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

Who wants a bunch of gold anyway...

I was watching a show on the gold rush the other day and quickly came to the conclusion I would have made a lousy pioneer.

I am just not a settle-the-new-world kind of guy.

The documentary told of the hardships these hardy souls endured in their quest make it to the great gold fields of the north.

They would walk for weeks, even months on end.

My first question was: what sort of bathroom facilities were located along said trail?

I am pretty sure the answer involved leaves, sticks and a very uncomfortable rash.

That alone is enough to keep me safely tucked away in some already-developed part of the world.

The documentary said many of the gold rushers had never spent time outside of a city before and had to learn as they went.

I would imagine they learned really fast what leaves to avoid when it came to personal use.

'Leaves of three let it be' was a vital piece of information. Of course the aboriginal population already knew about the 'evil leaves' because they had lived in the land since time began.

I like to think there was at least one Aboriginal jokester who convinced a plump, citified white boy that 'leaves of three are ideal for thee.'

The intrepid, but not too skilled frontiersman, would then grab a handful of poison ivy after taking care of that personal business I mentioned earlier.

It would be easy to tell what gold seekers fell for the gag – they would be the ones walking like their rear end was on fire.

Our jokester would then go back to his village with a great story to tell.

"You will not believe what I just got some white guy to do. You know that plant that makes you itch really bad? Well..."

They of course would break out in roaring laughter every time they saw a cowboy doing the poison ivy shuffle.
"Hey white guys, you know what else is a good idea - sleeping with food in your tent. Bears hate that and will avoid you like the plague."

Did any of that really happen? Probably not, but it is kind of fun to think about.

Then there was the bathing issue. Many of those intrepid pioneers would bathe once a year whether they needed it or not.
It was not an easy task to lather up in those days, and the last thing someone wanted to do was dive into an ice-cold lake or stream.
It was much easier to just smell bad, and besides there were no ladies to impress anyway so what's the point?
"Joe you smell absolutely delightful today, what have you done?"
"Well Fred, I took a quick bath in that crick over thar and then used the natural wonders of the aloe vera plant to keep me smelling like a fresh spring rain"
Of course the natives were kicking back and lounging in local hot springs.
"Do you think we should tell the white guys about this?"
"Naw, it's way more fun to watch them the way they are."
"Good point."

While they may have been adventurous, frontiersmen were a smelly lot with poor hygiene: no matter how hard you scrub, brushing your teeth with your finger does not make them clean.

So let's review: no bathroom facilities, you smell like a camel barfed into an old gym shoe, your breath could slay a dragon and you spend countless hours surrounded by other men.

As fun as that sounds, is gold really that important? I think I would just find a nice job in the city, squirrel away some savings and work on retirement.

But the lure of gold was too strong for many and they left the comfort of the city and plunged head first into the challenges only Mother Nature could provide.
And after a while I am sure even Mother Nature plugged her nose when an intrepid gold seeker went by.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

I didn't know I wanted Netflix until my son told me I do

I came home from work the other day and Junior informed me he had signed us up for Netflix.
“That was very kind of you son. And, why do I want Netflix?”
“Because they have tons of cool shows.”
“OK, and I assume I will be the one paying for all these cool shows.”
“Um, er, well...lemme show you what all they have.”
So now, I have Netflix (which actually is pretty cool.)
They do have a lot of good stuff – and a lot of stuff I could care less about – but it has more that interests me than what is on TV, so I figure I will give it a try.
The problem is, our television set is so old, Fred Flintstone used to watch it.
It is an old bubble TV that we got for free when our other ancient TV packed it in a couple of years ago. But despite its age, it does everything I require of a TV – it lets me watch TV.
The challenge now was, how do I get Netflix from our wi-fi router to our ancient boob tube?
There had to be a way, so the Missus and I headed to the local electronics store to see what kind of gizmo we would need to make the magic happen.
The first store we stopped at we were assisted by a lad so young his voice had barely finished changing.
We explained our situation while he looked at us with a blank stare.
He then called his manager over – who was just slightly older - and she too gave us a blank stare and said they could not help us.
Hmm, perhaps this will be a little more difficult than I thought.
But we carried on with our quest and explained the situation to the kid at the next store.
This guy seemed a little older as was evident by the three whiskers he had growing out of his chin. I had a pair of shoes older than he was, but at least he was not giving us the blank stare.
But as we told Scooter about the situation, he did look at us like we were hill folk in town for our annual pilgrimage.
Obviously, he could not believe someone – anyone – in this day and age would still have a bubble TV.
On the outside, he listened patiently, but I am sure on the inside he was thinking: “These old people need to get with the times. I hope they don't break a hip in the store. I wonder where they parked their walkers?
"A bubble TV ... I can't wait to tell everyone on lunch break.”
I am not at the top of the tech game, but I am hardly a dinosaur – even if my TV was around the same time T-Rex was.
I may have recently slid past the 50 mark, but I am hardly ready for a home – although some days, it does sound appealing.
Unlike Skippy at the first store, this guy actually had an idea of what we needed, and after he explained the situation to a much older co-worker – this guy was at least 25 – they found what we were looking for.
It is some sort of adapter that receives the wi-fi signal and will hook up to our Jurassic TV set.
I must admit, deep down I was scanning new TVs and secretly hoping we could replace the bubble with a new, high-tech contraption, but Scooter came through and the gizmo thingy works just fine.

--> That's OK, the gizmo cost a lot less than a new TV and the bubble TV works just fine – and now it works with Netflix.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

The 'fun' of parenting never ends

When my children were younger, I would always think things will be easier when they are older.

“When they are older, I won't have to change stinky diapers anymore.”

Which is true, but for a while you have to deal with 'accidents' that happen at pretty much anytime of the day, no matter where you are.

For parents with children in this transitional phase, you quickly learn to carry extra clothes with you even if you are just running to the grocery store for 10 minutes.

Because, as every parent knows, you can ask your young one if they have to go 'potty' before you leave to which they will always say no.

Then, five minutes after arriving at your destination, they will have to go - immediately. Sometimes you would make it to the nearest lavatory on time, some times you wouldn't.

And of course more than one day began with the changing of the sheets after a night time 'accident.'

“It will be nice when they can walk, then I won't have to carry them everywhere.”
Now that statement is true. I did not have to carry them everywhere, I had to chase them everywhere. And young children rarely walk anywhere. Instead they skip and hop and run, but they rarely walk.

I used to think, “It will be so nice when they are in school. I will have all this free time – it will be wonderful.”

Well, you do have more free time during the day. But after school there is homework and sports and special events and parent-teacher interviews and...

Then there is the drama. Oh my, the drama.

Not so much with my sons, but with my daughter there was lots of girl drama – something I was not expecting nor prepared for.

I had no idea the emotional tsunami a growing girl brings to the party with her. One minute she is feuding with someone, the next they are best friends. One second she is happy, the next she is bawling her eyes out.

It was hard to keep up.

“When they are in high school, then things will be easier.”

Remember that emotional tsunami I was talking about? Well, it carries on well into the high school years.

It is true they are a lot more independent in the teen years, which is good, but they also think they know a lot more than they do.

It also means they want to drive, and for the first few years that meant driving my car, until they could afford one of their own.

“Dad, the car is out of gas”

“Well, put some in.”

“I don't have any money.”

“Dad, I kind of backed into a truck. The truck is fine, but the car not so much...”

So for the next couple years a drove a red car with a grey trunk that was always out of gas.

OK, when they graduate high school and move out things will be easier.

Except for the ridiculous expense of college that is.

“What do you mean one book costs $600. What kind of book is it? Is the type written in gold or something?”

Then there is the moving out part.

“He dad, can you help me move – again.”

“Hey dad, I'm a little short of rent money this month – again.”

So you see, the challenges of young children are replaced with challenges of older children.

I know people who's children are well into their 40s and still giving their parents grief.

Now I say, “It will sure be nice when we retire, then we can move away and not tell them where we went.”

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

Soliciting strangers for candy

It's almost that time of year again.
The leaves are turning their magical colours, the air is crisp with a hint of frost glistening off the hood of my car as I head off to another day in the salt mines.
Yup, it can only mean one thing: Halloween is just about here.
I love Halloween. It should be a stat holiday. How can kids concentrate when they know there is a mountain of candy waiting for them at every door?
I know when I was a wee lad the school day was pretty much a write off. Kind of like most days actually, but this time I had a legitimate excuse for not paying attention.
All sorts of hideous creatures with their scary faces and foul stench were seen roaming the hallways at my school, and some of those people dressed up for Halloween as well.
There were always a few kids who were too cool to wear their costume to school, but later that evening, when all that free sugar was being handed out, they were jostling for position with the best of them.
You are never too cool to get free candy.
The spooky commercials and TV shows would start a few weeks before the big day adding to the excitement.
Is it just me, or was the world a lot less weird back then? Some of the stuff coming out in the form of horror movies these days is downright disturbing.
I never saw it in the theatre – I was way too young – but I can remember hearing about The Exorcist and how scared people were. I can remember news stories on how people were terrified about being possessed.
Now, it would likely be viewed more as a comedy than a horror, but back then, it was some scary stuff.
I know I am rambling on like an old fuddy-duddy, but movies seem to have crossed the line from being scary to being gross and filled with mindless violence.
But then again, I am sure older people said the same thing about the horror movies I used to watch as a teen.
Either way, horror movies and Halloween go together like America and fat people.
TV is also besieged by ghastly ghouls of every description and that is just on the news.
Every show has to get in their Halloween special featuring everything from cute and cuddly monsters to some scary beasts that devour humans like Elvis on a deep-fried doughnut.
Before TV, people used to sit around in the dark and tell scary stories to frighten each other.
“There were two horrific beasts preying upon the good citizens of the land. Each had a foul tongue and used every trick they could to fool and captivate innocent people...”
Wait a second, my bad, I was referring to the U.S. presidential debates, sorry about that.
Anyway, TV and movies have replaced storytelling with visual effects that could not even be imagined a few decades ago.
Costumes are also way more intricate than when I was a kid. My friends and I had to suffer those thin plastic masks with elastic band straps that depicted vampires or werewolves or other ‘scary’ creatures.
The problem was, the only scary thing about those masks was when your friend ran up and pulled on it before releasing his grip and laughing as the mask smashed into your face.
It is amazing how often that would happen in a single night.
But no matter how things change, the more they stay the same.
Halloween is still about dressing up, having fun and getting a bag full of free treats.
So like clockwork, every Oct. 31, parents dress their children up, send them into the dark of night and encourage them to take candy from strangers.

Copyright2016, Darren Handschuh