Artsy fartsy
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
A co-worker of mine told me about this workshop that combines art and wine. It sounded interesting – I could bring my artistic ability to the forefront while sipping on a glass or two of some of the Valley’s finest, but after a few glasses my crayons would be going outside the lines and it would all be a big mess akin to my childhood years.
A few more glasses and everything I did would look like a Picasso, only not as organized.
Picasso went through the blue period, well I would call this the drunk period, which would be followed by the sick period, which would be followed by the hung-over period and it all would end with the I-promise-to-never-to-do-that-again-just-make-the-pain-in-my-head-go-away period.
The co-worker went on to explain I would sip the vino while a real artist did the actual painting, which makes much more sense.
It got me thinking about art, what it means, why it is worth such obscene amounts of money and why some of it is so weird.
For whatever reason, it seems the stranger the piece, the more it is worth.
I am no authority on art, but I know what sucks and I have seen some paintings that make me wonder how the ring-tailed lemur that painted it managed to hold onto the brush for so long.
I have been to art shows and some of the stuff I understand, but some of it makes less sense than a gas company’s explanation for the price of petrol.
Some of the work is amazing and I thoroughly appreciate the talent, but others look like someone barfed up a box of crayons, signed it and put a $10,000 price tag on it.
Now, before all the artsy types light their brushes on fire and storm the office in a rampage akin to the Frankenstein incident of 1722, I know it is artistic expression and the person is reflecting a part of their deep inner soul and all that stuff.
I am just saying I am not their soul mate when it comes to art I guess. I also think if the jumble of colours is a reflection of their soul, some serious interaction with a mental health expert, or even an exorcist, might need to be added to their ‘to do’ list.
Grocery shopping – check.
Pick up dry cleaning – check.
Have ancient Monrovian spirit Zolthar exercised – check.
I am sure some art lovers consider me a boorish peasant for my lack of artistic aptitude, and that’s OK, because it is not like we were trading Christmas cards anyway.
I realized I am not exactly an art aficionado when my wife and I were on a trip to a quant little resort town.
It was a quiet little hollow with quant shops, a beautiful lake, excessive prices and everything else a resort town is made of.
The weekend we were there, an art show and sale was being held in the park.
We casually strolled over to check it out and the first painting we came across looked like someone had rescued a piece of canvass from a paint factory explosion.
I am sure to the trained eye it was a titillating dance of hues that came together to express man’s struggle with one’s inner self.
To me, it looked like the artist simply used whatever paint they had left over while sampling some of that wine we were talking about earlier.
I nearly fell over when I saw the price tag of $3,000. My wife and I stood in shocked wonder. Three Gs for something that looks like a two year old with a hyperactivity disorder had painted seemed insane.
However, looking at the ‘art’ did give me an idea.
I figured when we got home I would run out to the art supply store, buy a whole bunch of paints, brushes and enough canvass to wrap a mummy.
I would then hand the supplies to my two year old and tell him to go to work. He is not hyper, but a cup of coffee or something would have worked I am sure.
The plan was to let him go crazy with the colours before taking the canvass to a park art show and selling it for a gazillion dollars.
He could crank out four or five of those a week, easy. I had dollar signs spinning in my eyes like one of those cartoon characters.
We could tell people the art work expressed the child in all of us and I would ramble on about how the random use of colours was designed to invoke a childlike glee of painting.
Anybody dumb enough to buy that line of drivel deserves to pay $3,000. And if they were willing to pay me $3,000 for $10 worth of art supplies, I was willing to let them.
I never did enact the child-artist plan, but I have a niece who will have a kid this summer and I think maybe we could work something out.
shoenews@shaw.ca
Friday, January 2, 2009
Playing the waiting game
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
Anyone who has been to a doctor knows an appointment is more of a guideline than an actual time you will see said practitioner.
Appointments are made so people can rest assured that eventually, they will get in to see their doctor and are not just hanging out in a public waiting area half the day for the fun of it.
I can appreciate how busy doctors are and I understand stuff happens and appointments get delayed, so my new goal is to have as much fun with the waiting process as possible.
The challenge is to have fun in the mind-numbing vacuum of boringness that is a waiting room.
I can remember when doctor’s offices used to have National Geographic, or some other cool magazines.
The last time I was waiting for a doc, the magazines were the most uninteresting pieces of glossy fluff I have ever seen.
The lets-visit-the-doctor routine goes pretty much the same way every time it happens.
I check in with the receptionist upon arrival – because the sign tells me to and if I don’t will be lost in the waiting room black hole forever, which I am convinced is what happened to Jimmy Hoffa. He’s probably still in a waiting room, reading the latest issue of Modern Unions and Mobsters because he did not check in with the receptionist.
So after I check in, I spend a couple of minutes looking around before seeking out some reading material that will help make the minutes fly by.
In one doctor’s office I was impressed to find the magazines actually had a protective plastic binder around them.
That makes sense. You wouldn’t want that vintage May, 1972 copy of Better Quilts and Pillows to get damaged. How else would you know what kind of throw pillow goes best with orange shag carpet?
Fine literature like that deserves to live for all eternity (and probably will in the waiting room.)
After spending 18-43 seconds looking over the magazines and realizing watching a fly crawl across the wall is more exciting, I begin to check out my fellow doctor seekers.
This is a more in depth scrutiny of my waiting room brethren than the cursory glance I give when I first arrive.
That initial check is an absolutely vital part of the waiting room experience. Remember, these people are here to see a doctor because they are ill, and that means the room is full of koodies (which I believe is an actual medical term.)
The initial glance when you first walk in will give you some idea of the people you do not want to sit beside. The lady with the tissue permanently welded to her nose is the first person to avoid.
As is the guy who is coughing to so much his face has turned so red it could guide Santa’s sleigh.
Once the room is surveyed and you have checked in with the receptionist person, it is time to select your seat based on your cursory examination of the room. This is a very important decision because that will be your seat for the next seven to 10 days, depending on how far behind the doctor is running.
Once a chair has been selected and having exhausted the thrilling and educational stack of magazines it is time to check out the crowd and play ‘What’s your ailment.’
Mucus girl and phlegm boy are easy to figure out, as is the kid with cast and the lady in the neck brace, but there are always a few people who look absolutely fine.
Those are the ones I decide to give an ailment of my choice to.
“Really. Wow, not many people contract malaria in the Okanagan.”
“Diphtheria. Now there’s a disease you don’t hear nearly enough about.”
I don’t even know what diphtheria is, and if it wasn’t for spell check I wouldn’t know how to spell it either, but being married to a nurse I hear about all sorts of nasty diseases that I can’t spell or pronounce and certainly do not want to contract.
During the wait, people come and go and every time the receptionist grabs a file you secretly hope it is your name being called so you can get out of the germ factory and on with your day. You know eventually your name will be called and when it is, it is like winning a mini lottery.
But, having your named called is a little misleading because all that happens is you leave the big waiting room and end up sitting in a smaller room that, without the doctor in it, is essentially another waiting room. But at least I know I am getting closer to my end goal so I cheerfully flip through the latest edition of Modern Squirrels and Muskrats while waiting those last few minutes for the doc.
For some reason that kind of wait seems limited to when I go to see the doctor.
When I go to the dentist, I am ushered into the chair of terror .04 seconds after walking in the front door.
I haven’t even taken my coat off before the receptionist starts dragging me into the room where people are going to stick sharp objects into my gums.
I don’t even know if my dentist has magazines because I am never in the waiting room long enough to read one.
I appreciate their efficiency, but when it comes to seeing a dentist I am an abject coward. I do not like going to the tooth doctor and I actually don’t mind waiting for a while, it gives me time to psych myself up.
It’s kind of a ‘Rah-rah, you can do it’ time.
The ‘What’s your ailment’ game cannot really be played at the dentist office anyway because I know what people are there for – their teeth.
The upside is, the sooner you get in, the sooner you get out, and when it comes to the dentist, getting out is all that matters.
shoenews@shaw.ca
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
Anyone who has been to a doctor knows an appointment is more of a guideline than an actual time you will see said practitioner.
Appointments are made so people can rest assured that eventually, they will get in to see their doctor and are not just hanging out in a public waiting area half the day for the fun of it.
I can appreciate how busy doctors are and I understand stuff happens and appointments get delayed, so my new goal is to have as much fun with the waiting process as possible.
The challenge is to have fun in the mind-numbing vacuum of boringness that is a waiting room.
I can remember when doctor’s offices used to have National Geographic, or some other cool magazines.
The last time I was waiting for a doc, the magazines were the most uninteresting pieces of glossy fluff I have ever seen.
The lets-visit-the-doctor routine goes pretty much the same way every time it happens.
I check in with the receptionist upon arrival – because the sign tells me to and if I don’t will be lost in the waiting room black hole forever, which I am convinced is what happened to Jimmy Hoffa. He’s probably still in a waiting room, reading the latest issue of Modern Unions and Mobsters because he did not check in with the receptionist.
So after I check in, I spend a couple of minutes looking around before seeking out some reading material that will help make the minutes fly by.
In one doctor’s office I was impressed to find the magazines actually had a protective plastic binder around them.
That makes sense. You wouldn’t want that vintage May, 1972 copy of Better Quilts and Pillows to get damaged. How else would you know what kind of throw pillow goes best with orange shag carpet?
Fine literature like that deserves to live for all eternity (and probably will in the waiting room.)
After spending 18-43 seconds looking over the magazines and realizing watching a fly crawl across the wall is more exciting, I begin to check out my fellow doctor seekers.
This is a more in depth scrutiny of my waiting room brethren than the cursory glance I give when I first arrive.
That initial check is an absolutely vital part of the waiting room experience. Remember, these people are here to see a doctor because they are ill, and that means the room is full of koodies (which I believe is an actual medical term.)
The initial glance when you first walk in will give you some idea of the people you do not want to sit beside. The lady with the tissue permanently welded to her nose is the first person to avoid.
As is the guy who is coughing to so much his face has turned so red it could guide Santa’s sleigh.
Once the room is surveyed and you have checked in with the receptionist person, it is time to select your seat based on your cursory examination of the room. This is a very important decision because that will be your seat for the next seven to 10 days, depending on how far behind the doctor is running.
Once a chair has been selected and having exhausted the thrilling and educational stack of magazines it is time to check out the crowd and play ‘What’s your ailment.’
Mucus girl and phlegm boy are easy to figure out, as is the kid with cast and the lady in the neck brace, but there are always a few people who look absolutely fine.
Those are the ones I decide to give an ailment of my choice to.
“Really. Wow, not many people contract malaria in the Okanagan.”
“Diphtheria. Now there’s a disease you don’t hear nearly enough about.”
I don’t even know what diphtheria is, and if it wasn’t for spell check I wouldn’t know how to spell it either, but being married to a nurse I hear about all sorts of nasty diseases that I can’t spell or pronounce and certainly do not want to contract.
During the wait, people come and go and every time the receptionist grabs a file you secretly hope it is your name being called so you can get out of the germ factory and on with your day. You know eventually your name will be called and when it is, it is like winning a mini lottery.
But, having your named called is a little misleading because all that happens is you leave the big waiting room and end up sitting in a smaller room that, without the doctor in it, is essentially another waiting room. But at least I know I am getting closer to my end goal so I cheerfully flip through the latest edition of Modern Squirrels and Muskrats while waiting those last few minutes for the doc.
For some reason that kind of wait seems limited to when I go to see the doctor.
When I go to the dentist, I am ushered into the chair of terror .04 seconds after walking in the front door.
I haven’t even taken my coat off before the receptionist starts dragging me into the room where people are going to stick sharp objects into my gums.
I don’t even know if my dentist has magazines because I am never in the waiting room long enough to read one.
I appreciate their efficiency, but when it comes to seeing a dentist I am an abject coward. I do not like going to the tooth doctor and I actually don’t mind waiting for a while, it gives me time to psych myself up.
It’s kind of a ‘Rah-rah, you can do it’ time.
The ‘What’s your ailment’ game cannot really be played at the dentist office anyway because I know what people are there for – their teeth.
The upside is, the sooner you get in, the sooner you get out, and when it comes to the dentist, getting out is all that matters.
shoenews@shaw.ca
Hunting for a hound
(note this was orignally published in May/2008)
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
Can we get a dog?
That is the questioned being floated around the family homestead lately, mainly by the children.
We haven’t had a dog for several months after putting our last beast down to end 16 years of pet ownership. She was old, deaf, mostly blind, her hair was falling out and she would bark at the wall for no particular reason so we all agreed it was time for her to go to the great doggy park in the sky, or where ever it is dogs go.
I could tell you I miss her, but ‘thou shall not lie.’
After we put her down, we agreed (OK, I suggested) we go one year without a dog before we consider getting another hound. Well, that year is almost up.
I have to admit, I have been enjoying life without a dog running around barking, digging up the yard, dropping little doggy landmines all over the place and in general being more work than I care to take on at this station in life.
I have been compiling a mental list of the good points and the not-so-good points of owning a relative of the wolf clan.
On the upside, dogs offer companionship and make sure you are never alone. In a house of five people plus their friends and an often-visiting mother-in-law I relish being alone.
In fact, I cherish it. In fact, I look forward to it. In fact, if I didn’t get some alone time I would probably wind up with one of those fancy fashion accessories that magicians are always trying to escape from.
Mind you the dog won’t talk, change the channel or hog the couch, so that argument is iffy at best.
Another good point about a dog is you can play with it and whatnot when you are bored. Correct me if I am wrong, but isn’t that what they invented video games for. And a video game will never make a stinky on the floor.
But the dog is more interactive than a video machine, so the hound will have to get the nod again.
Another good point about a dog is they are a walking food disposal system. If you drop a piece of food on the floor, the mutt will be on it like piranhas on a cow. But, without the dog, the food just sits there, so that is a definite plus to owning such a creature.
OK, there are three points in favour of bringing an entirely different species of life into my home.
Let’s see if we can find a couple drawbacks to adding a furred critter to the fold.
The dog might not get along with the cat, but that is more of the cat’s problem than mine so that one doesn’t really count.
As puppies, canines tend to chew things. We had a dog many years ago that ate all the wood skirting around a shed. I am not kidding. He ate so much wood I was convinced he was terrier crossed with beaver.
He also ate a $10 bill, a couple of cassettes, some Christmas decorations and part of our couch to name just a few of the items he dined on.
Dogs can also be truly gross little critters. I have touched on this briefly in the past, but it is so significant it deserves another mention: dogs eat their own vomit.
Enough said in the gross-out department.
The truly icky thing is I have been witness to such culinary madness. I have also seen dogs eat their own recycled food byproduct commonly known as doo-doo.
Let’s just say I do not let dogs – no matter how big or small – lick me on the face, or on the hand, or even on the sleeve of my jacket if I can help it.
The whole vomit-as-a-food-source thing is a pretty strong argument on its own. Mind you that might cut down on the amount we spend on dog food.
The real problem is, I am a dog person so I like having a dog around. We have a cat, but a cat just can’t be compared to a dog.
For one, a dog will generally come when you call it, while a cat will just stare at you with a look of ‘if you want to pet me, crowbar your butt off the couch and come over here.’
Dogs are also eager to please their master. Cats think they are the master.
The upside of cats is they are a lot less work than a dog. When we go away for the weekend all we have to do is make sure the cat has enough food and water and it’s ‘See ya later.’
If you do that with a dog, all of the food will be eaten in the first 10 minutes and there is only so many times a dog can barf, so eventually its food source will run dry and it will become quite hungry.
But being a dog person, one would think it would be an easy decision. The thing is, not having a dog means a lot less work for me.
“But we’ll help look after it,” is the plea of my children.
“Right, and Elvis is going to come out of hiding to become the next president of the United States and solve global warming by eating every cow on the planet, thus saving earth from their harmful emissions.”
I kind of enjoy going away for the weekend and not have to worry about what we are going to do with Fido.
Camping also brings its own set of challenges when you have a dog because you have to keep them on a leash, off the beach and silent.
All of these items have been debated with my wife, who is on the ‘Yes’ side of the debate.
It got to the point where I had to put my foot down and say, “As the man of the house I decree we are not getting a dog – until the fall anyway, or sooner if you want, if that is OK with you dear.”
shoenews@shaw.ca
(note this was orignally published in May/2008)
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
Can we get a dog?
That is the questioned being floated around the family homestead lately, mainly by the children.
We haven’t had a dog for several months after putting our last beast down to end 16 years of pet ownership. She was old, deaf, mostly blind, her hair was falling out and she would bark at the wall for no particular reason so we all agreed it was time for her to go to the great doggy park in the sky, or where ever it is dogs go.
I could tell you I miss her, but ‘thou shall not lie.’
After we put her down, we agreed (OK, I suggested) we go one year without a dog before we consider getting another hound. Well, that year is almost up.
I have to admit, I have been enjoying life without a dog running around barking, digging up the yard, dropping little doggy landmines all over the place and in general being more work than I care to take on at this station in life.
I have been compiling a mental list of the good points and the not-so-good points of owning a relative of the wolf clan.
On the upside, dogs offer companionship and make sure you are never alone. In a house of five people plus their friends and an often-visiting mother-in-law I relish being alone.
In fact, I cherish it. In fact, I look forward to it. In fact, if I didn’t get some alone time I would probably wind up with one of those fancy fashion accessories that magicians are always trying to escape from.
Mind you the dog won’t talk, change the channel or hog the couch, so that argument is iffy at best.
Another good point about a dog is you can play with it and whatnot when you are bored. Correct me if I am wrong, but isn’t that what they invented video games for. And a video game will never make a stinky on the floor.
But the dog is more interactive than a video machine, so the hound will have to get the nod again.
Another good point about a dog is they are a walking food disposal system. If you drop a piece of food on the floor, the mutt will be on it like piranhas on a cow. But, without the dog, the food just sits there, so that is a definite plus to owning such a creature.
OK, there are three points in favour of bringing an entirely different species of life into my home.
Let’s see if we can find a couple drawbacks to adding a furred critter to the fold.
The dog might not get along with the cat, but that is more of the cat’s problem than mine so that one doesn’t really count.
As puppies, canines tend to chew things. We had a dog many years ago that ate all the wood skirting around a shed. I am not kidding. He ate so much wood I was convinced he was terrier crossed with beaver.
He also ate a $10 bill, a couple of cassettes, some Christmas decorations and part of our couch to name just a few of the items he dined on.
Dogs can also be truly gross little critters. I have touched on this briefly in the past, but it is so significant it deserves another mention: dogs eat their own vomit.
Enough said in the gross-out department.
The truly icky thing is I have been witness to such culinary madness. I have also seen dogs eat their own recycled food byproduct commonly known as doo-doo.
Let’s just say I do not let dogs – no matter how big or small – lick me on the face, or on the hand, or even on the sleeve of my jacket if I can help it.
The whole vomit-as-a-food-source thing is a pretty strong argument on its own. Mind you that might cut down on the amount we spend on dog food.
The real problem is, I am a dog person so I like having a dog around. We have a cat, but a cat just can’t be compared to a dog.
For one, a dog will generally come when you call it, while a cat will just stare at you with a look of ‘if you want to pet me, crowbar your butt off the couch and come over here.’
Dogs are also eager to please their master. Cats think they are the master.
The upside of cats is they are a lot less work than a dog. When we go away for the weekend all we have to do is make sure the cat has enough food and water and it’s ‘See ya later.’
If you do that with a dog, all of the food will be eaten in the first 10 minutes and there is only so many times a dog can barf, so eventually its food source will run dry and it will become quite hungry.
But being a dog person, one would think it would be an easy decision. The thing is, not having a dog means a lot less work for me.
“But we’ll help look after it,” is the plea of my children.
“Right, and Elvis is going to come out of hiding to become the next president of the United States and solve global warming by eating every cow on the planet, thus saving earth from their harmful emissions.”
I kind of enjoy going away for the weekend and not have to worry about what we are going to do with Fido.
Camping also brings its own set of challenges when you have a dog because you have to keep them on a leash, off the beach and silent.
All of these items have been debated with my wife, who is on the ‘Yes’ side of the debate.
It got to the point where I had to put my foot down and say, “As the man of the house I decree we are not getting a dog – until the fall anyway, or sooner if you want, if that is OK with you dear.”
shoenews@shaw.ca
Yule part all night
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
It’s Christmas time once again and that means non-stop gatherings.
Work functions, church events and family and friend get togethers make for a busy Yule Tide schedule.
Recently my wife and I were invited to a get together held by a lady she works with.
Upon arrival we quickly realized this was not the kind of gathering we were used to.
Now I am not a slob or anything, but I do prefer to dress for form and function rather than fashion.
My wife has a similar view on apparel, so we showed up dressed rather casually. We do have nice dress clothes, we just didn’t know we were supposed to wear them to this event.
It was a house party, not a gala ball.
I was wearing a blue fleece and blue jeans and my wife was wearing a hoodie.
Everyone else was dressed much nicer.
It was like a scud missile blew up a Yuppie mobile. There were cardigans and dress pants as far as the eye could see.
Suddenly I went from being casually dressed to feeling like a hillbilly visiting the big city.
“Well gawrsh, look at them thar fancy clothes. These folks must be rich or famous or something. If I would have known this was a fancy pants party I woulda worn clean underwear and everything.”
OK, so maybe it wasn’t that bad, but I did feel a little self conscious, until they started bringing out the food.
It’s amazing how a buffet of Roman proportions can make me not really care about being the most dressed down person at the event.
One of the highlights of the feast was the shrimp. I am used to the shrimp ring variety commonly found at parties, but these were big, fat shrimp that made the shrimp ring ones look like anorexic cast offs from the reject pile.
Fancy pants people eat pretty good.
I already felt like a factory worker at a royal ball, but coupled with the fact I knew a grand total of one person at the party (my wife) I found it hard to blend in.
Being over six feet tall, it is hard to have a casual conversation when there is a room full of people all babbling at the same time. The noise level dictates you be close to the person you are talking to.
Most people talk into my nipples, and the only way I can hear what they are saying is to bend down to their level. So I spent the evening bobbing up and down like one of those birds that sip water from the cup.
Extended conversations leave me hunched over like Quasimodo.
I was introduced to some people, but never encountered a Biff or Skippy. They were all just regular people who apparently owned some really nice clothes.
I found it rather amusing to watch people sip martinis from tall glasses. I am more of a beer-from-a-can sort of guy.
I could almost hear some of them talking.
“Our hosts are so generous. It’s so nice that they invite people like that. The common folk need to get out once in a while.”
“I agree. It’s good for us to associate with ‘those’ people as well. It reminds us that not everyone will be getting a new Benz for Christmas.”
The first person to flip me a Looney was going to get an atomic wedgie their children would remember.
So for a couple of hours we mingled and chatted and laughed all the way home, feeling much more cultured now that we had spent some time with the Trumps of the Okanagan.
shoenews@shaw.ca
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
It’s Christmas time once again and that means non-stop gatherings.
Work functions, church events and family and friend get togethers make for a busy Yule Tide schedule.
Recently my wife and I were invited to a get together held by a lady she works with.
Upon arrival we quickly realized this was not the kind of gathering we were used to.
Now I am not a slob or anything, but I do prefer to dress for form and function rather than fashion.
My wife has a similar view on apparel, so we showed up dressed rather casually. We do have nice dress clothes, we just didn’t know we were supposed to wear them to this event.
It was a house party, not a gala ball.
I was wearing a blue fleece and blue jeans and my wife was wearing a hoodie.
Everyone else was dressed much nicer.
It was like a scud missile blew up a Yuppie mobile. There were cardigans and dress pants as far as the eye could see.
Suddenly I went from being casually dressed to feeling like a hillbilly visiting the big city.
“Well gawrsh, look at them thar fancy clothes. These folks must be rich or famous or something. If I would have known this was a fancy pants party I woulda worn clean underwear and everything.”
OK, so maybe it wasn’t that bad, but I did feel a little self conscious, until they started bringing out the food.
It’s amazing how a buffet of Roman proportions can make me not really care about being the most dressed down person at the event.
One of the highlights of the feast was the shrimp. I am used to the shrimp ring variety commonly found at parties, but these were big, fat shrimp that made the shrimp ring ones look like anorexic cast offs from the reject pile.
Fancy pants people eat pretty good.
I already felt like a factory worker at a royal ball, but coupled with the fact I knew a grand total of one person at the party (my wife) I found it hard to blend in.
Being over six feet tall, it is hard to have a casual conversation when there is a room full of people all babbling at the same time. The noise level dictates you be close to the person you are talking to.
Most people talk into my nipples, and the only way I can hear what they are saying is to bend down to their level. So I spent the evening bobbing up and down like one of those birds that sip water from the cup.
Extended conversations leave me hunched over like Quasimodo.
I was introduced to some people, but never encountered a Biff or Skippy. They were all just regular people who apparently owned some really nice clothes.
I found it rather amusing to watch people sip martinis from tall glasses. I am more of a beer-from-a-can sort of guy.
I could almost hear some of them talking.
“Our hosts are so generous. It’s so nice that they invite people like that. The common folk need to get out once in a while.”
“I agree. It’s good for us to associate with ‘those’ people as well. It reminds us that not everyone will be getting a new Benz for Christmas.”
The first person to flip me a Looney was going to get an atomic wedgie their children would remember.
So for a couple of hours we mingled and chatted and laughed all the way home, feeling much more cultured now that we had spent some time with the Trumps of the Okanagan.
shoenews@shaw.ca
Christmas shopping at its finest
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
Last-minute shoppers are amusing creatures
Typically, they are men who left their Christmas shopping to Dec. 23 and are running around frantically trying to find something for the missus, mom and the kids.
They go tearing through the mall like madmen, trying not to run in to all the other guys who are body slamming each other in the aisle ways.
A frenzy develops, and soon no one is safe.
“Get out of the way grandma. That dolly with the pink dress, pleated skirt and matching hat is mine.”
“Back off sonny or I will give you a granny size butt whoopin’ you will never forget.”
Men are not great shoppers to begin with, but add the pressure of a deadline and things get down right nasty.
“You want some of this granny,” our shopper says while slinking away knowing, that when cornered, grannies are dangerous animals.
But, our intrepid shopper endures and eventually all the items are collected, and with a sigh of relief he heads for the check out.
While waiting in line, the adrenaline starts to fade and our shopper comes back to reality. He watches the chaotic gift grabbing going on around him and vows, “Next year, I will not wait to the last minute.”
Of course, next year he shows up at the same time and goes through the same routine except this time he does not back down and granny has to lay a beat down on him he will never forget.
But at this moment in time, he swears he will never leave it to the last minute again. In fact, he’s going to start in November. No. In June.
As he glances to the front door he sees a steady stream of people who are doing their shopping at an even later hour.
Our shopper feels smug.
“Look at those guys, leaving it so late. All they need is some time-management skills, like me.”
Our shopper is declaring victory and plans to be out of the store in a matter of minutes.
Then in the outer reaches of his thoughts he hears the most terrifying words any shopper can endure: “Price check on...”
Our shopper freezes as his mind locks in on the source of such angst.
Again he hears the voice, “Price check on aisle five.”
Those poor suckers. Here it is near closing time, they are in a rush to get home and now they have to survive a price check.
The smugness grows as he looks around to see what aisle such a tragedy has befallen.
Deep in his heart he fears the answer.
He looks to the left and a rush of panic strikes him. It’s aisle six.
Hoping for some reason the store reversed the numerical order of the check outs, he looks to the right only have the last vestige of hope dashed when he sees the number four.
He realized it is he who is in the ‘line of the damned.’
All our shopper can do is wait and watch as the other lines progress in a timely manner. He can hear people breaking out in joyous Yule tide song as their items are passed through the machine that goes boop.
“It’s the most wonder time of the year - boop. Dashing through the boop in a one-horse open boop…..”
He tries to block out the merry chatter of shoppers as they head for their cars, but all he can hear, being repeated over and over again are those two words: PRICE CHECK.
Then, a ray of hope. The check out person’s phone rings, they get the price and things are moving.
Our shopper rejoices at the Christmas miracle and the joy of the season comes flooding back as he steps up to the till and his items are put through the machine that goes boop.
He digs out some plastic, pays for his items and happily skips to the car.
Looking back he sees enough people waiting in the check out line to populate a small European country.
Plopping himself down in the driver’s seat, our shopper rests for a brief moment knowing he has survived another round of holiday shopping.
He puts the key in the ignition and is about to start the car when a voice screams in his head louder than the air horn of an ocean liner: “YOU FORGOT BATTERIES.”
shoenews@shaw.ca
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
Last-minute shoppers are amusing creatures
Typically, they are men who left their Christmas shopping to Dec. 23 and are running around frantically trying to find something for the missus, mom and the kids.
They go tearing through the mall like madmen, trying not to run in to all the other guys who are body slamming each other in the aisle ways.
A frenzy develops, and soon no one is safe.
“Get out of the way grandma. That dolly with the pink dress, pleated skirt and matching hat is mine.”
“Back off sonny or I will give you a granny size butt whoopin’ you will never forget.”
Men are not great shoppers to begin with, but add the pressure of a deadline and things get down right nasty.
“You want some of this granny,” our shopper says while slinking away knowing, that when cornered, grannies are dangerous animals.
But, our intrepid shopper endures and eventually all the items are collected, and with a sigh of relief he heads for the check out.
While waiting in line, the adrenaline starts to fade and our shopper comes back to reality. He watches the chaotic gift grabbing going on around him and vows, “Next year, I will not wait to the last minute.”
Of course, next year he shows up at the same time and goes through the same routine except this time he does not back down and granny has to lay a beat down on him he will never forget.
But at this moment in time, he swears he will never leave it to the last minute again. In fact, he’s going to start in November. No. In June.
As he glances to the front door he sees a steady stream of people who are doing their shopping at an even later hour.
Our shopper feels smug.
“Look at those guys, leaving it so late. All they need is some time-management skills, like me.”
Our shopper is declaring victory and plans to be out of the store in a matter of minutes.
Then in the outer reaches of his thoughts he hears the most terrifying words any shopper can endure: “Price check on...”
Our shopper freezes as his mind locks in on the source of such angst.
Again he hears the voice, “Price check on aisle five.”
Those poor suckers. Here it is near closing time, they are in a rush to get home and now they have to survive a price check.
The smugness grows as he looks around to see what aisle such a tragedy has befallen.
Deep in his heart he fears the answer.
He looks to the left and a rush of panic strikes him. It’s aisle six.
Hoping for some reason the store reversed the numerical order of the check outs, he looks to the right only have the last vestige of hope dashed when he sees the number four.
He realized it is he who is in the ‘line of the damned.’
All our shopper can do is wait and watch as the other lines progress in a timely manner. He can hear people breaking out in joyous Yule tide song as their items are passed through the machine that goes boop.
“It’s the most wonder time of the year - boop. Dashing through the boop in a one-horse open boop…..”
He tries to block out the merry chatter of shoppers as they head for their cars, but all he can hear, being repeated over and over again are those two words: PRICE CHECK.
Then, a ray of hope. The check out person’s phone rings, they get the price and things are moving.
Our shopper rejoices at the Christmas miracle and the joy of the season comes flooding back as he steps up to the till and his items are put through the machine that goes boop.
He digs out some plastic, pays for his items and happily skips to the car.
Looking back he sees enough people waiting in the check out line to populate a small European country.
Plopping himself down in the driver’s seat, our shopper rests for a brief moment knowing he has survived another round of holiday shopping.
He puts the key in the ignition and is about to start the car when a voice screams in his head louder than the air horn of an ocean liner: “YOU FORGOT BATTERIES.”
shoenews@shaw.ca
Shopping seriously sucks
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
My wife thought it would be a good idea if we went to a local mall to do some shopping.
While I am not a huge fan of shopping I didn’t have a lot else on the agenda so off we went.
While driving to the mall I casually asked my wife what we were shopping for. Her answer made by blood run cold: “I need a new dress for this weekend.”
Noooo. Anything but that.
My hands instinctively reached for the door handle and I considered bailing out. After all, we were only doing 60 km/h, how much could it hurt?
I figured a few days of hobbling around wrapped in a couple meters worth of bandages was a fair trade for avoiding dress shopping, but before I could put my plan into action we were at the mall.
Its neon sign shone like a beacon of doom. I could almost hear a sinister laugh as we stepped through the front doors and headed to the department store which had more dresses than J. Edgar Hoover’s closet.
I followed my wife around like a lost puppy as she looked at dresses in various shapes and colours. For a fleeting moment I thought of escaping to the tool department and began to work on an excuse to leave, but her female ESP locked onto my thoughts and shot the idea down before I could even form the words.
“Don’t think of running off because I want you to help me pick one out.”
She selected a few and headed to the change room where I was banished to the husband waiting area which is comprised of a few chairs.
I sat waiting until she stepped out in the first dress.
“How does this one look?”
“You look great. Perfect, you found it first try.”
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t like this one.”
Then why did you try it on? Buying clothes would go a lot faster if you tried on only the ones you liked.
I, of course, did not say that. I just let the thought rattle around in my head before filing it with the other logical things I have always wanted to say, but fully knew the futility of saying them.
So I sat there and looked around and tried to keep myself amused. I snickered at people with bad hair cuts and watched as kids tried to convince their mom they needed every toy in the store.
I became so bored I even tried to see how far I could stick my little finger into my ear.
Looking at another husband across from me I gave a cursory nod.
“What are you in for?” he asked while pulling his finger out of his ear.”My wife is looking for a dress for this weekend. And you?”
“My wife is looking for a skirt and blouse for a work thing,” he replied, his voice almost cracking.
My heart immediately went out to the poor soul slumped in the hard, plastic chair. I had to endure my wife trying on a single item of clothing, but this poor sap had it even worse.
His wife was not only looking for two pieces of clothing, but the pieces were an outfit so she had to coordinate them and match them and make sure they were perfect.
I felt a strange bond with him as he looked mournfully at the floor contemplating his fate.
A thought formed in the far reaches of my mind. What was stopping me and my new found friend from simply getting up and leaving?
The answer came even before the question finished forming – our wives that’s what.
Eventually my wife found the dress she was looking for and I thought we were free, but with a new dress must come a new pair of shoes.
As I trudged off to the shoe department I glanced back at my kindred brother in the waiting area and gave him a knowing look.
“Hang in there brother, you can do it.”
He in turned looked at me like a condemned man before casting his eyes once again to the floor.
As I watched him grow smaller in the distance I noticed another man accompany his wife to the change room and sit down on the chair, thus continuing the flow of the universe.
shoenews@shaw.ca
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
My wife thought it would be a good idea if we went to a local mall to do some shopping.
While I am not a huge fan of shopping I didn’t have a lot else on the agenda so off we went.
While driving to the mall I casually asked my wife what we were shopping for. Her answer made by blood run cold: “I need a new dress for this weekend.”
Noooo. Anything but that.
My hands instinctively reached for the door handle and I considered bailing out. After all, we were only doing 60 km/h, how much could it hurt?
I figured a few days of hobbling around wrapped in a couple meters worth of bandages was a fair trade for avoiding dress shopping, but before I could put my plan into action we were at the mall.
Its neon sign shone like a beacon of doom. I could almost hear a sinister laugh as we stepped through the front doors and headed to the department store which had more dresses than J. Edgar Hoover’s closet.
I followed my wife around like a lost puppy as she looked at dresses in various shapes and colours. For a fleeting moment I thought of escaping to the tool department and began to work on an excuse to leave, but her female ESP locked onto my thoughts and shot the idea down before I could even form the words.
“Don’t think of running off because I want you to help me pick one out.”
She selected a few and headed to the change room where I was banished to the husband waiting area which is comprised of a few chairs.
I sat waiting until she stepped out in the first dress.
“How does this one look?”
“You look great. Perfect, you found it first try.”
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t like this one.”
Then why did you try it on? Buying clothes would go a lot faster if you tried on only the ones you liked.
I, of course, did not say that. I just let the thought rattle around in my head before filing it with the other logical things I have always wanted to say, but fully knew the futility of saying them.
So I sat there and looked around and tried to keep myself amused. I snickered at people with bad hair cuts and watched as kids tried to convince their mom they needed every toy in the store.
I became so bored I even tried to see how far I could stick my little finger into my ear.
Looking at another husband across from me I gave a cursory nod.
“What are you in for?” he asked while pulling his finger out of his ear.”My wife is looking for a dress for this weekend. And you?”
“My wife is looking for a skirt and blouse for a work thing,” he replied, his voice almost cracking.
My heart immediately went out to the poor soul slumped in the hard, plastic chair. I had to endure my wife trying on a single item of clothing, but this poor sap had it even worse.
His wife was not only looking for two pieces of clothing, but the pieces were an outfit so she had to coordinate them and match them and make sure they were perfect.
I felt a strange bond with him as he looked mournfully at the floor contemplating his fate.
A thought formed in the far reaches of my mind. What was stopping me and my new found friend from simply getting up and leaving?
The answer came even before the question finished forming – our wives that’s what.
Eventually my wife found the dress she was looking for and I thought we were free, but with a new dress must come a new pair of shoes.
As I trudged off to the shoe department I glanced back at my kindred brother in the waiting area and gave him a knowing look.
“Hang in there brother, you can do it.”
He in turned looked at me like a condemned man before casting his eyes once again to the floor.
As I watched him grow smaller in the distance I noticed another man accompany his wife to the change room and sit down on the chair, thus continuing the flow of the universe.
shoenews@shaw.ca
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Frantic first timers r fun
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
Having been a father for many years, I find it amusing to hang out with people who have just had their first child.
I call them frantic first timers because they are always frantic about the state of their offspring.
I have to admit I was the same way when kid No. 1 came along.
Every peep Junior made would send me scrambling to make sure he was OK.
If he suddenly started crying in his crib, I just knew a giant anaconda had escaped from some zoo, made its way to my house and was about turn my beautiful baby into a serpent snack.
Or perhaps a pack of jackals had some how gotten past me and snuck up the stairs, opened the door to his room and were licking their chops in anticipation of the defenseless meal that awaited them.
I would go charging into his room, ready to battle the evil creatures who dared threaten the safety of my child.
The evil creature most often turned out to be a full diaper – which was only evil to the person changing it. What did the kid care, his work was done.
I still remember changing the first diaper of my life. My wife took pictures and greatly enjoyed the look on my face when I discovered what the diaper held.
It was kind of a combination of revulsion and stoic shock.
Anyway, a fresh diaper, something to eat and he was as happy as a little kid can be.
When kid No. 2 came along, I possessed a much greater understanding of children and realized they are not going to spontaneously combust if their crying was not tended to in less than three seconds.
I also came to the conclusion that roaming packs of anacondas riding jackals were extremely rare in Canada.
Instead of dashing up the stairs every time he made a noise, I would wait a couple minutes to see if he would go back to sleep, which he sometimes did. If not, I would head upstairs and tackle the terror of the diaper. Once again, Junior would emerge happy.
And once again I would be repulsed by the diaper content, but the more diapers I changed the faster I recovered.
By the time kid No. 3 came along, I was a cool and calm and had a pretty good grip on the whole baby thing. Diapers were no more mentally damaging than wiping a runny nose or cleaning the all impressive ‘spit up.’
The joys of parenthood just never seemed to end.
So, she would start crying in her crib and I would casually stroll up to get her, with no more urgency than is warranted.
Try explaining this morphing of attitude to someone who is still tending to kid No. 1.
They look at you like you are nuts.
A few years ago we visited some friends in northern B.C. who had just had their first child.
She was a beautiful little girl who hardly made a peep, but when a peep was made, parents would scramble.
She slept for several hours the first day we were there and her dad checked on her many times.
Apparently he too had heard of the anaconda threat and was making sure his daughter was safe from the roaming band of vicious vipers.
After watching him quietly open the door and peak into her room, I tried to impart some parental wisdom on my friend.
I debunked the anaconda theory, and told him not to worry, that at six months old, she would let him know when she was awake.
He nodded in agreement, digested the information and then took a break from our conversation to sneak down the hall peak in her room.
Frantic first timers are an amusing lot.
After she woke up we decided to go for a walk to the corner store and while my three children ran down the park trail, their bundle of joy was in a stroller.
The walk should have taken about 15 minutes, but because the sun was shining, Mom had to turn the stroller, adjust the shade cover and make sure the evil rays from the glowing ball in the sky never touched her child, so it took more than 30 minutes.
I didn’t mind. It was a nice day, my kids were having a good time running around in the woods and the live entertainment was so much fun to watch.
email shoenews@shaw.ca
By DARREN HANDSCHUH
Having been a father for many years, I find it amusing to hang out with people who have just had their first child.
I call them frantic first timers because they are always frantic about the state of their offspring.
I have to admit I was the same way when kid No. 1 came along.
Every peep Junior made would send me scrambling to make sure he was OK.
If he suddenly started crying in his crib, I just knew a giant anaconda had escaped from some zoo, made its way to my house and was about turn my beautiful baby into a serpent snack.
Or perhaps a pack of jackals had some how gotten past me and snuck up the stairs, opened the door to his room and were licking their chops in anticipation of the defenseless meal that awaited them.
I would go charging into his room, ready to battle the evil creatures who dared threaten the safety of my child.
The evil creature most often turned out to be a full diaper – which was only evil to the person changing it. What did the kid care, his work was done.
I still remember changing the first diaper of my life. My wife took pictures and greatly enjoyed the look on my face when I discovered what the diaper held.
It was kind of a combination of revulsion and stoic shock.
Anyway, a fresh diaper, something to eat and he was as happy as a little kid can be.
When kid No. 2 came along, I possessed a much greater understanding of children and realized they are not going to spontaneously combust if their crying was not tended to in less than three seconds.
I also came to the conclusion that roaming packs of anacondas riding jackals were extremely rare in Canada.
Instead of dashing up the stairs every time he made a noise, I would wait a couple minutes to see if he would go back to sleep, which he sometimes did. If not, I would head upstairs and tackle the terror of the diaper. Once again, Junior would emerge happy.
And once again I would be repulsed by the diaper content, but the more diapers I changed the faster I recovered.
By the time kid No. 3 came along, I was a cool and calm and had a pretty good grip on the whole baby thing. Diapers were no more mentally damaging than wiping a runny nose or cleaning the all impressive ‘spit up.’
The joys of parenthood just never seemed to end.
So, she would start crying in her crib and I would casually stroll up to get her, with no more urgency than is warranted.
Try explaining this morphing of attitude to someone who is still tending to kid No. 1.
They look at you like you are nuts.
A few years ago we visited some friends in northern B.C. who had just had their first child.
She was a beautiful little girl who hardly made a peep, but when a peep was made, parents would scramble.
She slept for several hours the first day we were there and her dad checked on her many times.
Apparently he too had heard of the anaconda threat and was making sure his daughter was safe from the roaming band of vicious vipers.
After watching him quietly open the door and peak into her room, I tried to impart some parental wisdom on my friend.
I debunked the anaconda theory, and told him not to worry, that at six months old, she would let him know when she was awake.
He nodded in agreement, digested the information and then took a break from our conversation to sneak down the hall peak in her room.
Frantic first timers are an amusing lot.
After she woke up we decided to go for a walk to the corner store and while my three children ran down the park trail, their bundle of joy was in a stroller.
The walk should have taken about 15 minutes, but because the sun was shining, Mom had to turn the stroller, adjust the shade cover and make sure the evil rays from the glowing ball in the sky never touched her child, so it took more than 30 minutes.
I didn’t mind. It was a nice day, my kids were having a good time running around in the woods and the live entertainment was so much fun to watch.
email shoenews@shaw.ca
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