'Well mannered and nice'

You don't realize how cripplingly ignorant casual onlookers are until you are a parent.

I have had less than a decade of experience with this 'rearing my young' thing, but I...

I should have used a different sentence there. Wipe whatever imagery you have in your brain right now.

I have been a parent since before we had to remove our shoes to fly in an airplane. In that short period of time I've realized that the average not me-or-my-wife person thinks my kids are:

"So well mannered and nice."

It's a compliment. I want my kids to allow me to be in public with my head held high, preferably on my own neck.

When you have your firstborn you take them everywhere you can to show off that yes, you could produce another human. The novelty wears off when the people talking on cellphones give you the dirty look because your child is shrieking in the store aisle.

Eventually you realize that bringing your kids along is like combining both you and your spouse's worst days and then putting that attitude in a package one third your size. And the only place where that mindset would be welcome is in a mob beating or political debate.

Consequently I have laboured to train my children to be considerate and good. And this is where the dichotomy lies, everyone believes I'm a success except for my wife and I.

For instance, last week my older daughter was musing out loud in the next room. You might think my concern was the fact she had begun to talk to herself, but that was until I heard this gem:

"How do I make Daddy die?
Mommy murdered?"

She proceeded to finish her thoughts. Apparently she was toying with alliteration, choosing pleasant word matches for herself and her sister and trying to impress Edgar Allan Poe with the others. Can I sleep soundly at night? Developmental psychology says 'no'.

Ok, if they aren't nice, maybe they are polite, right? Tonight we had a fun game of 'Dora the Explorer UNO'. It's like crazy eights with 50% wild cards.

So in a moment of cunning wit I lean over to my wife and say 'pull this'.

It was my finger. I belched as only a proud father of two can. Then two fingers shot across the table towards my wife begging for them to be pulled.

My older daughter proceeded to chug-alug her peppermint tea in a vain attempt to provide the required ammunition for the proper gaseous rumbling of the esophagus. My younger daughter reduced her IQ by 3 points straining so hard to pass wind that her face turned a deep shade of fuchsia.

That stopped the game for the next 5 minutes while they tried to one-up each other with bodily noises.

I really believe my children are generally well mannered and nice. Kind of like the 'little girl with the little curl', but I would change the rhyme to this:

There was a little girl
with a little curl
right on the fore edge of her scalp

And when she was good
she was very good indeed
but when she is mad call for help!

Chrismas - Doing stuff as a family

Christmas. It's a pagan holiday commandeered by Christians to celebrate the Birth of Jesus which by many guesses actually happened in May.

Yuletide. It's a season, but not defined by climate. It has a spirit, but yet it isn't alive.

As a token of the darkest month of the year we murder conifer trees and place their slowly decaying carcasses in our living rooms. Then we place the boon of gifts underneath carefully wrapped so to maximally torment each other with anticipation.

We overeat, we overdrink, and we sing in public. We wear costumes and redecorate our houses in a perverse competition of garishness.

And for some macabre reason the most masochistic of us begin this habit in November to spend 1/12th of the year in celebration.

But when you ask people about this strange occurrence, they reply the same answer to the questions "what is it for" and "what do you hate the most about it": Family.

And it is because you are family that you do things like attend school Christmas assemblies.

It is quite the phenomenon of taking time off work to sit in the gym, craning one's neck to see their child 'perform' as part of their class.

For those without children, there is a good reason you haven't joined this subculture as a spectator yet: no one pays to see these things. The only reason you go is to see your children or the children of someone you love enough to do this for.

It's not that they are bad per se, but they are meant for a captive audience of parents perched on child sized chairs, frantically trying to camcord around the people in front of them.

Last week I got to see a smaller version. My younger daughter went to a local farm where they put on a nativity scene. In an odd twist of fate she was picked to be an angel. They wore the costumes over their parkas. They looked more like a pack of hunchback ghosts.

'Mary' found out how tricky it is holding baby Jesus with mits on. The messiah child was only dropped on his head twice.

This week the assembly had my older daughter singing novelty Christmas songs. She practiced so much that I can't remember the original words to 'Winter Wonderland'.

We also noticed that she is getting embarrassed by her parents already. She hid behind an over sized Santa hat which had what could only be assumed were muttonchops that hung down to her neck. It was like a 'Fathers of Confederation' Christmas special

Christmas: Yours will not be perfect, but neither is your family. Love it anyway.

Dancing with the ...

As a married man I don't get to enjoy the pursuits of courting much anymore. Not saying I ever did. It always felt as fake as an email from a Nigerian dictator just trying to make ends meet.

And for me the worst part was dancing. I'm unsure where we as a species decided that this was a good means for selecting mates, but I'm upset by the idea. Darwin would say that I shouldn't reproduce, and that I dance like a lemur being attacked by army ants.

I don't have rhythm. Any. I am incapable of understanding tempo, any piano piece I play follows a tantric motion akin to learning to parallel park with a standard transmission. I once shortened the choreographer's life by a few months by attempted to dance in a circle and clap on cue.

So in a mating way I proved tremendously ineffective. Thankfully in religious circles dancing isn't the main way to meet girls, it's Bible studies. And so my roving intellect and low light conditions helped me there.

My wife and I are happily enough and sufficiently married to do things like social dancing. We attempted this first while engaged. We took ballroom dancing, which I related more to steering with a flat. We both have strong tendencies to lead, she is limited by walking backwards, I have no other excuse than sheer incapability.

After that debacle we didn't try dancing lessons again. That leaves the two other times that we as a married couple will dance: Weddings and Christmas parties. Last week we were at a Christmas party and we actually danced. Together.

Slow dances don't count, and neither does the polka. They're too easy to fake. I love the polka because it involves cardio ability and I have the morbid game of "see how fast we can cross directly through the dance floor".

Then on request I had my moment. The DJ played "Gonna make you sweat" and I pulled out my repertoire of 90's moves. I danced like an unholy trinity of M.C. Hammer, Vanilla Ice and Chandler from Friends. And I had fun.

I did notice that scanning the crowd that was still sitting, most of them seemed to stare at me. And not in a "Hubba Hubba" way, more in a "Good lord does he know he looks like that?" way.

So when you try to woo the opposite sex with your grooving moves, or worse, try to impress your spouse, do remember: you look like a fool, so be a confident one. And have fun. She'll like that no matter how much she protests for you to get off the floor.

Oh, and never refer to your dance partner as a horse with a palsy.

Hearing voices

Once in a while there is a nagging voice that tells me things. If it is my wife I ignore it at my peril.

Other little voices that pester me are my children. I can't easily ignore them due to their volume approaching that of a Pneumatic hammer and when they use phrases like "whoops", "I didn't mean to", "It's ok, I'll just get a towel" and "Holy SH*#!".

But the voice that I can successfully ignore is that one that predicts the future.

This week I had some traveling to do. My accommodations were transient apartments which in theme are like a well maintained hostel.

I had an evening without chores. No cleaning, programming, or re-applying children to their beds ad-nauseum. And so I started watching a movie.

I used my laptop since I could plug in my headphones. As I did the little voice said "You'll regret this. Something will happen that requires you to listen and you won't be able to hear." I dismissed the paranoid nanny in my head and began watching.

Half an hour into the movie I heard stomping feet. Nothing new to hostel-style living spaces. Then I heard shouting. That only made me glad I had my headphones in. Then I heard the fire alarm.

Have you ever noticed that we tend to stop and look with imbecilic expressions at emergency warnings. Instead of driving us into action we assume the posture that is found in Pompeii ruins. I can only expect that if we could see those faces better they would call out to us "Huh?" from across the centuries.

Realizing this wasn't a drill I jumped into my shoes and walked to the exit. This was when the announcement "Fire in apartment 1" was given. Great, I'm in apartment 2 and this is how I die.

I checked the door and it wasn't hot. I could then make my way down the hall and outside. I was greeted by -30 degree centigrade air. I stood outside the front entrance waiting for the others to arrive. No one did.

It then occurred to me that I was in jeans, a t-shirt, sneakers and holding a laptop. No parka. No wallet. I am a geek even in emergencies.

I realized that I would probably be the only one with firefighting training, and that there were probably people still inside. With no visible signs of fire or smoke I made my way cautiously inside and called for the others. They responded that the fire was a stove top burn and was put out.

My lesson in all this. It's probably better to be paranoid weirdo than ignore that quiet voice. And step 1 in an emergency is 'Don't look stupid'

Crime, Punishment and Disease

This past Friday was Feline Retribution day at our house. As punishment for causing undue familial grief the cat's punishment was a visit to the vet.

We had a dry run the week before when I misunderstood the date of the appointment. At that time my wife tried to cram the over sized mini-panther into the cat carrier. She decreed it was impossible and that we needed a new one.

Opposites attract. My wife is an attractive pessimist. I am an attractive optimist. Together we made attractive but inwardly conflicted children. I naturally assumed that the love of my life had written off something without giving it the fair try that my superior intellect could.

So after baiting the plastic air hole equipped breadbox with cat food I tried to lure, coherse, force and drop the unwilling participant in. Many scratches later I realized that the nature of cramming an angry, pudgy ball of fur and claws into a container that easily was 2 inches smaller than her rotund circumference was an exercise in imbecility.

We ended up doing what we did last time, we jammed the cat in a laundry basket and put another one on top. To prove that we were really all that white trash and a bag of pork rinds, we sealed the deal and the laundry carriers with twist ties and elastic bands.

In order to teach my older daughter a lesson about squeamishness I took her along. She apparently overreacted to her sister having a nosebleed so in my enlightened parenting style I brought her along in hopes that some animal would be in the waiting room with some sort of open wound or general trauma. She also gets a of Brownie badge for this, I'm still not sure how medical torture of animals works into that.

We arrived with our trailer park portable animal house. I was mortified to be seen in public like that, and was only briefly re-assured when a man leaned over to his wife and remarked 'That's a good idea'.

So the cat had her shots, and a checkup, and then we were given the licensing option. Pay $20 annually for the privilege of keeping this mildly mobile furniture destroyer, or have an RFID tag inserted in her for $50 and pay no tax ever.

Needless to say I now have a cyber-cat, which is uber-cool. They even showed us that it worked by running a scanner over her back. I nearly asked if there was an option of free post-secondary if I got the older child done at the same time, but the other criteria was the cat had to be fixed first.

On the way home we discussed the trip. Our cat is 16 pounds, which at 11 years old is overweight. The main danger is that she is a candidate for feline diabetes and that she can't properly lick her arse. I can identify with both myself.

My older daughter was discussing diabetes and she understood the general concept of it. Genetic predisposition, overall poor diet, not enough exercise, overweight, etc. Then she conjectured:
"Hey, I could give my Webkinz diabetes!"

In the care taking of the online creature one has the choice of healthy snack or treat and exercise or rest, each with the game encouraging the better alternative.

I, a man in his thirties, now want a Webkinz too. Christmas is coming, hint hint.

Square Evidence

Human beings are a fascinating freak of nature.

We are the only carbon bound beings (to our knowledge) that are self aware. For example, pigs don't sweat too much about the methane they are producing causing global warming. I'd be surprised if the average hog even realized it passed gas.

By the way, to satisfy my pedantic sense of snobbery I would like to point out that pigs don't sweat. I know there is the maxim "to sweat like a pig". That idiom is idiocy. That is why they wallow, so they don't die of heat exhaustion. That and to set themselves apart from the average political lobbyist.

I'm afraid to admit how fun that was to point out to you.

Nevertheless I digress. It is a special capability for us meatbags to understand that we are. And we are blindingly confronted by this when we are alone. This is healthy because at a impressionable age we are taught that self-discovery is not a communal activity or spectator sport.

It must be that the distractions of our boring everyday lives keep us from peering too deep into the proverbial umbilical stump.

I was away on a business trip this week. I was in a community with a population being little more than 2^8.

I returned to my accommodations where someone asked if I wanted to watch TV. I honestly didn't. Not at all. Presented with dozens of channels to choose from I found one show that I wanted to see and it was over. (It was "Good Eats" on the food network).

And that was when I discovered again how I am so lucky to be married, and to have so many understanding friends. I tuned in Baroque music on the satellite receiver then downloaded and started to read "Pride and Prejudice".

As thrilling as the NHL or Desperate Housewives or Heroes is, I couldn't be bothered. I was happier chilling 1770's style. When I wasn't doing that I was reading programming documentation and whimsically desiring to recompile a kernel for the fun of it. It's like missing your last surgery recovery time.

Thus ends my short report on what I learned on my last business trip. It was that I need to keep those I love very happy because I have more chance of a pig sweating than finding others to accept, nay appreciate my eccentricities.

*Almost* proud of my home

I have almost been a proud homeowner for almost a year now. We've owned the house for 8 years. Actually, we probably own about 2 rooms and half the garage, the bank owns the rest.

I say "almost" because despite our home itself, the people in it, and the area of town, I can't ever by happy with it being in a photograph. It is said: LOCATION LOCATION LOCATION. And my location is directly between two retired couples who love to care for their yards.

They are nice people. The one couple keep a simple, yet elegant yard. He mows his yard about twice as often as I do. Without the defining influence of a fence there is always the line drawn to divide the nice yard from my yard. It would be easier to take if he didn't nicely mow part of my lawn as well. And if the season is right you can tell my yard by it being the one yellow with dandelions.

My neighbor on the other side is a renaissance man. And amongst some of his unbelievable talents, he has the nicest yard in the neighborhood. He has a pond in the backyard WITH a bridge AND goldfish. He makes his own wine from his own grapes that he grows. And he also is nice enough to mow his lawn on any even numbered day on the summer, and mow just a little of mine too.

Now I try not to be lazy, but it comes pretty natural. With a crazy busy schedule and pressing needs of family, Church, Work, other Work, friends, blogging and gaming I get to my yard about once a fortnight. I like to say my yard has the "Savannah" look, although now I can just say I'm saving energy and therefore I'm the guy Al Gore would choose to be friends with.

I can't help but feel guilty for brining the average home value in the neighborhood down. I don't like wishing for a drug house to set up across the street so my yard will start to look good by comparison. I hate loosing soccer balls and basketballs in the foliage in my yard.

Today I was compelled to keep a good yard. I have lots of family coming in, and we are having a backyard BBQ.

I trimmed the front hedge to have the appearance of a snake with a hernia.

I weeded the roses, lilies and nondescript plants for the first time this year.

I weeded the garden, which due to my botanical ineptitude has become the battleground between the Rhubarb and the Strawberries. I kill both off every year, and they return in a vengeance. I've stopped worrying about the dandelions in my yard in comparison.

I'm finally a bit proud of my yard tonight after 4 hours of gardening. I can safely entertain family in my yard and only have a small inferiority complex and low chance of loosing articles in the lawn later to be launched when the lawnmower finds them in August.

My weird roots: Part 2

I'll limit this series to two parts, mainly because I would never get to any other topics.

Ok, so I talked about how sports reflect a culture, and how Scotland is well represented in the "it only make sense if you're half in the bag" sports. I even forgot to mention Golf, or, "A long walk ruined".

A big part of culture is food. Another is music. There is also clothing and pets. The Scottish, being in a land with little there, and having little 'there' themselves, solved this problem in utilizing every part of one animal: The sheep.

Now what other culture would have someone say:
"Hey, how about we turn that animal inside out, stuff oatmeal in it, and call it dinner?"

I'm sure haggis was either a drinking bet gone wretchedly bad or some mother trying to teach her son a lesson, and that lesson was that she had lost her mind. It's quite a tasty dish, providing you get the tot of Scotch whiskey with it and try to forget how many organs you are eating in one plateful.

And then they get the idea that if they use the same format without the oatmeal, they can make a musical instrument/torture device that can strike fear into their foes, patriotism into their army, and municipalities to change bylaws? Ahh the bagpipes, what other instrument can be so clearly heard over so far a distance and still drive you batty? It even looks kind of like an inside-out sheep, although that does cast suspicion onto what appendage the player is blowing into. Anytime someone starts to play them the first notes cause me to muse if 14 cats did not simultaneously get worms.

That being insufficient, they also shave their food/musical instrument and make dresses out of it. I COULD make a comment on why pants are not good for Scotsmen to wear, but we already know all the other cultures are jealous enough already.

Scotland, a land with a culture rich in mystery. That mystery is "what the love are they THINKING!"

My weird roots: Part 1

I would like to comment on my lineage if I may.

I am a mutt of various British descent. Southern English, Welsh, Irish, and most notably, Scottish.

I say most notably because that is the one we identify with more often than not. It isn't the strongest part of the family tree, but it stands out.

Cultures are interesting. Not the neat kind in the petri dish that you're not allowed to drink, or the kind that you use to spoil milk and then melt on food, but the arbitrary distinguisher of people.

Culture is more than language, dress, laws, customs, foods, and music. That said, those are what we find are most crazy when we do cross cultures.

The Scottish have done an amazing job of setting themselves apart in almost every aspect of culture. They stand apart, mainly because everyone is too weirded out to get too close.

I touch on sports today.

Sports to the Scottish generally are total nonsense unless you are 3 sheets to the wind. Take the caber toss. Now the origin of this was either the dumbest pole vault ever or a drinking game ending badly. Either way you can be assured that whoever was part of it was legally a pickle.

"Hey McGlaven, I bet you cuddn't throw this pole."
"Now why are you resorting to racial epithets?"
"Nooo, throw the log."
"You're bein downright disgusting. What sort of drinking game is heave the turd?"
"NOOO, heave the enormous stick as far as you can."
"You've been talkin' to me wife. I do me best."
"Augh, I'll do it meself."
"Take a step closer to me kilt and I'll launch this here tree at ye."

And so a game was born. I imagine that the hammer throw was a kids game like getting dizzy on the baseball bat, but the one kid couldn't keep his balance afterwards so he just threw his bat at the other kids. If you know more than one Scot you can understand why that alone would change the rules from then on.

Finally there is curling. A game played on frozen ice, throwing stones at a target. An elegant, gentlemanly game that demands focus, skill, exertion and teamwork. It's also an excuse to binge drink with a bunch of people and give out prizes. It is the only game I know of that uses it's own equipment to hide alcohol.

Nonetheless, I am proud of my Scottish lineage. I would be more proud if my clansfolk were of a lower percentile for incarceration. I remind myself that you can't pick your family, but you can pick your nose, but never, ever, pick your family's noses.

Everything's better with monkeys.

Maybe I'm just combining links to make up for lack of inspiration. Here is a song that is worth the few minutes to listen to:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5W_wd9Qf0IE

Caveats:

-> Not for kids (one naughty word)
-> More funny if you know a geek

The original song is from
http://www.jonathancoulton.com/2006/04/14/thing-a-week-29-code-monkey
Buy the song if you like it. I will. BTW, I include the youtube reference because I suspect your attention span is less than the time it takes to get through the chorus. I'd say more but I think I've given you plenty of credit to make it this far today.

I think that was me in an alternate universe. One where I wasn't able find an awesome woman who can appreciate, endure or simply overlook my eccentricities. And that universe was drawn in anime.

And haven't you noticed that any idea that "jumps the shark" just throws in anime or monkeys? I don't get that luxury on the Church stage. I would probably get letters from the animal rights people, the people cleaning the poo off the stage and walls, the people who contracted lice, and the people who thought I was making a sneaky endorsement of evolution. And don't ask how hard it would be to get anime on there.

Still, I can't say that I don't dream of having a trained ape come in and save me from teleconferences at work. Or take the calls for me in the first place. The benefits of dressing a monkey in a little tuxedo, have them answer the door, and screech at people who try to bypass calling the helpdesk would be fathomless. I wonder if I can get a little ape outfit for my 4 year old...

Come to think of it, maybe that is why Dora is so popular. They started out with a monkey sidekick in red rubber boots. How cool is that? If they had killed of backpack with map inside and replaced it with Dora's "japanime satchel with lasers", I would have been hooked instead of seeking an anesthesiologist every time those characters come on screen.

Code monkey go to bed now.

Petting

I like having pets. I'm not talking about my kids, I really do like having little dependent creatures around my house.

There is something more complete to my home when an animal is making ambient noise, be it shredding the couch or falling off the counter or yelling for me to feed it or clean it's litter. Maybe it's the feeling that my kids can grow up, but I'll always have the worst part of their toddlerhood here.

I grew up having a cat and a dog at home. It was nice, except in the winter when the clueless cat would sit on the gas stove to keep warm. Singed hair is NOT a pleasant aroma to wake one's family up to.

In my college years I inherited a cat from a roomate. The cat is pitch black and named "Neko", which is Japanese for "Cat". I'm still yet to convince my father after 10 years that it's pronouced "Nay-kho", not "Knee-ka", "Keno" or "Nah-kho".

It was a cute addition to 4 bachelors living in a Church basement. (I always found it odd paying rent to live in the basement of "The FREE Church of Scotland".) The cat found lots of attention, expecailly after we found her dipping her paw into a tall glass with a bit of milk at the bottom. It was really cute until we thought about how long this may have gone on without our knowledge, and how well I kept the litter box clean.

Now I'm married and Neko is part of the family. Precisely the part that throws up on the floor directly in the path to my shower in the morning. I'm happy to have the cat here, it teaches the children caring for those who can't care for themselves, and the dangers of eating too much. Neko the "living sausage" cat causes me worry though. I love my children, and wish them no harm or pain in their life. Both are inevitable, but I still recoil at the thought. Then seeing how much they love that damn furry meatball with legs and a tail I'm worried that they will be upset when she dies.

I'm an optimist.

I must explain that I do not have, nor have any desire, to have a dog. My yard does not have a fence, I don't want one. I've seen what dogs do to peoples lives. A dog is like having a toddler around. You can't leave it alone without someone to watch it, it always wants your attention, it makes too much noise, and has the nasty habit of jumping on your most private of parts.

A cat on the other hand is like having a college student. They will steal food from your table and counter, they keep to themselves, they don't want you or need you unless it really suits them, they sleep all hours of the day; you get the picture.

Now we have a new addition to the family. A fish. We received it by being the last to leave our table at a wedding, and the fish in a small bowl was the centrepiece. I decided it would be a good token to teach the children the cycle of birth, life, death and flushing. I forgot that one cardinal rule of pets:

They cost way more than they are worth BEFORE you have them in your home!

Had I thought about an aquarium, rocks, miniature castles, food, nets and all the trouble and cost of having a fish and cat at the same time, I would have passed. Instead now I have a fish named "Sally" (I suggested Han) who is going to eat up my budget for going to see "Indiana Jones" through periphery expenses.

I should go, my wife just announced an evening game of "find the turd" by saying "It smells like cat poop in this room." Ahhh, how boring life would be without pets.

Old and opinionated

A week and a bit ago I had another birthday. I knew it was my birthday because my facebook told me so.

I recieved many nice gifts that day, but one of the best was when I was carded buying spirits to celebrate with.

Clerk: Will that be all?
Me: Yup.
Clerk: Can I see some I.D.?
Me: REALLY? OH WOW! Thank you thank you thank you thank you. Here it is.

I can't imagine I have many more opportunities like that left.

Anyway, I know I'm getting older because of opinions. Inso that I hate them. I like to read the public broadcasters internet news feed. I find it better than the drivel placed on MSN/Yahoo News. I'm sure that celebrity celluite religious freakouts are important compared to natural disasters aggrivated by dictatorial regimes. After all, everyone needs a break, especially if it's been a tough day breaking Nevada tickets and finding out who is Victor's latest wife on Y&R.

I take some solace in the fact that people reputably smarter than I am are reporting the world's events in a professional, objective manner.

And then Web 2.0 came along.

For those of you unfamiliar with Web 2.0, it's the same as the internet, but now everyone works together to make crap instead of people putting their dumb ideas out on their own.

Take a well thought out document: An article, essay, opinion column; and then you let everyone comment on it, and then comment on the comments. It is the intellectual equivalent of the two ugliest people in town getting married and moving to a compound, and then inbreeding. I'm not exagerationg.

In the "old" days you only had such lively discussions on bulletin boards, chat rooms, and mailing lists. I learned to avoid these places like abbatoires. I may appreciate the end result of all their work, but I'm sickened by the process.

Now this joy is brought to public broadcasting. And it draws 2 types of people:
1. The ones I agree with but who are ineloquent in their presentation like a dyslexic squirrel who has lost it's nuts.
2. The idiots who I disagree with for the very good reason that they are utter boneheads.

After the first two opinions it resorts to the hallmark moments reserved only for union rallies, religious debates, political campaigning and lynchings.

I'm trying to avoid even looking at these mental trainwrecks. I'm afraid I'll be tempted to join them, and I'm afraid that's all that's separating me from them.

So please, no more opinions, except on my blog, and then it's ok. If I don't like it, I'll just delete it.

Favourite Job Experiences - part 3

As you might know by now, I love jokes, practical and impractical. One dear friend and co-worker has been the brunt of my favourite jokes.

One fateful April fools day I set his computer to fail only on his favourite websites and search engines. This caused him a morning of frustration and as he asked other techs for ideas, who already being in the know, were really not very helpful.

The time before that the office changed keypad codes while he was off on vacation, and I arranged for all the staff to pretend that the codes were the same and not tell him. He spent a frustrated morning trying to discover if he was really loosing his mind.

I tend to give him a year off in between suffering. We worked together in close proximity and I didn't feel like the gentle caress of an office chair across back of my head. I like to let the pain of embarrassment fade over time, at least to the point where his creativity and motivation dip below his laziness and forgetfulness.

We had some rules: no messing with food (that can escalate to poison too quickly), no messing with sleep (we both had a hard enough time napping at work as it was). I also have the self imposed rule that whatever I did had to be barely noticeable, so as to carry on the pain over the maximum time before the victim decides to take action. I'm not sure if Dante had a level of hell for people like me, but I imagine it will include sulfur filled whoopee-cushions and 240v joy-buzzers.

SO, I wanted to get him good. Being a geek I knew his greatest pride, and hence his greatest target, was his computer. I learned a neat trick that would have his computer boot up in "safe-graphics" mode. This makes the picture really big and lacking in colour. It can be overridden, but this takes a few changes and would not remain after a reboot.

April Fools was on a Saturday, so I made the change on a Friday afternoon, knowing his next reboot would be on the weekend. I figured he would expect to be safe with April Fool's being on a Saturday.

He came in on Monday frustrated. He had spent the weekend trying to remove whatever virus had infected his machine to cause the graphics to fail on each reboot. I offered almost helpful suggestions, as did our other co-worker. Nothing seemed to work, and he didn't clue in to accuse me. He was almost ready to format his computer and start again, but I dissuaded him for a few minutes while we "researched".

I then arranged one of the temp data entry clerks to drop in, having told her how to fix it. She played the part perfectly, walking in, fixing the computer, and then saying that she had the same problem at home and a techie friend had fixed it for her. Then she left.

When I recovered my composure I broke the news that it was me. Amazingly he and I are still friends, although I'm sure that he is plotting something terrible for me some time in the future. I guess I deserve it, and I'm glad I can still sleep safely.

Favourite Job Experiences - part 2

A few years ago I was part of a team building/training exercise with my employer. I have since left that job, but I will let them remain nameless to protect the criminally incompetent.

The activity was a canoe trip. A canoe trip in a beautiful provincial park, renowned for its beautiful scenery and tranquil series of waterways. At the time I couldn't see a better way to make a week of pay.

The first problem occurred that we left for this trip at this time of year. Early May in my neck of the woods is not a great time for open water, especially on smaller lakes and rivers back in the bush. The fact it had been a cold, long winter added to that. When we arrived, it was a shock to my bosses that the rivers were, indeed, still frozen.

They now had a quandary. They had traveled 4 hours with all their equipment and preparation, and about 20 employees, only to be confronted with their ineptitude to anticipate that critical piece of information. In order to save face, they bravely announced that they saw a clear river about 10 minutes back.

We all jumped back in the trucks and drove back down the road to said river. First to arrive was the 2 tonne cube truck that parked in a dirt turnaround/parking lot, conveniently beside this river. A short journey down a path that led, providentially, to the river's edge, showed that it was indeed clear of ice, and quite full of the spring runoff. We unloaded the canoes, split into groups, and bravely set off.

I decided to enjoy the spring sunshine by sitting comfortably on my lifejacket. It was a relatively small river (about 4 meters across), and I was a comfortable canoeist.
A few strokes downstream led us to a brisk pace.
The brisk pace became a fast rush.
Nervous because I had a rookie canoeist in the bow, I decided to pull ashore. This was when I realized the river had skipped right past frantic paced and had leapt to terrifying speed.

I managed to bring us close to shore where we eventually jammed under a tree that had fallen into the water. That stopped our forward movement. Then the yaw began, as the port(left side you plebeians) side of the canoe slowly saluted the sky. This submerged us into the freshly thawed water.

Now I will take a safety moment for the kids out there. Always wear your lifejacket when on the water. It may not be cool. You might be too warm with it on. But being dorky is nothing compared to the utter terror of descending to the bottom of a rushing river wearing heavy boots and having nothing to float you but sheer panic.

When I returned to the surface I desperately grabbed another canoe (they don't teach you that lifesaving move in swimming lessons). The occupants felt compelled from their deep humanitarian conviction of saving their own skin to beat me away with their paddles before I capsized them as well.

I eventually made it to shore. I was freezing. I was really frakin cold. Still, I stopped to pull a co-worker out who had floated to the side of the river and was jammed in some branches. I figured I should try to get an idea of what was ahead of us. I ran up to the top of a cropping of rock, and looked out on what normally would have been a magnificent sight: A valley lay before me, buds on the trees, the sun streaming through the sky, the roaring waterfall casting mist from it's cascades...

I have said those words many times since, but I doubt they were ever so warranted as that moment. I ran back to warn the others that it was in their best interest to get out of their canoes and onto shore.

Miraculously no one was killed. Just a few cases of minor hypothermia. We were only maybe 10 minutes down the trail from where the vehicles had dropped us off. This was when true leadership showed its colours, and its colours were set to "moron". It was decided that we would set up camp here and wait a few days before calling for help.

We grudgingly set up camp, and a few younger, healthier individuals were selected to go and recover what gear could be done from the half dozen canoes that had, in fact, gone over, albeit without the passengers they had ejected.

Of course I was voluntold. To help you imagine how this felt, fill your bathtub with only cold water. Then get in there and try to lift weights. After about 15 minutes chest deep in this water I recognized that I was becoming hypothermic (they teach you THAT in swimming lessons). I then returned to "camp" where I spent the next hour being a gofer for the other bosses. By gofer, I mean digging. A latrine. Deeper than it already was. It didn't take too long for things to devolve into scenes from “Lord of the Flies”. I joined another camp of co-workers who had their OWN fire and didn't order me to dig through other people's waste.

After a horrible overnight it was decided we should vacate. I was voluntold to run (in the same heavy boots) the 5 kilometers to the nearest phone, call for the trucks, and then run back. That created some blisters. After a few hours the trucks returned, we loaded our wet, cold gear and our grouchy selves on the trucks. Right after seeing the sign that had been obscured by the 2 tonne truck earlier: "Waterfall Lookout Trail ->"

A few days later I was called in to the head boss's office to be formally written up for collaborating with the breakout group of fire makers. No apology or retribution for nearly killing me twice was ever made.

So the moral of this story is: Team building sucks.

Favourite Job Experiences #2

A few years ago I was part of a team building/training exercise with my employer. I have since left that job, but I will let them remain nameless to protect the criminally incompetent.

The activity was a canoe trip. A canoe trip in a beautiful provincial park, renowned for its beautiful scenery and tranquil series of waterways. At the time I couldn't see a better way to make a week of pay.

The first problem occurred that we left for this trip at this time of year. Early May in my neck of the woods is not a great time for open water, especially on smaller lakes and rivers back in the bush. The fact it had been a cold, long winter added to that. When we arrived, it was a shock to my bosses that the rivers were, indeed, still frozen.

They now had a quandary. They had traveled 4 hours with all their equipment and preparation, and about 20 employees, only to be confronted with their ineptitude to anticipate that critical piece of information. In order to save face, they bravely announced that they saw a clear river about 10 minutes back.

We all jumped back in the trucks and drove back down the road to said river. First to arrive was the 2 tonne cube truck that parked in a dirt turnaround/parking lot, conveniently beside this river. A short journey down a path that led, providentially, to the river's edge, showed that it was indeed clear of ice, and quite full of the spring runoff. We unloaded the canoes, split into groups, and bravely set off.

I decided to enjoy the spring sunshine by sitting comfortably on my lifejacket. It was a relatively small river (about 4 meters across), and I was a comfortable canoeist.
A few strokes downstream led us to a brisk pace.
The brisk pace became a fast rush.
Nervous because I had a rookie canoeist in the bow, I decided to pull ashore. This was when I realized the river had skipped right past frantic paced and had leapt to terrifying speed.

I managed to bring us close to shore where we eventually jammed under a tree that had fallen into the water. That stopped our forward movement. Then the yaw began, as the port(left side you plebeians) side of the canoe slowly saluted the sky. This submerged us into the freshly thawed water.

Now I will take a safety moment for the kids out there. Always wear your lifejacket when on the water. It may not be cool. You might be too warm with it on. But being dorky is nothing compared to the utter terror of descending to the bottom of a rushing river wearing heavy boots and having nothing to float you but sheer panic.

When I returned to the surface I desperately grabbed another canoe (they don't teach you that lifesaving move in swimming lessons). The occupants felt compelled from their deep humanitarian conviction of saving their own skin to beat me away with their paddles before I capsized them as well.

I eventually made it to shore. I was freezing. I was really frakin cold. Still, I stopped to pull a co-worker out who had floated to the side of the river and was jammed in some branches. I figured I should try to get an idea of what was ahead of us. I ran up to the top of a cropping of rock, and looked out on what normally would have been a magnificent sight: A valley lay before me, buds on the trees, the sun streaming through the sky, the roaring waterfall casting mist from it's cascades...

I have said those words many times since, but I doubt they were ever so warranted as that moment. I ran back to warn the others that it was in their best interest to get out of their canoes and onto shore.

Miraculously no one was killed. Just a few cases of minor hypothermia. We were only maybe 10 minutes down the trail from where the vehicles had dropped us off. This was when true leadership showed its colours, and its colours were set to "moron". It was decided that we would set up camp here and wait a few days before calling for help.

We grudgingly set up camp, and a few younger, healthier individuals were selected to go and recover what gear could be done from the half dozen canoes that had, in fact, gone over, albeit without the passengers they had ejected.

Of course I was voluntold. To help you imagine how this felt, fill your bathtub with only cold water. Then get in there and try to lift weights. After about 15 minutes chest deep in this water I recognized that I was becoming hypothermic (they teach you THAT in swimming lessons). I then returned to "camp" where I spent the next hour being a gofer for the other bosses. By gofer, I mean digging. A latrine. Deeper than it already was. It didn't take too long for things to devolve into scenes from “Lord of the Flies”. I joined another camp of co-workers who had their OWN fire and didn't order me to dig through other people's waste.

After a horrible overnight it was decided we should vacate. I was voluntold to run (in the same heavy boots) the 5 kilometers to the nearest phone, call for the trucks, and then run back. That created some blisters. After a few hours the trucks returned, we loaded our wet, cold gear and our grouchy selves on the trucks. Right after seeing the sign that had been obscured by the 2 tonne truck earlier: "Waterfall Lookout Trail ->"

A few days later I was called in to the head boss's office to be formally written up for collaborating with the breakout group of fire makers. No apology or retribution for nearly killing me twice was ever made.

So the moral of this story is: Team building sucks.

Favourite Job Experiences - part 1

A few months ago I had the opportunity to host "take our kids to work day" at my place of employment. By opportunity I mean no one else wanted to. I enjoy a captive audience, and I hoped to give them wisdom that I never had at their age. "Take our kids to work day" is when first year high school students go to their parents place of employment to feel awkward, embarrassed and out of place somewhere other than school and the mall.

The first thing I did was give them a tour of my cubicle, which I affectionately referred to as my "cloth-walled room". That excitement drained the dwarfed enthusiasm of the teenagers to microscopic levels, especially when I gave them a play-by-play of what I do with my day and started introducing them to my "family" of office supplies and their personal problems(here's daddy stapler, and mommy tape, who are fighting right now because mommy tape thinks daddy stapler should spend less time with his friends, but daddy stapler thinks she's jealous).

After that the kids were taken away from me and given to a responsible adult until later when I had them for an hour to teach them "something about computers". Normally one could show off their handiwork, what they have done with their job and are proud of. I work for a very tightly controlled organization though, so I was given a password cracker, and MS word to create web-pages with. For an hour. With 12 teens.

I guess this would have been easier if I didn't care. THAT is a running theme in my life. I took the opportunity (there's THAT word again) to tell them about why higher education is important, saying things like "If you get one more year of schooling, you can be my boss in 5 years", and then feeling not so happy about my job. At the end of the day everyone said I did a great job, which is code for "thanks for not breaking".

I honestly loved it, but not enough to be a teacher. It takes a special person to try to communicate, educate and impassion teens without being allowed to make them do push-ups as a group for someone falling asleep in class, or scream at them as if their failure to do my bidding is causing my intestines to invert.

Irrational fears

I find irrational fears fascinating.

Let me work out the definition for you: irrational fears are being afraid of anything that the odds of happening, or the odds of there being of any damage, are astronomically low.

What is interesting is how they drive our everyday lives. Phobias are our own mental kryptonite, and here are a few that I know of:

Mine: Fish. Yes, fish. Dead ones are ok, the longer dead and more disassembled the better. There is a story in my history where I was in a canoe and a fresh caught pickerel was placed behind me. I contemplated trading spots, letting it have my seat and I would go back in the lake, before cringing and wailing like Gollum being hugged by an elf.

I had to face this fear several times in my life, most notably while working for Fisheries and Oceans. That truly helped me focus my irrational fear of fish to a paralyzing terror of LingCod. Lingcod are the only animal in nature whose natural head and mouth size is at a 3:1 ratio to it's body. EWWWWW!

Ok, now on to my family. My wife's fear is of snakes. Any snake. She is getting better, but knowing this makes it easy to hide anything I want from her. I'll just cover the item to be hidden in a box covered with pictures of snakes and leave it on the coffee table. Even better, now that she's read that, I can leave the box empty and really play with her head.

So far my children haven't shown too much specific irrational fear. My older daughter won't touch anything living, which makes a petting zoo into an avoiding zoo. My younger daughter has finally overcome her fear of train whistles. Her fear has now progressed into being afraid of sitting still on a chair.

I know of people afraid of spiders. This is funny to me. Anything that is smaller than my thumb doesn't warrant my fear or respect, unless it's the ebola virus.

I like to laugh quietly at all the scenarios I can bake up to cause people embarrassing emotional trauma by practically joking them with their worst fears. The problem is knowing which ones to use on someone, so to cover all my bases I guess I'll just have to resort to hiding around corners dressed as a fish wielding, snake wearing gorilla-clown.

I don't know where I get this interest (DAD). Nothing says positive parenting like waiting for your kids on the path to the outhouse in a provincial park at night, and then growling like a bear just as they pass on their way back. Ahhh, the cripplingly frightful fun of childhood...

So forget I said all that and tell me what you're irrational fear is. I promise not to use it, soon.

Superpowers

To carry on from yesterday, there are a lot of super powers that I wouldn't want.

This post pays hommage to 3 friends who spent a night watching "Blade Runner, the latest Final release" and drinking something that burned my throat. For what I recall of it, we had a great discussion.

Super powers that are right out:
Bullet proof: A skin that could deflect bullets is no good unless the nerves are already insensitive, and then that takes away all the fun touching things can be.
Super speed: Imagine hitting anything heavier than a raindrop at highway speeds. Oh, and tripping, turning, and knee problems.
Flying: Cold, suffocation at upper atmosphere, lightning, air intakes.
Time/space travel: This may come as news, but the planet and solar system are NOT stationary. Only a NASA engineer with a week of computing time could even hope to land on the planet, never mind > 6 inches above the ground (or so help them, BELOW).
X-Ray vision: Too many ugly people. See yesterday's post.
Mind reading: Ummm, no thanks. My thoughts scare me deeply at least once a week. I don't need confirmation everyone is a psychopath.

So what WOULD I want? These powers:

Tremendous reflexes: I'd be safe driving, in gunfights, and better at sports.
Killing people with my mind: See Mind Reading.
Resistance to the "Map" song on Dora: nuff said.
Impervious in the need for sleep: I want to be awake, but I sleep out of necessity. How much could I get done without tiring out at midnight.

So tell me what powers you want so I may mock you with the power of sarcasm!

Writer's block

Ok, I admit it. I have writer's block. With a blog. That's almost as pathetic as blessing a pet when it sneezes.

I've been really busy lately balancing work, work, directing, parenting, being a husband and other related duties. Maybe balancing is the wrong word. Capsizing, floundering, flailing, you get the idea.

Anyway, I'm busy. And so trying to be witty and funny, both heroic achievements for me at the best of times, are more like a cross-eyed maladroit trying brain surgery with a spatula. If you have any flapping idea what that means let me know. And when I try to be funny I tend to be insulting. So I just avoid loosing respect that way. I want to use the way I dress to achieve that.

And yes, today my shirt was set to "Stun". I love Hawaiian shirt day.

So here I am posting about how busy I am. The fact is, this week has been like a dream. Not a good dream, like secretly developing the ability to fly and see through clothing of only good looking people of the opposite sex, but the sort of dream you have where you suspect it's real, but you know it's not. Only since the week was LIKE a dream, it's the other way around.

Maybe I should just focus on the x-ray vision.

X-ray vision has to be the worst super power ever. If it only worked on dead material, you would be forced to deal with the percent of the world's population that is not appealing naked. Let me break that down for you:
~50% Not the gender you want
~18% Illegally young
~20% Disturbingly old
~20% Just out and out better with clothes ON.
---
That leaves... no one. Imagine having a conversation with the 5 people you see every day. Now imagine that conversation with you being the only one clothed. Eww. Now imagine it on a bus, or a boat, or in a stiff breeze, or the air conditioning is on, or a hot day, or, ok I'll stop.

So my thesis is this: Clothes are good for society. Thank you.

Why can't guys have showers with their friends?

My wife went to a wedding shower tonight. Fascinating events the showers. Little to no water involved, no one gets married, you just "shower" someone with gifts. And play cute games that make each other blush. And have a lot of good food. It's like a "pampered chef" party that you've already pre-ordered for.

At least that is what I'm TOLD what happens. It gets me wondering why guys are so much farther behind on this. Do we like to party less? No. But when we get together it tends to include a magic mix of:

Unhealthy food/drink.
Violence.
Pretending we were somewhere else.

The gifts we give aren't helpful, they are traps or mean jokes. Some idiot thinks it funny to miswire an electric shaver. We do something awful to the food and make the prospective groom eat it. Someone vomits. The police show up, only to find the groom tied to a pig wearing a tiara and smoking a joint (the pig, not the groom).

We only do this once though. We go all out with our parties so we can only have one without raising the suspicions of the neighbours. In a way I'm glad, I would never want my friends buying me "unmentionables".

Women, I salute you. You can embarrass each other in ways that let you disclose what you did to each other without having to plead the fifth amendment. You can have more than one party, tripling the gift count in your favour. You can have parties that don't require the use of emergency equipment or services.

That is why after nine years of marriage we are replacing our dishes, towels, and cookware while I still am saving up for a new electric shaver.

Friends don't let friends wear dresses without sleeves.

On Friday my wife and I were part of a "murder mystery" at a friend's birthday house. For those who have never had the pleasure, it's LARP'ing without the swords. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LARP) All the geekiness, none of the potential for bent glasses frames.

Being a guy's birthday, he invited his buddies out. This was interesting as half of the roles were for women.

This is where I learned something weird. It's alright for a man to go around without his shirt on, or in a tank top in the summer. But put him in a sleeveless dress and there is something reactionary to armpit hair.

These events are fun because it degrades (quickly) into accusations of each other's characters. Depending on the crowd (and amount of bubbly there) this can get way past the PG rating. And the best part is that usually the most reserved, modest amongst you will have the most scathing, off colour insult.

If you ever want to get to know your best friends way better, have them over for drinks, have them dress in costumes (and cross dress if needed), and spend the night accusing each other of killing someone and having loose morals. It's more fun than it sounds. Or you COULD just watch the hockey game.

What's your "best-kept secret" ;)

On occasion I find myself reading the headlines and subtexts of magazine covers. Most times they are disgusting from their overt gossip or obsessive stories. I normally quit after 4 pages (double side) or when the cashier asks if I want to pay $7 for the filth.

What amazes me is how often the "best-kept secrets" are let out to national publications. Now pardon me for being literal, but aren't the "best-kept beauty secrets of Cleopatra" still in fact, secret? Wouldn't a better, albeit less catchy, title be "better-kept secrets than the last batch"?

This rant was inspired by a magazine that arrived at our house. It is apparently postured for Women. I know this because it has over sized text in hot pink and white with the catch phrases and words: "Fresh", "Sexy", "Makeup" "His bad habits" and "Perfect pedi pointers"

I say apparently because it's hard to say who the ads (and some articles) are meant for. Most ads are discreet, but noticeable with women having nothing covering their shoulders and a look that says I'm made of chocolate éclairs or else Fabio is standing right behind me. I would expect that to be better aimed at say, men. This is funny because the ads in Sports Illustrated (normal editions) are mostly for BIG TRUCKS!

Gee, it's like some of these publishers and advertisers are run by groups of cigar smoking fat men in pinstripe suits saying: "You know what make women buy makeup? Other women with makeup on and nothing else. Works for me. That and big trucks. Now pass the Powerpuff Pink Mascara, mine's running."

If I ever start a magazine, I'll be truthful. Judging from what I've gleaned so far, I think I can encapsulate their messages in this title: "You're not good enough as you are" tm

Catchy, eh?

Gotta go, my wife just found my Sea Salt & Lime Nachos...

How do you raise your father

I have read that taking care of your parents in their advancing years is like having them as children. If that is the case I am frightened by foreshadowing.

Natalie, my 4 year old wonder, is a stunningly sensitive child. Her little heart bleeds for others, unless they have the "Lego" piece she wants or are on the computer when she could be using it for "Webkinz". She is so sensitive even her skin has reactions.

I'm used to rubbing things all over little squirming bodies. I've been doing that for 7 years now. For those without kids: Applying any topical ointment to a child is like oil wrestling an octopus on anabolic steroids. And imagine having to clean up the ink.

Early in parenting we had a "change table". This was in fact effectively a padded bookshelf for $70. We learned that this wasn't going to work because it wouldn't fit in our room, we didn't want to hike upstairs to change the kid and then down with the present to dispose of it, so we sold it for $10 (or gave it away) and put a change pad on our bed.

There are 2 flaws in this design. One is back pain. Gently lowering a hyperactive 20 pound weight to mid thigh height is not good for your back. Kneeling only puts your face in the line of fire. The other is that I like to sleep in my bed, and knowing that the top layer is smeared in child slime is unsettling. Smelling barrier cream messes up the dreams.

So now my darling Nat walks into the kitchen as I'm trying to clean up from supper. She's in her pj's, and says "I'm itchy", and then vigorously scratches the offending area. This would be fine if it weren't her crotch.

Now this is what I expect to deal with in many years with my Dad.

Seeing my face take the grimace of suppressed laughter, her little eyes twinkled, and she assumed an expression reserved for Calculus exams and telekinesis. This broke me, which now has reinforced her little brain that scratching crotch + funny face = people laughing.

Tucking her in tonight (after a wrestling match with barrier cream) she informed me that tomorrow is show and tell.

At least he's a nice boy...

Stupid: 1 a: slow of mind : obtuse b: given to unintelligent decisions or acts : acting in an unintelligent or careless manner c: lacking intelligence or reason : brutish
source: http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/stupid

Yep. We're all stupid. This isn't projection, it's careful observation. It comes from cognitive dissonance, which is to continue believing a lie when the truth has been made clear or is obvious. This can be funny:

"Oh look, the kid's are trying to dress the cat up as Superman and trying to make her fly."

"Ha ha, he actually believed he could play football with teenagers even though he's 40. Look at him cry and hold his back!"

"Windows Vista is still good."

"I can't believe he thinks she'll go out with him, she's so out of his league he's making a public fool of himself. What is Ken thinking?"

"Is Aunt Mabel wearing her daughter's tube top outdoors in daylight?"

It's most obvious with our bodies. We can all agree some things are good for us: Good food in appropriate portions, enough sleep, exercise fit to our body type, moderation of unhealthy habits, keeping our priorities to avoid stress. And yet I don't know anyone who doesn't break at least one of those rules. Daily. In fact, the "smarter" people are, the more they break. Hmmmm.

I stumbled on this when I lost a few pounds in short order. My secret: Healthy, moderate portions and exercise. Duh.

Then I've had a big improvement on my parenting, attitude, and how I feel. My secret: Time spent with God at night. Duh.

So these little things that I tell my children to do I can't manage myself. It's like I believe my higher thinking and capabilities (stop sniggering) allow me an out. What's you're excuse?

Why I've missed a week

I try to blog every other day. A nice waste of 15 minutes of my day. I won't try to make up for the hour I've missed this past week. I have 2 very good reasons for that:

The first was I had my older sister and her family visiting. This was great, short enough that we didn't fight, which I'm sure we could pick up on after (augh!) 15 years living in different municipalities. Her daughters/my neices are precious and precocious. I had great talks (and drinks) with my near genius older brother in law. So yeah, no time for blogging then.

The second is I'm sick. Too healthy to miss work, sick enough to feel miserable. Borderline fever, my shoulders feel like they've been caned, my head hurts, my throat is raw, and my sinuses are clogged. But that isn't bad compared to the fact I can smell my own snot.

That isn't as cool or appealing as it sounds. The effervescence of mucus, embedded in my olfactory sense like a frikkin organic glade plugin, is awful. My only escape is very hot food. The kind that calls for a chaser of chloroform. The requirement is the liquefying of everything in my eyes, ears, nose and mouth. A fine dinner of cayenne, garnished with a box of kleenex. Mmmmm.

By the way, I'm not feeling any better. I just wanted to make you suffer through those descriptions.

Goodbye's aren't easy.

Our culture has some odd nuances. One is the telephone goodbye.

Now how many times do you say goodbye on a phone? As a computer geek I would expect the linear answer, once.

This isn't the case in real life:

1-> Alright.

2-> Ok.

3-> Sure.

4-> Thanks.

5-> No problem.

6-> See ya.

7-> For sure.

8-> Bye.

9-> Bye.

[end]

This is hilarious to listen to. We actually have cultural expectations not to end a phone call quickly, lest we sound rude. If we're in a rush, we start off the phone call with the goodbye. Have you ever started a call with "I have to go quickly but..."?

The friend of mine who pointed this out had a solution: "I'm hanging up now." The first time I heard this I thought "You a[click]". But I was left feeling free, ending a phone call a full 30 seconds quicker than I ever had before. I called him right back to thank him.

So try to keep track of how many times you say goodbye on your next phone call. I bet it's more than 3.

Helping you understand the siblings you never had.

I get flashes of wisdom, or thought-flashes, from time to time. Today I tried to explain what it was like having sisters, and I summed it up like this:

It's not really a deeper experience in understanding women. Due to the nature and nurture being the same, they are basically unstable, emotionally immature copies of one's mother.

I LOVE my sisters. They are amazing women (read that: amazING, not amazON). They are both better educated than I am and not afraid to correct my punctuation or ignorance of crop rotation. That said, I think I've stumbled onto something, and for once a neighbour's dog didn't leave it in my yard.

It does raise the issue that I am a more unstable, emotionally immature copy of my father, but he keeps telling me the police brought me (and consequently would be imminent to return on my misbehaviour), so that would make me my hometown's version of Ralph Wiggum.

I should just quit while I'm ahead, but I'm sure I'm quite a behind now.

So there you have it, if you want to imagine what siblings would have been like, get your parent of that gender inebriated with alcohol, power, anger, or whathaveyou, and then go camping. Oh, and have someone removed from the situation take pictures and make vague threats whenever you fight. Enjoy!

Clothing so loud you can't hear yourself think.

Today was Hawaiian shirt day for me. It made sense because it's the first day of spring and because I had a videoconference. I like to dress up for those. I've worn a suit, Halloween costumes, and this shirt.

I bought this shirt from a second hand store for $5. It is now in my regular rotation after 2 years. That is because it has the power to divide opinions. It is blue, with pink flowers and yellow thatched huts on it. It's loud enough to be an air-raid siren. I'm a combination lighthouse and foghorn with it on. Foghorn effects depending on diet.

There are 2 general reactions to my shirt:

1. I LOVE your shirt!
2. You are so brave to wear that outside. You are hideous. Hellen Keller would feel the heat of that shirt and be sick. That should be a controlled substance.

So to make matters worse, I'm wearing make-up now.

It's ok, 13 other guys were wearing make-up tonight as well. It was part of a Church drama, so there were 13 grown men, wearing period costume, with make-up on, with their props, misbehaving. Yeah, I could try to recreate the scene, but I'm at a loss for words. And I'd hate people to find out that Church can be fun.

When we were on stage it was all business. It was a powerful, moving, visual feast. An antithesis for my shirt, which is a visual feast moving powerfully.

So this is what I do on my long weekends. Anyone have a topper to that?

I hate all music but the stuff I like

There was a great music service, Pandora, which allowed you to sample music based on the components of other music you liked. It only helped me find one song I actually liked, but it is a really neat idea. Then they turned it off for international use because of the Recording Industry.

So I will use that method to describe music I hate, and the exceptions thereof.

1. There are no good uses for harp, except as a projectile that has a really cool Doppler effect.

2. I don't care who you are, no one can make the steel guitar sound good. Unless you're playing it with the business end of a shotgun.

3. Banjo is heaven. An all harp and steel guitar ensemble can be redeemed by one banjo.

4. The recorder is 2 degrees away from being declared illegal by the Geneva humanitarian council on torture prevention. "Burn them!" I have been tempted with lining them with Asbestos to prevent children from playing them.

5. If it needs to be played slow, it should stop. Slow tempo is fast on the road to total trash.

6. Folk music should be played for other folks.

7. The time between 1949 and 1969 is known as the black hole of music.

8. Indie == crapie.

9. Pop == poop.

10. Rap is just missing a C.

11. Anything I like that contradicts any of the above rules weighs in my favour.

So there you go. I'm the Archie Bunker of music, but at least I know what I like. And generally it's not what you like, so suck it up.

Happy Birthday Dad!

Happy Birthday Dad! Love you!

Weird Musical Tastes

I hinted the other day at my odd musical tastes. I will try to obscufate them further today.

I have eclectic taste in music. By eclectic I mean tantricly eccentric. It's a fine case of reality being weirder than fiction. Here is a menu of Ken's musical tastes:

Rammstein
Mix 'Metallica' with 'the Prodigy and fold in '2 live crew''s lyrics in German. All with the fun of minor key music and a bass lyricist that frightens anything with a high eye to head size ratio.

David Crowder Band*
Progressive rock with poetic Christian lyrics from Texas. Lead singer has a goatee, an affro, and is white. Did someone say "Banjo"?

Bach's Brandenburg Concerto's
Genius melodic work with an ensemble. Totally acoustic, with a nutty flavour. The world's favourite ecclesiastical composer in his secular contract masterpiece.

The Prodigy
Electronic Industrial music with thick guitar. A must for any workout or fragfest. If you're not killing to this, you better be running.

Gordon Lightfoot
Folk music with a beautiful baritone. Simplicity is bliss. I'd cry to his music if I weren't afraid of interrupting it.

ABBA
Fun Fun Fun, two Swedish couples make 70's pop transcendent between generations. More fun than running through Ikea with only an Allen key on.

Hillsong United
No they're not a soccer team. Teenage rock band from Australia's favourite church group, Hillsong. Powerful chords, powerful lyrics, full sound.

Alma Cogan
The voice with a smile. If you're depressed, take 2 cd's and sing until morning. Pop from the 60's with an elegantly fun flair. Like a happy Stepford wife singing.

Dream Theater
Advanced progressive industrial rock. Bleeding edge to the intensive care level. If you make it through the 14 minute songs, you'll have entered a higher consciousness whether or not you lived.

Five Iron Frenzy
Ska music from a rebel band. Play your guitar backwards, toot some horns, yell about Church injustice, and have some laughs while you're at it!

Matrix Soundracks
Electronica, Industrial, Dance, Trance, Ants in your pants. It makes you want to jack in in the worst possible way.

Eric Satie
Idiosyncratic French musician who wrote simple melodies with sublime skill, and then gave them names like "Songs for an automatic dog" and "Dances for Naked Boys". Post-impressionist's Ozzy!

Delirious?
England's Christian 'Beatles'. Hoppin lyrics and music. It'll rock you, move you, and then return you with some peace and a hint of conviction.

So there you go, my musical influences. Maybe that explains more about me than I'd care to admit. Begin your psychoanalysis, but prepare to be afraid. VERY afraid. Tomorrow for your pleasure, and further confusion, I'll list and explain all the music I can't stand. It will be a longer list for sure.

And yes, I'm listening to Rammstein right now. The song is called "Alter Mann". Look it up on www.herzeleid.com, if you dare...

Dinner and music. Ahhhhhhhhhh

Yesterday my beautiful wife and I went out for dinner (as opposed to the ugly wives I keep at home for obvious reasons). I was negative about the prospects of eating out in town. The options to me were:

Fast food
Glorified fast food
Overly priced food
Stay at home.

I didn't want to go out until I remembered my last visit to Naxos. It's a little restaurant that serves Greek food. Nice enough to dress up for, not too uppity to wear jeans to, reasonable price, and the food is transcendent.

My last visit to Naxos was a break in restaurant etiquette. I ordered the wings, "Naxos style", after the server gave the honest advice that the hot wings were not debiltating. If it won't render me speachless due to 3rd degree burns, it's not worth it. So Naxos style it was.
A salt/pepper/Greek spices & lemon juice combination that was so good we finished off the wings, then used the bread to mop up the extra, then used our fingers to lap up anything left. I wasn't above licking the plate, but it was unnessesary. Oh, and this was a business meeting too.

In other news, I learned a bit about music yesterday . I hate cover songs. As a rule they are worse than the original, and worse still because they are unoriginal. It gives credence to the line "you know she's a great singer because she's wearing so few clothes."
Shopping at the liquor store (an exercise in stereotypes, everyone there looked like a binge drinker. There were more cabs there than at the airport),
there was a remake of "walking on sunshine." It was like Enya had lost the will to sing, but was forced to at gunpoint. It took Jedi style mind power not to down a bottle of whatever was in reach to kill the pain of that song.

And that wasn't the worst.

Earlier in the day I was forced to listen to the local "hits of the 60's, 70's, 80's, 90's and today". On it was "If you could read my mind" by Gordon Lightfoot. Gordon Lightfoot can NEVER be covered. NEVER! Again, much will required not to crush a co-worker's radio into atoms.
It sounded like Madonna's trashy little sister and her disco band tried a remake.

So there you go, you know my kryptonite. A mixed tape of Lightfoot covers will have me dislocating my shoulders to plug my ears with my elbows, because we all know you're not allowed to stick anything smaller than your elbow in your ear.

Blogging, it's all about me.

I've noticed that everyone can't communicate properly. They always think when I'm talking about them. This is rarely true, because I have a sad 2:1 ratio of caring. For every thing you say, I care about it half as much as I care about what I have to say. I'm obsessed with myself, this entry evidence thereof.

Hey, I'm a jerk, but to me I'm a criminally captivating one.

As I blog, that being, writing my own comic journal; I consider my audience. And it's funny, my audience consists of people who are either blood relatives or are my closest personal friends.

Why I don't call these people to make them laugh is, again, a selfish endeavor. I blog for me to be liked by you, envied by you, and then at the end, to pretend I don't care what you think.

And I think I'm the typical blogger.

So is there something wrong with me?

That was a rhetorical question. I'll wait for the yelling and laughing to subside.

Waiting.

Comeon.

Ok. So is this narccistic publishing a problem, or just a more open journal? I can't say for anyone else, but for me it's a way to entertain others in a way where there is little censorship and even less reason to write. It's the blank slate, and because I have loved ones, by default I have a captive audience too.

If this is karma, then you've been very naughty to have to read this.

To quote some unfortunately said words at my wedding: “If it weren't for you being here, this would just be a bunch of us drinking and laughing at each other. That would make it a family reunion.”

I'm still amazed no one laughed. But in a sad way it's true, without you reading this, it would be me talking to myself on the computer. That would make it my social life.

Thank you.

You can go home again, but don't ever move back.

This weekend we went to visit my parents. It's a short drive, too long for an afternoon visit, so we end up going the few weekends a year they are actually there and I am actually not at Church and my kids don't have birthday parties and my wife doesn't have pampered chef parties.

This averages out to about 4 weekends out of the year.

I love spending time at my parent's house. More so when they are there at the same time. A fair amount of the reason is spending time with my Dad.

The kids plug into Treehouse on tv like it's drugs for the eyes, which would make "Toopy and Binoo" the visual equivalent to crystal meth. Think "Ren & Stimpy" without the butt jokes. SpongeBob == Shakespeare in comparison.

Kim likes to read, watch TLC programs on bitchy women and gay men fixing unfortunately dressed or tragically housed people, and drinking wine with Mom.

To be honest, Kim worries me more than the kids.

But I do a few things:
1. Work on computers.
2. Watch aircraft documentaries with Dad.
3. Play with the kids so Kim can read.
4. Apprentice under my Father.

When you think of apprenticing, you would normally think carpentry, plumbing, electrical work, car repair. Now my Dad can do all of these well, inso none of those projects has killed him or anyone else yet (we JUST retired his grade 9 woodworking project, so he has skill).

No, I apprentice on how to cook. My Dad is a kitchen snob, and I'm not afraid to admit it. He won't cook on anything other than Paderno, he only uses fresh ground pepper and Kosher salt. He GROWS his own spices.

Dad took over cooking around the same time he retired. I noticed he had too much time on his hands when I started receiving lunches that were the envy of my classmates. They had PB & J and Passion Flakies, I had ham and dijon pita sandwiches with a side of carrots in rose-petal cut. And because I wasn't receiving enough negative attention during my adolescence, my father included in his only son's, his 16 year old son's lunch, pictures of cookies and Junior Juices.

May I make a side note that it makes it remarkably more difficult getting dates when you pull out a dwarfed drink container that has the characters from "Wind in the Willows" on it.

Over the years Dad moved from cooking style to cooking style, progressing in skill, complexity, and flavour. He now is the person I call when I have doubts on any matter of cooking. No one else's opinion counts like his does. I am proud to learn a few of his secrets, which are only secrets because we don't listen closely enough to him.

I love my Dad, and I am proud of his ability to cook. I am happy to learn from him, observing his style and unlearning my plebeian culinary ways.

So I raise a scotch to my Father, master chef of the house. After all, he left the scotch here on his last visit, it only seems right. Thanks Dad.

No respect for Oscar

My job involves answering the phone. That should say enough, but let me explain. No one makes happy business calls (try one sometime, call someone in your organization to talk about how happy you are, see where that goes). The phone is an instrument used to deal with a problem. By the time you touch the touchpad, you are already upset because something is wrong enough for you to interrupt your day interrupting someone else's.

And then my phone rings. I've been cried to. I've been sworn at. I've been flirted with. I wonder how I missed taking social work classes getting into this job.

And yes, I know I'm a jerk. I really don't care enough for the opinions and feelings of others, or at least that is what THEY claim. But I do TRY to empathize with all and sundry who call my phone, trying desperately to understand what stupor they were in to manage to confuse a keyboard as a place mat or to think that ignoring my suggestions/recommendations/orders would be MY fault.

But I will not suffer people who are grouchy.

In Sesame street all the other muppets (puppets with the strings of marionettes and the cold, cold hands of puppeteers. Think of Pinocchio having a permanent prostate exam) try to cheer Oscar the Grouch up. These poor misguided codependent mutant marionettes spend so much energy doing for Oscar what he is too lazy to do for himself. In fact, most children's programs have someone grouchy who just needs "enough love" to win over. This is generally done by the useless runt of the group with the high pitched voice.

Bull.

IMHO they just need a HappyByFour tm to the cranial lobe until they cheer up. Or exile.

Grouchy people are in a state of self perpetuating misery. They are emotional entropy. So I ask myself "What does a doctor do?", and then apply the same level of beside manner to them.

Them: "My computer doesn't work. Again. Can't you people fix these things right?"

Me: "Yes. The problem is you are allowing your belly to rest on your keyboard."

Them: "This is so stupid. I don't know why we are having to use these stupid things anyway."

Me: "Not sure. Bye."

So there you go. The secret to happiness in a job with a phone: Use of the release button. I'd suggest having one made up to rival the "Easy" button by Staples, but an "Easy Release" button gives the wrong message. No matter how happy that would make people.

War and Peace

It seems I like to read literature classics. I do it enough. I am trying to read through some of the great books that were not pushed on me during English class.

The problem is I am a slow reader with them. So slow I think the library will name a new wing in honour of me for my accumulated fines. And during the 3 to 6 months it takes to read these books I go through several phases.

1. This blows.

2. Gah! I can't understand who is who when the names are French/Greek/German/Irish/Russian.

3. Ooooo, I can't put this down!

4. Best book ever.

There have been two exceptions to this list: "The Illiad" and "Catcher in the Rye" both stayed at step 2.

I'm now over half way through War and Peace. This has been since I started in November. I am now somewhere between step 3 and 4, and I have a secret:

It's a soap opera, and I love it.

I know it's a challenge to my masculinity. Kim reminds me of this when she "listens" to me with glassy eyes when I explain how Natasha has kissed Antone and since broken up with Prince Andrew and is shamed except that Pierre is falling in love with her because his *itch wife Helene is messing around with Boris who married Julie for her money. But I hoped Pierre would fall in love with Prince Andrew's sister Mary. GAH!

What is weirder is that I need to disclaim that I am reading the book so when I start cursing the characters I don't like Kim doesn't think I'm mad at her, or am hallucinating about burning leprechauns.

So read this book. It's worth the half year and $20.

Happy Bus Drivers.

I travel to work via city transit. It's efficient enough for me, and it gives the side bonus that my wife has her sanity. You wouldn't believe what a difference that makes in my day.

Some bus drivers clearly have a spring through the middle of the cushion. They are surly to the point of being called the bus-nazi. Oscar the grouch would be proud. I almost want to pull the bell late for a stop just to tweak them.

Others couldn't care. They worry me. Instead of having road rage with 20 passengers, these drivers seem to have compounded muscle relaxant and anti-depressant medications. When I'm with them I'm sure I'll be on the bus that runs over a train. I have the fear that I'll be in an accident on my way to an important meeting. I'll be put out of 3 hours of my day between waiting for the police, filing reports, and then getting another bus. Oh yeah, and there's the possibility someone else could be hurt too.

But today I had Al, the happy bus driver. Al isn't annoyingly happy like he's supressing the dark voices calling him to go on a bus rampage through a mall. Al is genuinely pleased to be where he is in the world. He likes his job (well enough), and shows respect and welcome to all who ride his bus. I can't help but feel like scum for how dispondent I get with my job when I see him smiling while carting around people who missed their weekly shower.

So here is to all the Al's out there. You make our lives better, make us feel guilty, and confound us on your motivations. Don't ever stop. Except at all marked intersections and railway crossings. And in those cases do listen to the screaming people behind the yellow line on the floor.

I'm smarter today. I think.

I enjoy training. I don't mean dogs, I mean being bettered through education. What beauty it is to drink from knowledge's fountain, and when I have quaffed my draught, to cry out "How did I exist before today? I have been an invertibrate's inferior before now!"

Today was nothing like that.

My morning was interupted by some mandatory training. It was only an hour, but I found myself watching the clock as if it held the secret to my escape. I don't like being taught stuff I could more easily have read myself. I don't like sitting in a stuffy, overheated room without a desk to hide behind. I despise poorly aligned powerpoint presentations.

At least it was just an hour.

My problem mostly stems from my empathy. I TRY SO HARD to pay attention and give the instructor the benefit of respect. And then they read from an email and try to sound excited.

I crawled back to my desk, refilled my coffee cup, and had less than an hour before the next session.

This one was much better in a way. The room wasn't stuffy, and it was a teleconference.

For those who haven't had the benefit of a teleconference, imagine your teacher teaching a class via the intercom. I can still make some cool paper airplanes!

But you know me, even with this newfound freedom, I can't help but find fault. This was taught by an instructor who had two teaching faults equivalent to scraping dog whistles against my neck.

1. Repetition. He repeated himself 3 times for each point. I counted. 3 times!

2. Noticing everything, commenting on most, too polite to confront on any.

Teleconference etiquite says you mute your phone. This prevents sound effects like a voiceover track from an obscene phone call, comments like "This is the biggest crock of sh.." and sneezes that sound like you were using your microphone as a q-tip up the nose.

There were a few people on the call who missed that lesson. And the instructor would passively remind us to mute our phones.
"Mute your phones please."
"Keep your phone muted until you need to comment."
"OW, that sneeze was really loud."
"My right ear is bleeding."
"You should see a doctor after you mute your phone. You sound like you have 3 lungs."

Being a spectator to all of this when I could be hitting myself repeatedly with my stapler in the comfort of my own cubicle was exhausting. Oh, and it ran through lunch hour.

This is why I tell my kid's class I'm a fireman.

It's about choice.

I love my freedom. I'm not sure what that means, but I believe it. In order to safeguard it I consider my options. I'm honest about them. One option may be extreme, undesireable, or illegal, but that doesn't negate it as a option, it only sets it's priority.
So everything in my life is a choice. Breathing, eating, living, working, parenting. I *could* choose otherwise, but I like the choices I've made. Knowing that makes me quite content.

You know what's funny? I've found that most people don't share, or enjoy, this vision.

To illustrate, here are a couple of converstations that I have had:

------------------------

Them: "My kids are growing up too fast"

Me: "So you want you're kids to have stunted development?"

Them: "No, I'm saying I'm not ready for them to be so grown up."

Me: "The alternative is that they be slower than their peers. That's a pretty selfish wish. I'm glad I'm not one of your kids. You'd hate me for reaching adulthood."

Them: "You don't understand what I'm saying."

Me: "Try English. I know that fairly well."

------------------------

Them: "I would have been on time, but my boss made me stay late."

Me: "Did you call the police?"

Them: "Why?"

Me: "How did your boss force you to stay? Did he tie you up, handcuff you, what?

Them: "No, hey just said I had to."

Me: "Is your boss a hypnotyst? A Jedi maybe? Gee, I can't get my kids to listen to me, and you're an adult. Maybe he can teach me some things."

------------------------

Them: "I'm getting old"

Me: "There is an alternative. A 100% known cure for aging"

Them: "What?"

Me: "Death."

Them: "You're morbid."

Me: "No, you're close minded."

------------------------

Them: "I'd like to go with you guys, but I have to pay my mortgage this week."

Me: "No you don't."

Them: "No, it's due on Thursday"

Me: "I'm sure the bank would happily keep your house if your forfeit. They're pretty consistent that way. You could go out with us now and start looking at apartments tomorrow.

------------------------

And this one with my wife.

Them: "The kids need me."

Me: "No they don't. They don't drop into comas when you go shopping. They get a bit hungry, but I hardly notice."

Them: "No, they NEED me."

Me: "I'm quite certain they'll outlive you by 2 decades. You dropping dead or leaving won't kill them."

Them: "That's not what I meant."

Me: "But that's what you said."

---------------------------------

And yet for some reason they blame me for their misunderstandings of the issue. I'm only trying to clarify their options so they feel empowered. So I've learned now to choose not to help, people are more grateful that way.