down.
It is without question the brightest and boldest house in the ‘hood.
I wonder if he is compensating for something.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

Sorry Bros, I had to do it

I'm sure I just violated some sort of man code.
I may even have to turn in my membership to MGPC — Men's Global Procrastinators Club.
What have I done that will have men muttering under their breath?
Did I miss the 'big game?' Well, ya, I did actually, but that's not what this is about.
This is about the fact I have officially completed my Christmas shopping.
I bet you ladies never saw that one coming.
That has to be a new record for just about any man on the planet.

I have a little more than two full weeks to go before the big day and I am done, finished, kaputzki on the shopski.

I know I am in violation of the hard and fast rule that says guys cannot finish their Christmas shopping early, but to my detractors and critics who are upset I have broken this unwritten rule I say – bite me.
It feels great to be done so early and while you last-minute shoppers are bouncing off other last-minute shoppers and ripping around the mall like a fart in a hurricane, I will be kicking back with a 'special' eggnog wondering how the less-organized people are making out.

Getting the shopping done early has another bonus: those two weeks might be enough time for me to wrap the presents because I am possibly the worst gift wrapper in the world.

Anything I wrap looks like it was done outside in a hurricane, blindfolded, while hanging upside down.

I have never used the services of the mall wrappers who adorn your gift with fancy paper and bows because it would be too obvious I did not do the wrapping.

I like to provide the personal touch of wrapping the gift myself. Besides, it is fun watching my wife wrestle with the present as she tries to open it because I make up for my lack of wrapping skills with copious amounts of tape, something I learned from my dad.

Whenever Pops mails us a package, it has enough duct tape on it to rebuild the space shuttle.
It typically takes about 20 minutes and the use of power tools to open, but at least it is secure and Dad is doing his part to boost the economy by purchasing duct tape by the crate.

But when it comes to Christmas shopping, I was not always so efficient. Not by a long shot.

I used to be one of those lunatics who would start hitting the malls around Dec. 23. It was like a sport for me back then.
There was strategy involved as you cut through various aisles trying to get to the perfect gift before some other hapless husband happens to put a hand on it.
Some physicality comes in to play as men push and shove to get what they need so the Missus won't stick a candy cane up their nose come Christmas morning.

The latest I have ever left my Xmas shopping was Dec. 24. Yup, one year I waited until the last moment possible.

Not the smartest move I have ever made and one I have not made since.

Even though I finished my shopping early this year, it does not mean I rushed in choosing my gifts, especially for the Missus.
I had a pretty good idea of what to get her before I even headed out for the first swipe of the debit card.

The key is to pay attention to subtle hints that may be dropped when she spots a sweater in a store that she likes.
Hints such as, “It sure would be nice if someone got me that sweater for Christmas.”

It's all about paying attention to the little things.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

Hey, it's not my fault the speed limit is too low

The excuses started forming the instant I saw him.
The 'him' to which I refer was a cop sitting on a little pull out road at the side of the highway. I was the guy in the little red car going slightly faster than what some official type decided was good for the motoring public.
I was not breaking the sound barrier or anything, but my speedometer did nudge past the legal 90 km/h allowed by that official type guy.
I am not totally sure how it happened. I do drive a Toyota, so maybe I could plead mechanical woes and deny the heightened speed was my fault.
Darn those Toyota engineers and their wonky gas pedals.
Anyway, I noticed the keeper of the peace sitting in his car as I zoomed past and I knew I had been had - caught red handed, or in this case, lead footed.
"I am sorry I was speeding officer, but my water broke and..."
OK, that one isn't gonna work.
"I am sorry I was speeding officer, but I think speed limits suck."
OK, not the best way to try and talk your way out of a ticket.
"I am sorry I was speeding officer, but I am late for work and if I am late one more time my cruel and heartless boss will fire me and my children will end up begging in the street. Please, kind and wise constable, think of the children. I beg of you, think of the children."
OK, that one might be a little over the top.
"Say, um, Mr. Policeman, uh, how many boxes of donuts will it take to make this whole thing go away?"
Definitely not the right approach.
Realizing arguing with a traffic cop who has you dead to rights is like trying to outrun a dog - it just isn't going to happen - I then switched to resignation mode.
I resigned myself to the fact I was going to get a speeding ticket, my first in many years.
There was a time in my youth when I had amassed enough tickets to wallpaper by bedroom - and not just one wall, but the entire room.
Back in 'the day' I didn't just have a lead foot, my entire right leg was made of the stuff because I just could not stay off the gas and personal interaction with the local law-enforcement community was the result.
I was not a bad guy or anything. I didn't drink, I didn't do drugs, but I did have a tendency to drive in a manner that was in conflict with rules set out by that official type guy I was talking about earlier.
But with age comes maturity, and with maturity comes a realization that the three minutes I save by speeding are not worth the fines and hassles of getting a ticket.
But on this particular day, I simply was not paying attention to how fast I was going - until I saw the Kojak with the Kodak on the side of the road, then my speed became the most important thing I could think of.
I saw the cop car and immediately looked at the speedometer to find I was going almost 20 km/h over the limit. Oops.
Realizing my sin against traffic laws, I slowed down and watched the cop car for those pretty little lights to come on, but they never did.
In fact, the cop did not even pull out of his hiding spot.  
Hallelujah, more proof God loves me.
After a few seconds I began to relax. I also decided to keep a closer eye on how fast I was going, which was a good thing because the second cop I saw a couple of klicks down the road may not have been so forgiving, and besides, I was all out of donuts.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

There's clean and then there's wife clean

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.



Copyright 2016 Darren Handschuh