I've got my ticket on the Chub Train

Dave and I were recently sitting around having a drink, discussing important world questions such as: “Which is expanding faster – the Chinese manufacturing sector or our waistlines?”  This is the kind of thing that happens to men in their 50s. You’d like to tackle more intelligent questions like: “Why, WHY if you were buying every Apple product that came out you didn’t once ever think to buy even ONE unit of stock?”  (This question works well if you ask it using your wife’s voice.) or  “Which is bigger, Rush Limbaugh’s brain, Rick Santorum’s brain or a squirrel’s?” 

You would like to talk about these crucial matters, but frankly, your gut keeps getting in the way. Dave and I agreed that we were both trying to stave off “the chub” by  regular trips to the YMCA to do vigorous exercise. And by “regular” I mean “almost several times per quarter “depending on weather.”  And by “vigorous” I’m referring to the scientific measurement of “an elevated heart rate of 80 percent of maximal load” or in my case approximately what it takes to bend over and get my gym shoes tied up.  Well, actually Dave really does do vigorous exercise on the elliptical machines, where he appears to be a contestant on The Unbelievable Sweating Contest. Me,  I lollygag around the gym giving exercise advice and stock tips to anyone who will listen. Once we’re done and several Y maintenance men have mopped up the puddle under Dave’s bike,  I say goodbye to everyone I’ve been vigorously chatting with and we go home and compare notes.  We have agreed on these established scientific facts. (Established by us and scientific because I am now going to use several large words). 

1. Men misrepresent their height to make their weight sound better as in, “Yeah, I’m pushing 240 but I’m six-foot-plus, so I can carry it.” You are actually five-foot-eight and you could carry it, if you had a suitcase.
2. Just before you go to bed, you stand in front of the mirror in your underwear, suck in your gut and say, “I think I still look pretty damn good, right honey?” Burt Reynolds made an entire career with this move. 
3. You tell yourself and other people that you “still take a 34-waist pant,” but you fail to mention that over the years your jeans have moved from Straight Leg to Casual Cut, to Relaxed Fit to Very Relaxed Fit and finally to Big Ass and Stretchy. 
4. You greet your pals by saying, “You look great.  Been working out?” and then you grab his bicep. He does the same to you. Neither of you mention that you both look six months pregnant.

Dave and I admitted all of this and decided to take action. He was soon heading south for a family beach vacation and did not want to be mistaken for Nick Nolte.

  “We could stop drink...,” he tried to say, but I had my hand clapped over his mouth before he could finish. We both quickly agreed that yes, excluding alcohol might reduce our calorie intake but it wouldn’t work because it was “insane.” 

So, being guys, we thought a little friendly rivalry would help motivate us.  We made a bet on who could lose the most weight (percentage-wise) in a month. The loser would buy the winner a fine bottle of wine. This would get Dave ready for the beach and help me get off the “Chub Train.” For some months, whenever I reached for a snack, this song would play in my head (sung to the tune of The O’Jays' “Love Train”) “People all over the world/Join in/ Get on the Chub Train/ Chub Train.” Believe me, it’s motivating.

When the month was up, we found ourselves at the Y, stripped to our boxers, standing on the scales. We’d both lost a few pounds, but by Dave’s calculation he’d lost 0.44% more weight than me. “But, who’s counting?” he said. 

I bought him the wine. And bought myself a ticket. Because I knew when I got home, I’d be getting off cauliflower and getting back on (sing it - all together now) The Chub Train/Chub Train.

Look Steve Baby, we've got to talk

Dear Prime Minister Stephen Harper:

I hope this note finds you well. I have some questions for you that I am sure are on the minds of millions of Canadians, based on a scientific poll I did of myself.

But, before we begin, I was wondering may I call you Stephen? Or how about Steve? I’ll assume that’s a yes. Listen, how about Steve-Baby? You know, to punch up your image? That cardigan you wear and your hair (The Helmet-Head would be great if you were entering a Glen Campbell look-alike contest, but really, that whole thing went out with Gillette’s Dry Look for Men. Try some Bed Head Gel for a more relaxed look, or in your case, an experienced stone mason to restyle your “hair.”) So, anyway, SB — that’s short for Steve-Baby — here’s the problem.

You’re upping the retirement age? Really? Are you kidding me? I’m near the fourth quarter and you’ve decided to add some overtime just for laughs?

What, you’re sipping a latte in Switzerland dreaming about your evening’s work as a judge at the Annual Miss Yogurt Festival and you think, “Hey, you know what would be funny? Let’s make Mike Duffy a Senator. Oh, I already did that! OK, let’s make people work until they’re 67.”

I realize that being in Europe talking about the financial crisis makes you nervous, but let’s look at the facts. You say the problem is an “aging demographic” in which there are more and more older people collecting a pension and fewer and fewer young people actually working and paying taxes.

Take Greece for example. There are about 11 million people there and of that only a small number pay taxes — about 27, not counting Prime Minister Papandreou who occasionally “forgets to file.” Actuarial scientists were called in and after careful analysis, they concluded spending more than you take in could create what is known in economic circles as “a giant mess.”

Apparently, the Greek finance department were at lunch as the system was creating a bit of debt — 300 BILLION Euros to be exact. The Italians have a similar problem except their debt is 2.2 TRILLION euros, not counting the cost of former prime minister Berlusconi’s hair dye and Bunga-Bunga Parties.

But that’s not us, SB — I hope that handle is starting to grow on you. We are far better off than most G-8 countries, particularly Ireland where they recently sold off their national bonds as beer coasters. No, we are a modest nation, filled with people who prefer a coffee that is not described as a “Mucho Trenta Grande” and costs $4.95, who think it is a good idea to buy a house “you can actually pay for,” and who don’t think a financial retirement plan is “putting a C-note on High-Flyer in the seventh.”

We are a hard working people, drawers of water and hewers of wood, even if we really don’t know what that means. So, I think you can relax a bit. I know that as the baby boomers hit retirement age, there will be more pressure on the system. Especially if the trend among young people continues. And by trend I mean “not doing anything at all.” Unless we can invent jobs that start about 3:30 in the afternoon and involve “watching video games” and “chilling,” we could be in trouble.

My own kids have let me know they feel confident that they’ll be ready and willing to hit the workforce by “30 or maybe 35, no problem.” By then, if I’m calculating this correctly, I will be approximately completely dead so my own retirement should work out quite nicely. I figure if I get 20 or 30 minutes between, “Thanks for your long service here,” and “Oops, I think he just stopped breathing,” I’ll be a lucky man.

Listen SB, I get that “Freedom 55” was a misguided 1980s idea, like Reaganomics and perms for men. But I’m not sure I’m on board with “Shiftwork 75” either. Unless, of course, you’ve got a spot for me in the Senate.

Talk soon,

Paul

Hot tubs and toddies: the only way to beat winter

OK, winter has officially arrived — and I don’t know about you, but I’ve already had quite enough of it, thank you very much.

Once the temperature drops below zero Celsius and heads down toward, “My toque is frozen to my head and I can no longer feel my hands” territory, I’m officially sick of winter.

Really, who likes weather that is “minus 20 with a wind chill factor of instant death?” How can you enjoy a season where taking out the garbage becomes a life-threatening experience? “OK honey, you get my mukluks and I’ll hook up the dogs and we’ll try to make it to the curb. If I’m not back in 10 minutes, use me as a lawn ornament until I defrost in the spring. I love you.”

Honestly, I hate winter. Oh, I don’t mind the exciting build up to Christmas, with the lack of December snow and the excessive drinking. But once that’s over, it’s really just a long, ugly slog through January, the single most boring month in the calendar, made up entirely of snow shovelling, only relieved by intermittent arguing about VISA bills.

Then there’s February, the coldest, nastiest 28 days of the year. It is punctuated by the unavoidable minefield of Valentine’s Day, every man’s worst nightmare outside of mistaking your Viagra for your blood pressure pills and heading off to work to deliver the annual sales report in front of 400 people.

I know, I know, Canadians love their winter sports. And the activities that define us — skating on frozen ponds, falling through the ice on frozen ponds, snowmobiling on frozen lakes, falling through the ice, and of course ice fishing and falling through the ice. It’s all winter postcard fun until someone turns into a Human Popsicle.

I admit I am not a great fan of winter sports. When we were young, we asked my father, who had never played hockey in his life, to buy us skates. We went to the store, got measured up and when my dad heard the price, he told the guy to give us skates two sizes up. “So you won’t grow out of them in one year,” he said.

Even stuffed with newspaper, the skates fit like galoshes and that meant I was sliding around the local playground rink on my ankles. In fact, because I had never stood straight up on the blades, I figured this ankle sliding was actually “skating.” Being blessed with ankles the size of a small girl’s wrists did not help much either. The outcome was that all skating was torture and playing any kind of game resembling hockey was impossible. Even to this day, I can only marginally skate, and I’m unable to stop quickly or turn left; problems for “pleasure skating,” which to me is similar to “funny waterboarding.” For me, even arena skating is a kind of near-suicidal adventure that sounds something like, “Get out of the way! Or veer left! Or — Aiiiiheeeeee!”

Despite these handicaps, I was forced to take each of our kids to the outdoor rink at Churchill Park in the depths of February and “teach” them how to skate. Mostly I just stood near the hut yelling instructions. “Put more ankle into it! That’s it!” And pretending to put on my skates. By the time the kids were exhausted and almost frozen solid (somewhere between three and seven minutes after arriving), I would just collect their sobbing forms from the ice and we could all thankfully just pack up and go for hot chocolate.

I use pretty much the same technique for all other winter sport invitations, outside of Rum Toddy Drinking and Outdoor Hot Tubbing. Even when we are invited up to our friends’ chalets, we come prepared with a series of well-thought out excuses like, “Oh darn, I just sent my skis in to be tuned up” — whatever that means. Like, what are they, guitars? Or engines? They’re slabs of wood for God’s sake. You slide on them. You fall down. What’s to tune?

Anyway, see you at the ski slopes. I will be the guy in the hot tub with the fake cast on.

Surviving Christmas: drinks and more drinks

Christmas can be a very stressful.

This is especially true if it is only two weeks away and you have not bought a single gift or actually even thought about what gifts you might buy if you were organized enough to be out buying them early, which you are not.

Of course, I am not talking about myself here, just some hypothetical person who is probably getting extremely nervous as he watches his wife come home day after day with presents that she has carefully selected for every child in the house, all her known relatives, several unknown ones, work colleagues, friends, the deposed head of Tunisia, (“He could use some cheering up”) the mailman and assorted strangers — you know, “just in case.”

So, if you find yourself in these circumstances, you should do what any intrepid journalist would do — type “Christmas stress” into Google so you can spend a bit more time avoiding actually doing anything. What you will find is all kinds of advice usually marked Tips to Reduce Christmas Stress or Your Guide to Christmas or Better Sex with Yohimbe Cactus Pills! Ignore all of these, especially the last one. (The pills taste terrible.)

I read all the advice and, to save you time, I’ve distilled them all into The Ultimate Guide For You Surviving Christmas (Even if it Means No One Else Will).

Drinking in Moderation

This is the actual medical advice offered by someone named Dr. Luisa Dillner in the Guardian. I would ignore it. It’s stupid. Of course, drinking and driving is really stupid, but other than that, drinking is an excellent way to survive the Christmas season, next only to secretly booking an all-inclusive trip to Cuba. Imagine it’s Christmas dinner and you are sitting between Aunt Edna — she’s the one who for 27 years now has greeted you with, “Now, tell me again what it is you actually do for a living?” — and Uncle Tomaso, who every year likes to talk about “Mussolini’s good side.” Now, imagine that without having had three martinis. You see my point.

Budgeting for Christmas

I told my wife about this advice. She said, “I have no idea what that means. And we need to drive to Winners again right now!”

Christmas Shopping

Many people find Christmas shopping stressful and unpleasant. A small minority of people say they “don’t mind it.” These people are actually dead. There are two general problems that affect most people when it comes to Christmas shopping. These are usually expressed as “I have no money” and “It’s December 24th at 9.30 p.m. AHHH!”

The first, according again to Dr. Dillner, is not really a problem. She says (and I am not making this up) simply “ ... Tell your children they can’t have everything they see and watch them grow up to be better people because of it.” It would be interesting to talk to Dr. Dillner about this — once she gets BACK TO PLANET EARTH.

I have to admit that we actually tried this idea this year, sitting the kids down and quietly telling them that it has been an expensive year what with the investment downturn, the mortgage, and daddy’s drinking and that we had to “cut back” on presents and would only be buying necessities like underwear, socks and vodka. Our daughter had a mature response for someone her age. She burst into tears and screamed, “I hate EVERYONE!” My son simply said that he had read about parents like us in his psychology class. Then on a lighter note, added, “You’re the reason I take medication.”

Healthy Holiday Eating

“Healthy Holiday Eating” is a lot like “Friendly Nuclear Weapons” or “Intelligent Republican Candidates.” The best advice here was from healthcastle.com to “limit high-fat items.” I’m not sure if this means cancelling our Christmas Eve Calamari Contest or skipping the traditional Egg Nog Funnel Party, but realistically, neither is going to happen.

So, what is the best advice for the holidays? I say, Go for it!

Christmas comes once a year. Shelve your diet. Eat a turkey. Forget low-fat egg nog. As my father-in-law used to say, “Everything in moderation. Including moderation.”

I’ll drink to that.

No TV battle here, just abject surrender

Lately, my wife and I have spent a lot of time staring at a blank TV screen.

This is not because we are comatose zombies at the end of most days. Well, actually we ARE comatose zombies most evenings, but zombies who want to watch something on television.

But, we don’t watch anything because we find it impossible to select a movie. Well, to be perfectly honest, that problem came later. When we first bought our new flat-screen TV (we were among the last people on planet Earth to get one – just behind David Suzuki and most federal inmates) we could not figure out how to actually turn on the TV and get cable so we spent many evenings “pretending to chat” while we waited for one of our children to come home and use three separate remote controls to activate the set.

Once we mastered this – we wrote it down on a recipe card – we had to face the several thousand movies offered by our cable package, more than six of which did not star Dolph Lundgren. Even with only a handful of moderately good movies, we have great difficulty picking one. Why?

Well, I maintain that my wife and daughter have an unreasonable set of criteria for selecting a movie. First, it must have a “relationship” in it. “OK,” I say, “Here is a lovely movie about a man with a deep connection to his sniper rifle.”

This does not work.

Second, the movie must have some element of “romance” in it – the more the better. In fact, their best movies are nothing but romance, sometimes with vampires – but only really, really good looking ones with excellent clothes. If the movie is about romance and includes Jude Law, then all rational bets are off. My wife and daughter have watched The Holiday (Jude Law falls in love with Cameron Diaz while she’s on vacation in England and... oh, who cares!) so many times that now when I hear the opening music of the movie, I instantly fall asleep. I think it’s a survival mechanism.

I could take all of this (I don’t mind Cameron Diaz) if occasionally we could watch a movie that I like. Unfortunately, the chances of this happening are limited by certain “rules” laid out by my wife and daughter:

No movies that involve aliens bursting out of people or eating people. Especially if the aliens look like huge crustaceans or the Italian Prime Minister.

No movies that are entirely made up of gunfire, car chases and fight scenes.

No Jason Statham movies. (See above)

No westerns – except Brokeback Mountain or one that includes Jude Law.

No movie with a lot of suspense. My wife says these movies make her feel “nervous and uncomfortable.” When I explain that that’s exactly what a suspense movie is designed to do, she says that if she wanted to have an evening filled with anxiety about what bad thing will happen next, she’d just relive dinner parties where I’ve had more than two martinis.

No apocalypse and end-of-the-world movies. (“If I enjoyed non-stop doom-and-gloom I’d just invite Al Gore over.” )

No anything that involves science fiction – unless it is set in a future world where men have been genetically altered to enjoy romance movies.

No war movies.

No anything with Megan Fox (“Oh, come on Paul. Really?”)

No movie involving the word “Transformers.” Here, I am in complete agreement.

No All French “art” movies. (“If I wanted to be bored to death, I’d just invite Al Gore over.”)

No “gross-out” movies.

No to pretty much every Woody Allen movie in which the aging comedian dates young women. (See previous entry, or section on science fiction)

As you can see, this means that I spend hours clicking through the A - Z movie listings listening to, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no ...” in the background.

Eventually, with luck, one of us falls asleep.

To try to break this impasse, we made a deal. The women get to watch all romance movies and any film involving George Clooney in any way.

In exchange, I get to take out the garbage.