Back to school blues no more

It is no secret the English language can be a confusing thing to get a handle on.
Take the word 'strike' for example.
You can strike up a conversation, strike someone on the bean (who desperately deserves it) and you can go on strike when your boss is being a big poopy head. Oh, and a baseball player can strike out (like I used to do every single time I went to a night club.)
You can also eat a steak, or drive a stake into the ground. They may be spelled differently, but sound exactly alike making for a potentially confusing conversation for someone who is not in tune with the nuances of the most widely spoken language in the world.
The meaning of a collection of words can also be different even though they are spelled and pronounced exactly the same.
Take 'back to school' for example. It can be both good, and bad.
As a young lad trapped in the public school system (also known as the seventh level of hell,) those words were a bad thing.
Everytime I would hear back-to-school commercials, my skin would crawl and I would develop an overwhelming urge to gather my belongings and go live in a cave in the hills somewhere.
School was not exactly a fun time for me and I felt about as wanted as a rash at a nudist colony.
I suffered through years of being bullied by classmates, some of whom I had known since Grade 1 and should have been my closest friends.
If anyone tells you being bullied is no big deal they were more than likely the ones doing the bullying.
Anyone who has been on the receiving end knows the impact it has. They know it is a big deal.
But I survived my years of torment and found a great deal of freedom when I began hanging out with a group from a different high school.
Even into my adult years, back-to-school ads generated a twinge of fear and loathing.
However, my middle-aged cranium has a new back-to-school emotion to deal with: glee.
Never in my life would I think back to school was a good thing, then I had kids.
I love my children. I love being around them, playing games with them and hanging out with them, but eventually it is mutually agreed that time apart is necessary.
Like the saying goes, "How can I miss you if you won't go away?"
So now back to school means getting rid of the kids, um, I mean celebrating their advancement to the next level of education.
My two youngest actually enjoy school – a strange concept I am still wrapping my head around. They get good grades, have lots of friends and in general fit very well with the school mold that spat me out like a bug in a bowl of soup.
And that is a good thing. They are not upset to see the back-to-school commercials. Sure they wish summer vacation could last for ever, but they are also looking forward to seeing all their friends.
And to be honest, I am looking forward to a little more peace and quite around the homestead.
I will actually be able to use the computer when I need it and I might even be able to find the remote to the TV on occasion. There will even be a little more food left in the fridge as Junior's friends head back to their own homes to hunker down for another season of higher education.
I will have to re-mortgage the house to pay for all of those back-to-school supplies, but that is to be expected, not enjoyed, but accepted as part of the fall ritual.
So there are finally good things to be said for back to school – as long as I'm not the one going back.

Dance like you just don't care

My wife likes to dance.
Not in front of men who are waving money at her or anything like that, but at parties and weddings etc.
She always wants me to hit the dance floor and bust a move (I am more worried about busting a hip).
We don't go to nighclubs very much anymore – and by that I mean never – so opportunities to dance are greatly limited.
And I am OK with that. I never was big on dancing.
I can dance in my own unique style, but I am not very comfortable on the dance floor.
At more than six-feet tall I always feel self concious as I boogie on down because I am taller than most of the people out there and I stick out like a dorky white guy who can't really dance.
My wife is so vertically limited the only people who see her are the ones directly around her, so she dances without a care in the world.
Our stunning height difference also makes slow dancing nearly impossible. The only way she could rest her head on my shoulder is if she had a small stepladder with her.
But that's not to say I have never cut a rug in my day. With enough liquid encouragement anyone will take to the floor and show the world what they have.
I have done my fair share of girating to the music (and not always with the addition of liquid skills), but there is only one setting where I am comfortable doing it: a wedding.
These days when the Missus and I attend a wedding it is for a niece, nephew or the child of a friend of mine which officially makes me the old guy.
And the 'old guy' can dance anyway he wants and not give a darn.
Once I realized that, I didn't care how badly I danced because as the 'old guy,' nothing more was expected of me.
I don't have to bounce with the latest dance moves or be up on the coolest trends. I can go out there and jump around anyway I want and all the young people will accept that whatever I am doing, it is because I am an 'old guy.'
I no longer have to worry about being cool. I never was cool, but I used to worry about it. Now, who cares, because all the other old people are dancing just as badly as I am.
While the young kids are spinning around on their heads so fast I am sure they will eventually drill a hole and strike oil, I am putting on my tried and true pattented moves that have done me just fine for many years.
You know, old guy moves.
But the best part of a wedding — and I also realized this many years ago —is  no matter how badly I dance, there will always be someone out there who dances worse than me.
Typically it is the drunk uncle who had his usual “one too many” and just can't contain himself any longer.
Of course, everyone knows about Uncle so they avoid him like a drunken plague and he ends up dancing by himself in the corner while slurring the words to a completely different song.
Eventually, Uncle moves from the dance floor to a chair where he spends the rest of the evening with his friends Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker.
Even without Uncle showing the next generation how it's done, the party continues and the youngsters jump around with the coolest moves they can muster.
As the night progresses, I show them a few moves of my own, like the I'm tired and I want to sit down (my personal favourite.)
They may not realize it at the moment, but eventually that is a move they will all mimic.

You just can't please some people

I guess some people are just not happy no matter what you do.
The other weekend, the Missus and I loaded the van, hooked up our travel trailer and off we went to spend a couple days communing with nature in all its glory.
But this time, basking the warmth of God's creation would include man's creation of electricity and water hookups. Typically, we do not camp where there are such luxuries, but we had them this time and we were going to use them.
And seeing as our trailer was parked among the pines, it still counts as camping.
It may not have been roughing it in the sense of our founding fathers who trudged through the blazing heat of summer, the frigid nights of winter, slept on pine needles and used leaves and sticks as bathroom accessories, but two of the speakers on our four-speaker sound system were not working so we had to endure two days of sub-standard listening. It was rough, but we got through it and when you leave your big house to go live in your little house on wheels, concessions of luxury must be made.
Anyway, towing a 17-foot trailer with a mini-van is not conducive to breaking any land speed records.
I realize this and I appreciate how frustrating it can be to get stuck behind Joe tourist as he plods down the road at a much lower speed than the maximum posted limit.
It can be annoying to say the least, especially when there is no place to pass. A long line of vehicles quickly forms and people do some really stupid stuff to try and get ahead of the pack and pass the slowpoke who is holding up traffic.
I must admit, in my younger days, I was one of those boneheads who took unnecessary chances just to get ahead of the gaggle of automobiles.
I was not the most patient driver in the world and I was not alone in my loathing for the tourista in the RV, or Johnny Go Slow who just can't seem to maintain 90 km/h.
That is why when I am pulling my trailer I do my best to get out of the way. There is no way I am going to maintain the speed limit going up hills, so when I get the chance, I edge off to the side of the road and even slow down a little so those frustrated motorists in the rearview mirror can safely pass and be on their merry way.
And that is exactly what I did on our latest excursion. After climbing a steep hill I found a section of road where I could safely drive on the edge.
I hit the right-side turn signal, eased over and slowed down. For some reason the guy in the red truck behind me also slowed down to match my pace. I continued to crawl along the edge of the road and there was no oncoming traffic so Mr. Red Truck could easily pass, but instead he kept slowing down.
Now, anyone with an IQ greater than a turnip knows I am pulling over so they can pass.
Eventually this dipstick figured it out and passed me – while flipping me the bird.
Technically I did not have to pull over and could have left it up to those in line to wait for a chance to pass and then have a little stock car race to see how many cars can get past the guy towing the trailer.
But that was the exact situation I was trying to avoid.
Everyone else in line figured it out, and a few waved with all five fingers as they passed, but for some reason Mr. Red Truck felt I was worthy of the 'driver salute.'
That particular gesture usually evokes an anger response, but this time it was met with amusement because how can you get mad at someone who is dumber than a vegetable.

What a rotting thing to happen

There really is no smell quite like it.
Perhaps sweaty socks left in the middle of the room by a herd of teenage boys comes close (too close actually,) but nothing really matches the aromatic quality of rotting meat.
Right now everyone who has ever smelled the pungent, overpowering and absolutely disgusting smell is wrinkling their nose in memory.
If your nasal region has never been assaulted by the stench, consider yourself lucky.
All rotting materials smell less than ideal, but meat has a quality that has to be smelled to be truly appreciated.
After returning from a weekend out of town a few years ago, we were clobbered by that smell the second we walked into the basement and we could not figure out why.
My first thought was a mouse, or, based on the magnitude of the stench, a giraffe had died in the basement and its rotting corpse was stinking up my home.
The Missus, who has a bionic nose and can smell a fly fart in a windstorm, was quickly on the trail of the offending odour.
She tracked it down to the mini-freezer we had in the basement. The same thought reached us both at the same time: the freezer was broken and all the goodies in there had been reduced to a rotting pile of ick.
Cautiously lifting the freezer lid, we saw everything was still frozen solid. But the smell was definitely coming from that area, so we continued our search.
In the narrow space between freezer and the wall was a piece of once-frozen chicken that had somehow fallen into the tiny abyss before we left for a three-day road trip.
That meant the former fowl was fermenting in my basement for several days before it was discovered.
We wrapped the offending (and offensive) chicken breast into several bags and threw it in the garbage before giving the are a serious cleaning.
I then proceeded to spray the room with half a can of that bathroom deodorizer stuff.
So then the room smelled like a summer meadow and rotting chicken. That fresh-smell-in-a-can just added a sickly sweet essence to the room.
I am convinced that despite names like 'summer meadow,' 'spring rain' and 'red rose,' those deodorizers all smell exactly the same. They just have different names so people think they are getting a different smell.
I bought this one fresh-air spray for my car that was called 'wild flower bouquet.'
Yeah right. It was more like 'toxic aroma' or 'industrial stench.' 
It was the worst smelling air freshener I have ever encountered. It was hideous.
The first time I used it, I wished the original stink was back to overpower the smell of the air freshener.
I almost grabbed a pair of my son's sweat socks (with barbecue tongs of course) to improve the air quality in my little car.
In the end, I just drove around with the windows open and my head sticking out for the next day or two.
Thankfully I was able to do this, because it would have been hard to drive with a gasmask on.
Airing out the car was a lot faster and easier than airing out the basement. With the car you crank down the windows, drive at about 150 kilometres an hour and eventually the wind replaces the bad air with the good.
The basement in the townhouse did not have any windows, so I put a fan at the top of the stairs and forced the fresh air into the lower level of my home.
Eventually the basement was cleared and my humble home returned to its normal, pleasant-smelling abode, even with an abundance of teen age sweat socks threatening to be unleashed.

Look out fish, here we come

Father-and-son fishing trips have been taking place for as long as there have been fathers,  sons and fish.
From the first time Ugghe Jr. was old enough to accompany Ugghe Sr. on a prehistoric fishing expedition, men have bonded over the killing of gilled animals.
Of course, in the Ugghe's days the fish were just as likely to catch them, but obviously enough dino-angles survived to ensure fishing became a beloved pastime for many.
Through the centuries, fishing trips helped foster the father-son dynamic, whether fish were actually caught or not.
I too am a member of the father-son fish assassination squad. My dad and I have hauled in our fair share of finned critters, all of which were cooked for the family.
Like my father before me, I never understood the point of taking a creature's life just for the thrill of it. If there was no practical reason to kill it - don't. It's that simple.
If you are going to kill something, at least let its death have some meaning.
I could go on a rambling diatribe about trophy hunters who kill defenseless animals for 'sport' so they can mount their heads and hides on the wall or floor.
I am not too sure how sporting it is to use a high-powered rifle with a scope to shoot a bear while he is, you know, taking care of business in the woods.
I am not opposed to hunting – one of my closest friends is an avid hunter and he eats everything he kills.
Well, almost everything. He is terrified of frogs and when he sees one he will either scream like a small frightened school girl or use that high-powered rifle to send Kermit's cousin to frog Valhalla.
But when he is not cowering at the sight of a web-footed monster, he is hunting deer that he turns into sausage, steaks, deer burgers and a variety of tasty treats. Some people still think that is cruel, but look at it this way: one deer killed is a cow saved. That should balance out karma for my happy hunting friends out there.
Anyway, Dad loved fishing since he was a little boy, so every couple of weeks we would head out, fishing pole in hand, to catch our limit.
We would pile into a small aluminum boat and troll the water looking for rainbow trout.
But, that was not the only kind of fishing we did. Dad was a big fan of river fishing. Not a slow-moving river where you lounge on the shoreline waiting for a bite. Where's the fun in that?
No, my dad would take me to one of the most dangerous stretches of water within 100 miles of our home.
The water was fast, there was a vicious undercurrent and to quote my dad, “You better be careful. If you fall in, you're not coming out.”
Sobering words for a young lad, but I was up for the challenge.
“Oh, and watch out for rattlesnakes. They are all over the place around here.”
Hmmm, I wonder if dad had some sort of life insurance policy on me. 
We would hike several miles up river and fish our way down, hitting back eddies filled with fish.
I ran a  heavy line while fishing the river because I was determined to catch a steelhead – the biggest fish in those waters.
I pulled some very nice trout out of that river, but the massive steelhead eluded me.
I quickly loved river fishing as much as my dad, and the thrill of casting a line into the raging waters was like a drug. As time marched on, we did more river fishing and less boat fishing.
It's been years since dad and I fished. He can no longer walk on the rocks and life just keeps us too busy to find the time.
I have his fishing pole mounted on the wall of my Man Cave (aka garage) and every time I look at it I am reminded of those wonderful, albeit occasionally dangerous, days.
How I miss them.

Remote control monopoly, it's a guy thing

My wife is one of the smartest people I know.
She has been a registered nurse for more than 25 years (which is amazing considering she still tells everyone she is 29).
A few years ago, she went back to university part time to obtain her Bachelors of Science in Nursing, graduating with distinction. And she did it while working part time and helping to keep our three kids from harm.
I am very impressed, and very proud of her.
She has calmly dealt with serious medical situations, helped people decifer doctor-speak, explained their medications to them and literally had people's lives in her hands.
But she still can't figure out the remote.
The remote for the TV and DVR are combined, so it has slightly fewer buttons than the space shuttle and can be a little confusing. But if a meatball like me can figure out out, why can't my much-smarter wife?
I find it amusing when she tries to find a show we recorded and ends up hacking into a secret Russian spy channel or something.
Inevitably, she calls yours truly (or one of the kids) to help guide her through the labryth of buttons adorning the remote control. We find what she wants to watch and everything is fine, until she tries to fast forward and hits the wrong button, launching her into another diatribe about the 'stupid remote.'
I don't get it. She really is very smart, but even with the cranial capacity to be a doctor if she had chosen to be, that little black gizmo with all the grey buttons has her beat.
More often than not, if she is watching TV and I walk into the room, she will hand me the remote. I don't ask for it, but she will give it to me anyway.
I must admit, once that cold piece of plastic is in my hands all seems right in the universe. I did not create the system, nor did I foster it in anyway, but for some reason that is how our society works: the woman runs the home, looks after the kids, handles teenage emotional emergencies and the man is in charge of vehicle repairs, yardwork and the remote control.
It is the same with many of my friends: He looks after the remote while she looks after everything else.
I must admit, as a man, it is a pretty good deal.
But the dominance of the remote is limited to your own home. You see, there is an unspoken remote-control etiquette between members of the male species.
When I am visiting a friend, I would never even consider taking control of the remote. That would be akin to hitting on the guy's wife – you just don't do it.
A man's home is his castle and a man's remote is his remote.
On rare occasions you may use another man's remote control. Like if he is out of the room for an extended period of time and the volume is too low, or if the the show you are watching is terrible, or if he died in a tragic lawndart accident, then you may grab the remote.
But the second he returns, the remote is his, handed over with no ceremony, but with silent acknowledgment this is his home and his remote. Both must recieve equal respect.
He will accept the remote and forgive any transgressions grabbing it may have caused in the first place.
He is then free to change the channel, adjust the volume or any combination thereof, because it is his remote and by extension, his TV.
The visiting male knows this and relinquishes complete control of the piece of plastic-encased electronics to the male of the house.
It's a guy thing, but I am a guy and that's what we do. 

Scumbags aren't the only jerks out there

My wife and I are part of a community watch program where we snoop, I mean, keep an eye on each other's homes in case any nefarious culprits are lurking about.
In other words, we keep watch for bad guys doing bad things to our good homes.
I live in a fairly low-crime area so there really isn't a whole lot to watch out for. Sure we have been victims of crime – my son had his bike stolen so whenever I see someone of less-than-stellar reputation riding a bike like his that was painted with a can of spray paint, I am somewhat suspicious of where he got it.
I can't prove it, but I can run him over with my car when he (and nobody else) is looking. I am kidding of course. I would never risk damaging my car.
Speaking of cars, I have had a vehicle broken in to 14 times in the past 30 years or so. One van we owned was a particular favourite of the scumbags, er, um, I mean...no, wait that's exactly what I mean.
The big green van, which our kids dubbed The Hulk-mobile, was broken into at least four times.
The first time was when we were hiking and they caused $600 damage by twisting the locks off of two doors.
Next time, just break the window like everyone else, OK. It makes life a lot cheaper for the victim (that would be me) as all I would have to pay was a deductible for a new window instead of getting body work done.
That robbery was probably the most successful one by the scumbags. They took numerous CDs –  the joke is on them because it was mostly 'old people music' – and my wallet.
Losing the wallet hurt. It was not so much the cash (what cash) but I had to run around and replace all of my identification such as a driver's license (for $75), my SIN and whatever else I had in there. They also took a cherished sentimental item - my Eddie Van Halen guitar pick that I had carried with me for years.
I didn't really get it from the guitar maestro, but rather I found it on the floor of one of those little rooms where the ATMs are help captive. However, after a few adult recreational beverages at a local watering hole, the pick became widely known as one used by Eddie himself and a legend was born. People asked me about that pick for years.
Anyway, I left the wallet tucked away in the bottom of a centre consol because I feared evil doers were lurking about. And I was right.
I called the police to file a report for insurance purposes and was greeted by the snottiest public servant I have ever encountered .
Me: “Hello, yes, I would like to report someone broke into my van and stole my wallet.”
Snotty public servant: “Oh, gee, really. Let me guess – you left it sitting on top of the dash in plain view.”
I explained the situation and her attitude changed immediately. She should not have had an attitude in the first place.
But my dealing with snotty people was far from over.
A few days later, someone found my bank card and dropped it off at the den of theives, er, I mean the banking institute.
A lady from the bank called me and launched into a rambling diatribe about how I should be more careful with my card before informing me the card has already been destroyed and I have to come down for a new one.
I asked where the card was found.
“In front of your house.”
What! The scumbags were at my house. This sent alarms bells ringing and tempers raging. I told her the card had been stolen and was upset these pukes came to my house.
Like her friend at the police station, her attitude changed immediately and she admitted she did not actually know where the card was found.
Then why did you say it was in front of my house?
I guess people who break into cars aren't the only jerks out there.