Canada's Worst Handyman

        Cupcake is full of ideas. Sadly, they are predominately ideas of things for me to do. Her most recent brainwave was for a bicycle shelter. She figured by freeing the bikes from our storage shed, we could shift stuff from the garage to the place where the bikes now reside. This, she claimed, would create space in the garage for what’s now in the attic which would provide room to store the items she wanted out of her storage closet in the den.
Not wanting to become lost in the bizarre labyrinth of what she uses for logic, I focused on the part that had something to do with me. "You want me to build a bike shelter just so you can clean out a cupboard?" I asked doubtfully. “Is that really necessary?"
It’s not that I’m lazy (despite all the rumours) but if I was on a TV show it would be more like “Canada’s Worst Handyman” than “Extreme Home Makeover”. In fact, I’d rather watch The Women's Television Network than the House and Garden network, as all I see it as is Chore TV. I tried to get it blocked so Cupcake wouldn’t get any more big ideas but failed miserably just because she pays the bill for it. The problem is these TV guys can cut all their wood for a project ahead of time and it all fits together during the assembly stage. Cupcake thinks all men are born with this knowledge. She believes within the X-chromosome is a set of Popular Mechanics and that if she can dream it, I can build it. And being a male of the species, I have never told her different.
"Of course it’s necessary," she responded. "We have all those old 2X4’s kicking around and there’s plywood in the garage you’ve been saving for who knows how long. It won’t cost a dime. What more do you need?"
I privately had to admit she was right. I had everything I needed, other than skill, energy and motivation. I still wasn’t too thrilled, though. Carpentry is darned hard work involving frequent trips to the bank, the hardware store and occasionally the emergency department at the hospital.
Despite my distaste for construction work, however, I pretended to agree to the task, thinking there may yet be a way out if I played along. I had to convince her I was serious so she wouldn’t be suspicious if things didn’t pan out.
To demonstrate by enthusiasm, I donned my sturdy leather tool belt with the nail pouches, pencil sheath and hammer holster. Although it invariably pulls my pants down (the curse of a flat posterior) I still love to wear it. Nothing gets the old testosterone going like a good tool belt, other than maybe an AK47.
I strapped on the belt like I was girding for battle, then marched outside; sureness in my step. I then marched back inside, poured myself a coffee and sat down.
"Are you done already?" she asked in jest. (She uses that one a lot.)
"No, I just forgot to ask an important question," I responded tentatively. "What, exactly, do you mean by a ‘bike shed’? I don’t want it half built and you going ‘That’s not what I want, at all’.”
As expected, her concept of sheltering bicycles was different from mine. Hers included a gabled roof with upper hatches, shelving on both sides, and room for four bicycles, two lawnmowers and a large plastic wheelbarrow. I was surprised she hadn’t included a full bathroom.
"What?" I exclaimed. "No rec-room in the basement?"
"Very funny," she snapped. "You’re lucky I decided against the feature wall."
I pointed out we only had five sheets of plywood and if she wanted a more elaborate structure, we’d have to save up materials and wouldn’t be able to build it that weekend. I sketched out a simple construct with an open front and a roof sloping to the back. It looked like a small-scale machine shed. I knew she would hate it.
"I’m afraid with our available material; this is all we could build. I’m sure you want something nicer," I said, trying to sound regretful.
"You mean, if I agree to this, you could build it this weekend?" she asked pointedly.
"Well, I suppose…um…I’m…uh," I gulped.
"Well it’s not so bad," she said looking at the drawing. “Kind of quaint, really. It looks like what I originally thought of before I got ambitious with the cupboards and whatnot."
I winced as I saw the trap close in on me.
"You said you could have it finished by Sunday? That would be terrific. Thanks, honey!" she exclaimed, "I knew I could get you to do it, I mean, I knew you would do it for me because you love me."
I sighed as I stood, yanking up my tool belt again. No sense protesting, I knew I’d been had.
P.S. During construction, Cupcake was busy, too. Now the new ‘bike shed’ is filled with stuff from the garage, the attic and the closet while the bikes are back in the storage shed.

A Drizzle Fizzle

          In many middle to far-eastern countries, (far to middlin’?) they are known by the Swahili name; “monsoon”; rain storms, both vicious and unrelenting that are almost as lethal as an Iraqi election. In the Philippines, they are called “tag-ulan”, in Haiti, “muason” but around these parts, they call it “Chris and Cupcake’s summer holidays”.
           I don’t know what it is but for darned near every summer of Cupcake’s and my married life, our week off has been characterized by hard rains, hypothermia-inducing temperatures and more grumpiness than a bus load of seniors facing a Depends shortage. This year was no exception. As you may have guessed from last week’s torrential rainfalls, it was time our attempt at a dry (in the meteorological sense) holiday for myself and my bitter better half. Sadly, as usual, Mother Nature, with her perverse sense of humour, had other plans.
            The devastation that our week off wreaked on our community was tragic. We drove up and down every street in Calmar and in those ten minutes, we saw more people hauling out soggy sofas and besotted broadloom than after Hurricane Katrina. (Mind you, Calmar survived Katrina fairly unscathed). Instead of the Prime Minister flying to the disaster zone as prime ministerial-types like to do (as if their very presence will staunch the rain, dry out basements and demoldify drywall) all that happened was the office of the assistant to the undersecretary of the interior sent us a nasty letter strongly suggesting in future, we take our vacations abroad, ideally in a rogue, enemy state like North Korea or Holland. Frankly, I’m surprised we aren’t approached by drought-stricken areas begging us to holiday in these regions to relieve their moisture problems. I’m sure if Cupcake and I took a year-long sabbatical in Africa, it would lead to the creation of Lake Sahara.
            It’s not like we pick the same weekend every year, either. How dumb do you think we are? (That was a rhetorical question, so don’t bother sending in letters and emails with your answers.)We have tried every week from early July to late August and it doesn’t make any difference. The weekend our vacation begins, the weatherman gets beaten with an ugly stick. One memorable year in particular, we planned our time off for the last week of August only to have it snow a good six inches. Cupcake, as they say, was not amused. I felt almost as much anguish as she did but drew the line at making crank calls to Environment Canada like Cupcake threatened to do.
        “Arrggghhhh!” Cupcake emoted as the sky turned black last Monday, the first day of our vacation. “I don’t believe this. Every year it’s the same thing.”
          I should add that interspersed with her statement were terms not suitable for this space.  In fact some of the terms would have had the late, great George Carlin adding to his famous list.
          “Now, Honey,” I quickly interjected. “This would be a great time to do some ‘chillaxin’.
          “If I wanted to do some ‘chillaxin’ as you call it, I would want to be doing it in the sun in the pool or on a beach, not on the stupid recliner. I sit on the recliner every day. The thrill is gone, you know?”
          “We can go outside and pretend it`s nice out and just accept the fact we`re not made of sugar and won`t melt away. We can putter in the yard maybe.”
           “That`s a great idea,” Cupcake spat, telegraphing the fact she didn`t think it was that great of an idea. “You can start by trimming the hedge with our electric trimmer. I get to watch you plug it in when you`re out in THAT.”
            She pointed dramatically at the sheets of water pouring out of the heavens and laughed maniacally.“Very funny.” I grunted. “Do you take me for a moron?”
“Well you’re the one that suggested we try heating the pool with our toaster.”
            “Okay, I get your point,” I sighed. When Cupcake gets mad, the best thing to do is just let her be mad. When she achieves a certain level of unhappiness, even Eeyore is easier to cheer up.
             As the week wore on, however, Cupcake and I, as usual, adjusted to our fate.  We went on a shopping expedition which helped to mollify her. Spending money seems to lighten her mood as much as my wallet. Still, some things are worth the cost, even if they only increase my quality of life as much as, say, pillow shams or a new candle powered potpourri boiler jobby to go with her other dozen.
            We also ate out at restaurants a lot, too, as barbecuing was out of the question and holidays are no time to make messes somebody would have to clean up.
            “I think the key is that at least we had togetherness,” I waxed philosophic as our holiday drew to a close with a gloriously sunny Sunday.
             “That’s true, dear,” Cupcake patted my leg kindly. “Even a bad day with you beats a good day at work.” I looked at her quizzically. “Uhhh... thanks... I think.”

Signs of Summer

         Ah, summer. You can sure see the signs. The flesh-scorching daytime temperatures that inevitably lead to dazzling lightning attacks that pound the earth so vigorously it loosens your back teeth and scares the wits out of anyone who has ever seen the movie Twister. Then there’s the constant whine of mosquitoes in search of blood engorged flesh much like my own to feast on. One gets so vigilant to the feeling of something landing on us, we slap at any slight touch - a blade of grass, a tuft of dandelion fluff, a spouse that stops talking to you for the rest of the day until you admit it was on purpose. Then there’s the endless parade of motor homes, truck and camper units, tent trailers and fifth wheel monstrosities all whizzing by as people try and "get away from it all" only to discover they brought it all with them. The irony is lost on them in their focussed determination to get ahead of the gigantic Winnebago ahead of them, not caring there are still dozens, if not hundreds of Winnebagos ahead of that one.
          But to me, the surest signs of all that summer is really upon us in all its glory, is the ever present "garage sale" signs. They set my heart a-fluttering like a debutante at prom.
          Being "Mr. Wise Shopper" (not "Joe Skinflint", as some would believe) I truly appreciate the incredible bargains available to those with the patience and persistence to dig through piles of junk to locate rare treasures. To me, this is recycling at its best; probably heartily endorsed by Dr. David Suzuki himself. (I bet the good doctor has a house just crammed with garage sale goodies.)
           In fact, you wouldn't believe the haul I got last weekend. I bought a stereo, a set of encyclopedias, a cheese slicer and an electric razor. Guess how much I paid for all that stuff. Fifty dollars? Uh uh, too high. Forty? No, sirree. Try $17.10 for the whole works. What a deal. I almost felt guilty taking it.
           This was high quality stuff, too; real top drawer. The stereo, for example, plays both records and 8 tracks and even has a system whereby you can stack up four or five albums on the turntable and they will drop down and play automatically, almost like one of those fancy CD players. Of course after the third disc drops down onto the rest, it kind of slows down the motor so the Bee Gees start sounding a lot like Barry White on downers, but this can be a good thing. Actually the 8 track makes a similar noise when it starts “eating the tapes” but since 8 tracks of everything from Abba to Z Z Top are only ten cents a piece at garage sales, who cares?
          You wouldn't believe the encyclopedia set, either. It's the 1964 Encyclopedia Britannica and not only does it look brand new, but it's also almost complete. I have never been that interested in people or places that start with L, N or T, anyway. I just can't wait til I need to look something up! Who needs Google? (Well, I do for anything beginning with L, N or T, I suppose.)
          I will admit I'm a little disappointed in the razor however. Being a discriminating purchaser, I made sure it worked before I bought it, but I didn't actually test it on my face. Perhaps I should have, however, because it appears that the three rotary blades, although they do go around, don't seem to go around fast enough. This means that instead of the whirling blades cutting the hairs off evenly at skin level, they actually grab hunks of hair and yanks them out by the roots. The pain is both exquisite and profound. Since it will never come within scarring distance of my face again, I'll probably give it to my wife for her birthday to use on her legs.
          In some ways, though, the best deal of all was the cheese slicer. It's one of those high tech ones with a wire instead of a blade. I tried to dicker with the lady who was selling it, I figured I could beat her down by 10 per cent, at least, because the wire was a little bent but she stood firm. She pointed out it was only ten cents anyway and why was I wasting her time trying to chisel her out of a penny, but I figure that you never know, you know.
          When I lugged all my booty into the house to show it all off to my wife, I must say, she was decidedly underwhelmed. She took the $17.10 I had spent and added in the gas for the car, the lunch I bought and a couple other minor expenditures and figured out I had actually spent about fifty bucks for all my treasures.
          Mind you, I didn't tell her about the electric razor. I wouldn't want to spoil her birthday surprise.

Ideas from the Think Tank

          Last week saw the end of the G8 and G20 meetings in the latest international G spot, Toronto, with the expected damage to public property and finger pointing at who is to blame for the mess. I think the buck has to stop with whoever decided to have a major terrorism target party in an enormous monstrosity of a city complete with plate glass windows. But the burning question remains - if having it in a major metropolitan area is stupid, irresponsible and unduly expensive, then where does it make sense to have it? To help answer that question, I contacted researchers at the Loco World Group International Issue Think Tank, also known as Jeff’s Bar where solving the world’s problems over a refreshing beverage is a popular pastime. Here are the alternatives that the Think Tank experts arrived at, complete with pluses and minuses of each choice. They are ranked in descending order.
Choice Number 6: Tuktoyktuk, Northwest Territory
+ Not as many buildings for rioters to damage.
+ Not as many rioters.
- Not as many anything.
+ Cuts down on the pesky streakers if held in winter.
+ Paul McCartney’s busy on the other side of the country trying to stop the seal hunt.
- Limos look stupid with a snowmobile escort.
- Polar bears make off with the guys in the back of the photo op.
Choice Number 5: Foam Lake, Saskatchewan
+ At least you’re not in Tuktoyaktuk.
+ You can see protestors coming from miles away.
- Protestors can see you from miles away.
- The store closes at six p.m., even on Friday nights.
+ It already has a lake. You don’t have to spend 300 million dollars to build one.
+ Delegates could tour Super Dave Osborne’s sealskin binding factory.
+ Cheap tax-free smokes at nearby native reserves.
+ Nothing much else ever happens in Foam Lake, Saskatchewan.
Choice Number 4: In the middle of the Atlantic
+ No buildings to damage.
- The golf course has too much water.
- Extremely expensive to do pre-summit cleanup of entire ocean.
+ No homeless people to displace and then catch flak for from bleeding hearts.
+ NATO helicopter gunships can pick off Greenpeace activists claiming they thought they were Somali pirates blown off course.
+ It isn’t Foam Lake, Saskatchewan.
Choice Number 3: Millet, Alberta
+ They could really use a 300-million-dollar  lake.
+ Close to Wetaskiwin’s Auto Mile for convenient delegate car shopping.
- Hostile press.
-  Not much loot for looters locally, although there is decent pillaging in Edmonton a mere 40 kilometres north.
+  Easy to spell.
+  Hard for protestors and terrorists to find on a map.
-  Hard for ANYONE to find on a map.
Choice Number 2: Saint John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador
- Takes way too long to type.
+ Nice oceanfront location to make it easy to catch crabs.
+ And lobsters.
+ Locals can’t complain to the international press because they wouldn’t understand them.
+ Newfoundlanders are well known for their hospitality, friendliness and screech.
-  Half the delegates will get their travel bookings screwed up and end up in Saint John, New Brunswick.
- Premier Danny Williams will have to be on national TV again.
- Paul McCartney will show up.
Choice Number 1: Teleconferencing
+ No security issues since you’re not creating a target for terrorists by having all the G20 leaders in one place at one time. The biggest threat is “technical difficulties”.
+ If they want to play golf together, the world leaders could all just buy a Wii each and play online.
+ They can photo shop the photo op.
+ The cost to put on the summit would be about the same as the value of the decisions rendered.
+ News agencies could focus on the issues and not the activities of extremists which are always so much more interesting and newsworthy than the actual summit.
+ The almost-500 dollars spent by the Canadian Government for every man, woman and child in the country could have been put to so much better use... like returned to our personal bank accounts.
+ Saves so much money, nations could fund the promises they make at the meetings.
           So the verdict is in. Let’s tell the world leaders to stay home and go “tweet” themselves. Twitter is so aptly named for a world summit, don’t you think?