No sleep makes me stupid.

I'll start off by saying I'm not a hypocrite. I just believe in double standards.

I consistently tell my children that sleep is vital to their health. I get upset when they don't settle into bed and begin the appeals process with the number one and number two lower courts. They may be tired but they are smart enough to know I won't make them stay in bed if they have to go. I am averse to mess as it means cleaning which means work.

I, on the other hand refuse to get enough sleep. This draws from my sincere belief that it is a rotten waste of time.

I have so much I want to do during the day. By 10pm I have done so little and I have much more slacking off to do. Retro gaming doesn't play by itself.

I received a wake up call this week after another midnight session of 'Syndicate'. I had slept in again and needed food for the day. Breakfast AND Lunch. I took what I hoped were leftovers and then grabbed a container containing a paper towel and three eggs.

I wasn't sure if they were hard boiled or raw. I remembered through the fog of my rest deprived brain that you could spin a an egg on end if it is boiled but not if it's raw.

Or was it the other way around?

I spun an egg and it rolled on it's side. I second guessed myself out of time and decided to roll with it. I put it all together with an apple and called it healthy. Before tossing it in my gym bag I put it all in the plastic produce bag that the apple had rested in just in case there was any mess.

When I arrived at work I went to retrieve my breakfast and found it a bit moist. Thankfully I had packed a second pair of workout clothes that day, again, due to being too tired to think straight. Being a weakling at the gym is even worse if you have egg white stuck to your shorts.

This is the sort of gaff that can't stay quiet. In conversation with my wife later that day:
Her: What did you take for breakfast today?
Me: Remember those three boiled eggs in the container in the fridge?
Her: They weren't boiled.
Me: I know that now.
Her: Why did you take raw eggs to work?
Me: Because I'm... stupid.

The moral of the story is pack your lunch at one in the morning after defeating the enemy Syndicate in Indonesia.

Anti-work

I love my job, especially all the parts I don't hate.

I have become proficient at my vocation in the past decade. I have moved past the reactive "Reboot" or "Why don't you remember your password" responses. I am proactive, which is to say I have disabled Caps-Lock on certain keyboards.

As a direct result of my expertise I expect I am now being diagnosed by the clients as bi-polar. This is because one of two things happens:

1. I arrive at their computer, sigh loudly, smile, press three buttons and then wander away with half of an explanation of their original problem.
2. I sit in their chair for half an hour fending off sleep.

It isn't my paternal narcolepsy that has me nearly napping at their desks, it's the the second most hated part of my job.

The status bar.

Like most geeks I am obsessed with efficiency. I pre-plan errand routes to prevent doubling back and to maximize waiting time. Within the confines of my own office it is common to see me switching between 3 or 4 different computers pretending to work.

But when the problem doesn't warrant confiscating the computer I support it at their desk. This is a waste of my time.

The problem comes in the unpredictability of the status bar. That offensive graphic which taunts me as it crawls across the screen like molasses chasing a snail.

I can't leave the computer in case a prompt asks me for my genius to apply the correct x/y co-ordinates on the interface to facilitate my endorsement of the current information and initiate the subsequent action.

That means I wait around to hit 'Next'.

For those who have never enjoyed this angle of the tech world, let me give you a play by play.

Minute 1 - Analyze problem
Minute 2 - Curse under my breath and inform client to take a leisurly walk for a coffee. Repress the urge to growl at them while they feign disappointment for the sponsored break.
Minute 3 - Log the client out, log in as all-powerful, initiate install or uninstall or the really dreaded uninstall/install combo.
Minute 4 - Click the gratuitous combination of Yes, Next, Custom, Next, Next, Yes.
Minute 5 - Watch the status bar creep across the screen. If attentive I can observe the narrowing of people due to 4th dimensional space/time relativity.
Minute 16 - Begin playing 'Breakout' on my blackberry in an attempt to stay awake.
Minute 17 - Lose the game. Reflect on what shape the other person's butt must be by sensing the form their chair has adopted.
Minute 21 - Attempt to urge the status bar forward with my mind.
Minute 27 - Begin praying.
Minute 28 - Hold my insults as the client returns and says "You're not done yet?"
Minute 32 - Complete the install with a reboot. Return to my lair and close the ticket so that any subsequent calls start the clock again giving me at least 24 hours before I need to see the status bar again.

So the part of my work I hate is that which is not work, or the anti-work. I love the rest of it.

Except rebooting.

I hope she thinks I'm pretty at least.

The olfactory value of a rose by any other name depends on marketing. For some curious reason synonyms leave different impressions on us. For example: describing breakfast as "bacon and eggs" is more palatable than "pig calves and chicken zygotes".

And so to sound less draconian I describe punishing my children as discipline. In truth I recognize the significant difference between the two activities. Punishment is dealing pain in return for a transgression. Discipline is nagging your kids until they ignore you.

We are in the cycle of returning our children to normal bed times. This serves two purposes:
-> They are healthier when they have enough sleep.
-> We can stand them when they aren't tired.

The trick is getting them to STAY in bed and not read, play, or kick the walls in order to have the warden visit. I like to try to reason with them on this. Reasoning with an overtired 5 year old can be described as trying to win the jackpot betting on race that has just finished. You know the outcome, you predict it, but you can not cash in on it.

As a result I have to implement artificial consequences, as the natural ones of falling asleep in their cereal and driving their mother batty are not working. Being ever logical I let them pick their doom.

Me: "Honey, what do you need to fall asleep?"
Her: "My music and my Sunny."
Me: "Ok, then if you keep coming downstairs I will take it that they aren't working for you. I will first turn off your music. If that doesn't help you sleep I will take Sunny for a while."

Traditionally this level of warning works well, meaning I turn off the music and take the toy once before they realize I'm serious. The other night the child came down (after multiple tucking in and warnings) and said:

"I came down to see Mommy again. I already turned off my music."

I was honestly pretty proud of her. She understood the results and took them in her own hands.

Then not even 10 minutes later I hear a cacophony from her sister's room which sounds just like the younger one causing a grave disturbance in the force. Upon investigation the little miscreant runs to her bed and dives under the covers.

Me: "I'm sorry honey, but you made your choice. Where is Sunny?"
Her: "I don't have her."

It took a minute of interrogation to derive the location of the toy. It was hidden. Under the bed. Wrapped in a bag.

It is not a good sign that she thinks that she can outwit me this easily. Her opinion of her Fathers cranial capabilities is humbling. I hope she thinks I'm pretty at least.

So now my routine of "Reason, Warning then Discipline" I need to append "Establish credibility". Anyone want to be a reference for me?

Calvin-Bowl

I swear I used to be rational. I used to have a reason for my actions, a plan to accomplish my intents. Then I had kids.

One of the most significant changes in your life after having children is meal times.

In the beginning it is fairly minor of a change. The kid either downs a bottle or distracts the husband while they eat.

Once the small person moves to mush you now have to wait to eat while giving them their supper. This involves putting 1/8 tsp amounts of mush into the mouth of someone who is enjoying the tactile excitement in discovering their tongue.

This continues until you can slap a cup of 'Cheerios' on the little table and they begin to feed themselves. And the cat.

My kids are now old enough to manage well on their own. They have the dexterity to both feed themselves and avoid stabbing mishaps with the others at the table. It is because of this that I expect the unreasonable.

I expect them to eat their meals.

The younger one gets tired of the table fairly easily. She is bored of sitting there by the time my wife sits for dinner. Every meal I repeat the mantra "Be quiet and eat. Stop moving and eat."

It might seem cruel to disallow discussion over the dinner table but what comes out of her mouth isn't discussion, it's like hooking up a voice synthesizer to a wireshark feed.

So as she staves off the boredom from a half hour of consuming life giving food I invent new rules for table manners in a way that would make 'Calvinball' appear rather linear.

The rules for our meal times include:
-> No toys at the table.
-> Wear clothes when eating.
-> No kicking.
-> No punching.
-> No yelling.
-> No rubbing food on the table.
-> No stabbing the plate.
-> Eat with your mouth closed.
-> Not too much ranch sauce on your potatoes.
-> No talking if you're the slowest eater at the table.
-> No having a second drink of milk.

This week's addition: No interpretive dance at the table.

You can thank the younger one for that. She had been forbidden from speaking but figured that full body sign language was still allowed.

The older one isn't so much an inspiration to create rules as she is an influence to pursue a child psychology degree.

One of her favourite foods is ribs. This is neat, as ribs taste good. Last night she saved her ribs for last, eating all other food on her plate. Then she picked up a rib, looked at it as Hamlet would a skull, and began to speak to it in soothing tones.

"Mmmmm, dead pig grease."

My wife and I responded with a worried look at each other. The child continued uninterrupted as her sister had exceeded her talk to food ratio for the meal already.

"This must have been a skinny pig. Skinny little pig. They must have hit parts off with a crowbar."

I must say that is the first time I have ever heard the word crowbar used in a conversation with one's dinner. My wife and I were now choking on our mouthfuls so she endured:

"I think the pig died from bone loss."

So that may explain the irrational regulations that are held to our board. It also explains several of my nightmares since.

√y

I like to find the root cause of events and actions. It is a curious combination of two bad habits: Control issues and superiority complex. It really helps in parenting.

It requires answering a lot of "why" questions. This is important because you want to have an answer for something BEFORE the kid asks "why not Daddy?" This is critical as "because I said so" translates to "try it to find out" in kid language.

One behavior I wish to exorcise from my "perfect" (sic) children is tattling. I have succeeded so far with the older one.

The reason WHY tattling is bad is because it:
1. Bothers the parents.
2. Is intended to get someone else in trouble.

With the older one I was able to communicate this effectively. I pointed out that tattling was a way of trying to hurt her sister by proxy, namely the parent. And I don't like to be reminded that I have the mentality of a 6 year old so I refuse to be the 8 year old's lackey.

She understood this reasonably quickly (by the 10th reminder) and has since ceased. Her sister on the other hand doesn't get it.

When a child doesn't understand sometimes it helps to exaggerate to the logical extreme. This is how we come up with the "jumping off the bridge if your friends do it" logic. It is also how we sound stupid in public.

The first time I tried to reason with the 5 year old I tried to clarify by saying:
"Honey, tattling is trying to get bad things to happen to your sister. Do you want me to hurt your sister for you?"

Her immediate response of "Yes" was a moment of candid honesty that was rewarded with a time out for hate crimes.

Tonight I tried again, but with a different, albeit humorous tactic. She was attempting to be entertained with a gladiatorial confrontation by informing us of the misdoings of her sibling. As she related this I replied, my voice dripping with sarcasm:

"Since you're going to interrupt us with the news, I'm going to buy a commercial. I'll pay you a dollar to say 'Daddy is the greatest ever, tonight at 9' with each news break"

She turned her bright blue eyes to me, put her little chubby hands around my neck, hopped into my lap, leaned her cherubic face close to mine and said "Daddy, I love you."

Me: "Awww, I love you too darli...."
Her: "Now give me a dollar."

Lovely, now I have to explain why trading love for money is wrong too.

Elevator Etiquette

Children live in a world full of wonder. That is a nice way of saying they are exceptionally ignorant of the simple physics, biology and chemistry around them.

Moments of amazement and surprise should diminish with age. And yet gratefully, as a gift from above, we can find little wonders every day because we are surrounded by beings whose behavior is random and unpredictable. As I was this week by how people use the elevator.

I work in a building with a lift. Whenever I bring my children along in one it is like they are at a carnival. They fight to press the buttons and then freak out when the thing begins to move.

I take those moments to teach my children the simple etiquette of using an elevator. And to my wonder this week I find I should publish this for adults too.

1. Don't make smells in the enclosed space. It doesn't matter what perforation in your skin that odor comes from, no one else wants it. And if you find it necessary to either refrain from washing your clothes or begin bathing in cologne then just take the stairs you freak.

2. Unless there is only one elevator: let it go. Don't hold it for your five friends who are 'just around the corner'. Other people have places to be, and being held hostage by your buddies tardiness only inspires us to break rule number 1. Remember, the first time is tardiness. The second time we add the prefix RE.

3. Don't talk. This is an awkward enough social situation. Overhearing the continuing conversation of indiscretions resulting from toxic amounts of alcohol consumption is not how anyone wants to spend 2 minutes of their day. Trust me, we all assume you are a loser, don't give us verbal evidence.

4. No touching. My word, no touching.

5. No liquids. If it is moist and in you keep it there. This covers sneezes, coughing, crying and spitting.

6. No jumping. I know it seems funny to shake the little box with the people in it but if you scare someone half to death in the lift they will finish the job on you when you get out.

7. When the elevator stops get in right away or let it pass. Waffling about "it's too full" punishes everyone in the cramped space hanging in the air.

8. Face the door. There is a level of weird reserved for people wearing tuxedos at WalMart and folks who don't face the door in an elevator.

9. Let people get off the elevator before you get on. You may be critically important in your own mind but the 11 of us stuck in the suspended container would rather not be kept waiting while you push your way through the people trying to escape the guy who had a bean chimmichanga for lunch.

I think that covers most of it. If anyone breaks these rules feel free to use this line when they exit and the doors are closing:

"Oh, you should see your doctor about that rash. Mine said it was a good thing I'd come in when I did for mine."

Unless it's your boss.

Almost 6 year old spin

Humans are separate from other animals in multiple ways. We hide our shame with clothing. We are aware of our own existence. We blog (most of us only once).

It is truly fascinating that as a species we communicate to understand each other. It's way beyond "Stand still while I run away from that predator" or "lets go pick nuts" or even "hey, want to find parasites on me"? No, we as the higher creature attempt to fathom the intent of others around us.

In fact we are so adept at communication that we now have occupations that try to limit that, namely politicians, lawyers and MAN file editors.

In mutating the primal offspring into productive, functional members of society one must teach their children not only how to speak, but communicate. This is harder than it sounds, as we rarely realize that we aren't asking for what we want. Need examples?

"The garbage smells bad." == "Please take the garbage out to the curb you slob of a husband."
"You look good tonight dear." == "Please give hubbie 'special time' tonight."
"Are you going out again?" == "Please stay in, I'm jealous that you have a social life."
"Thanks for making dinner dear." == "Please give hubbie 'special time' tonight."
"May I have a word?" == "Shut up, you are wrong and about to find out how wrong you are."

I know I've done SOMETHING right as today my wife explained an incident between her and our younger daughter.

My diminutive descendant brought this piece of paper to my wife.



"Mommy, does this look like a sandcastle to you?"

My wife was about to diplomatically say no, which in parenting goes like "Kind-of dear, is that green part the ocean?" Before she could the not quite 6 year old said

"It doesn't. That's why I need to play my computer game."

She had recently borrowed an "Arthur Sandcastle" computer game from the Library. And she has been obsessive about playing it. To the degree of imitating a bi-polar Baboon if asked to take a break to eat, rest, or so help us use the washroom.

What impresses me the most is her creative way of presenting the issue. I simply hope in 10 years she doesn't ask for more practice time in the car the same way.

"Daddy, does that look like parallel parking to you?"

That's so stupid.

I'll be one of the first to admit I'm not the brightest distant thermonuclear reaction visible when our terrestrial rotation directs us away from the center of the solar system. I would be first to admit it but there is usually a lot of people clamoring for that opportunity.

I am reminded of my cerebral boundaries whenever I do my taxes, send an email without spell-check, contemplate the engineering of a piano, or try to understand my wife. And the old ego is continually sober due to the incessant backhands of reality.

As a result I suspend judgment on situations that I don't fully understand. That would be all of them. If I didn't I would be inclined to utter "That is so stupid" continually through my days.

Apparently many people don't let that stop them.

Daily I hear people say things like:

"Why would they put that door there. That is so stupid."
"Look at the design of this interface. How dumb is that."
"It's so retarded that they don't make the windmills more like pinwheels."

I used to try to direct these people to reflect on their own expertise in the field of discussion. Encourage them to contemplate that the person making the decision was not the recent victim of a zombie attack.

I realize I am not surrounded by morons (despite how they drive). People are typically rather intelligent and insightful where they make vocational decisions. Not that I trust them, they are still human and consequently would sell my safety for a cheaper pair of shoes, at least if the current policy on China is any indication.

Now instead of trying to convince people they are dumber than they sound I like to be there when they come to that conclusion on their own. I'll cheerfully agree with them, and one up them until they figure out I'm toying with them.

Them: "Why would they put that stop light there. That is so dumb."
Me: "Totally. It's like they want to stop people from driving. I bet the decision makers were drunk and hopped up on PCP's when they did this. And their parents were siblings. Whose combined IQ's were in the teens. I hate the planner who ruined my life by deciding that. Thanks for pointing that out."

As a public service, before you decree something as dumb, stupid, retarded or any other derision of others decisions please say this inside your head:

"Do I fully understand the situation and am making a rational assessment here, or am I an overconfident, pseudo-intellectual hoping for a chance to be on the Nobel prize committee?"

If you DO manage to solve the world's problems over the post-coffee break discussion at work, let me know, I have my response ready;

"That's so stupid."

Trust em as far as they can run (in the number of seconds that matches their age.)

Parenting is difficult. It is the only relationship that I know of that demands the balance of respect and interrogative suspicion.

Some people might take exception to my lack of confidence in under-trained humans. In my mind children are innocent only to the extent that the havoc they wreak is a combination of poor co-ordination and ignorance as opposed to malice.

This leaves me imagining the mischief my daughters could get up to when it isn't visibly apparent. This is how I keep the "eyes in the back of my head" myth going. I just 'happen' to show up to catch them because I have complex daddy algorithms running at all times.

(Click the chart to see it clearer, then go buy glasses)



And every once in a while you need to rewrite the whole thing because kids, being human, do something bat crazy that messes up the whole systematic approach. Like the algorithm for "things you step on in the dark".

So the other night we were discussing an upcoming sleepover with my older daughter and one of her friends. We moved on from the subject and a few minutes later she said:

"At least I don't come down in the middle of the night and play with matches."

?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

Was this the random, hypothetical musings of of an 8 year old or was she tattling on someone by process of elimination?

Being the sensible father that I am I envisioned the 5 year old having late night pyromaniac binges. I pressed the soon-to-be-confessor for details on who in fact DID play with matches in the middle of the night. I dreaded phoning one of her friend's parents with that piece of information.

It turns out she was confusing a story she had read with some creative imagination of her own.

All the same I've added "were the children practicing for arson" to my morning checklist.

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

In an unrelated note Happy Birthday to the girlfriend who I was lucky enough to engage, fortunate enough to marry and who had the fortitude to endure 10 years of marriage to me. I love you, and although you are aging I'll take that over the alternative.

Dumping the conversation.

It is really hard to fit in sometimes. I have had the paralyzing social quandary invoked from accepting the invitation of a friend to a reception or awards symposium. You find yourself the only one in the room with nothing in common to anyone else. And those tend to be cash bar nights too.

Given a bit of warning to these events you can do your homework and avoid wandering on the outside of conversations like a free radical that has no purpose. By the way, that is entirely different than a rebel without a cause.

If it is an awards dinner, Wikipedia the organization and the history. If it is a wedding reception, do a bit of genealogy. Don't worry about finding bad news on either, just remember not to blaspheme the family clan in the receiving line.

But if you end up in a group that has young parents there is always a magic focus point that makes for laughs and a few tears. For people who don't have kids yet here is a gimmie: Bowel movements.

This is a great subject of interest. Learn all you can about size, stages, shapes, smells and textures. A few cute anecdotes can go a long way here. Don't use them as the starter though. Walking up to a group of people and saying "speaking of full shorts..." is going to cost you a lot at that cash bar.

Every young parent ends up talking about poopie so often that they forget their circumstances. More than once I've been at work discussing over the phone the mushier points of one of my offspring's offings. Normally, this has been with my wife, but amazingly not exclusively.

What that you say, you don't have a good turd tale to slide to a skidding stop in your next conversation? Have no fear, you can just say "I know a guy who..." and use this.

This week my younger daughter strode into the living room. My wife and I were enjoying each others company by reading separate books (for those who haven't been married long enough that is what we call 'boredplay'). The little urchin announced

Child: "Guess what!"
My wife: "What dear?"
Me: "You've achieved cold fusion using a dustbuster, a wet hankie and Richard Simmon's video 'Sweatin to the Oldies'?"
(they both roll their eyes at me each time, so fun that game)
Child: "My poop looks like something!"
My wife: "Poop?"
Me: "Solid toots? No, Abraham Lincoln with a bad hair day?"
Child: "A mushroom. Come and see!"

Seriously neither of us did. Make it bad parenting that we demand our children flush their posteriourly created art without so much as a viewing.

So now you can fit in with people who have little kids. You can even practice by dumping your best stories here now.

That's because I'm working.

A workplace is an interesting environment. You spend 12 to 18 years in the grim artificiality of institutionalized life based mainly on what year you were born in. Finally you arrive in the "real world" which lumps you with whoever is willing to pay you enough to keep you doing what they tell you to. Unless you work for Google, where they automatically assign you an oompah-Loompa (or so I hear).

And during the course of your time in somewhere they have to pay you to stay in you make new acquaintances and friends. Or that is how it's supposed to be.

I honestly am a terrible person to have at work. I know some of you would simply omit the last five words to the previous sentence to generalize.

Most days I toil away at my workstation (I call it that instead of a desk to make me sound like I work at NASA). I strive against the forces that hinder our ability to do business, which is code for "I tell them to reboot first and ask questions later".

I have learned to love my job like a trophy bride learns to love her decrepit spouse. I close my eyes a lot and imagine I am working for a more important company. And yes I fake enthusiasm, everyone does.

And to keep that cognitive-dissonance going I am not what people would call warm. Or nice. Or happy. I whisk around as a busy drone bee tending to tasks as efficiently as I can.

During the course of all this people kindly wish to include me as a friend in the facebook of life. They attempt to strike up a conversation, occasionally mentioning that they don't see me around that much.

This is where my years of training with machines kicks in and I reply:
"That's because I'm working."

Right. Not a popular response, no matter how accurate it may be. The implication that they are keeping me from such important work as organizing my papers is no slight slight.

This happens on the phone too. They say things like:
"How are your wife and kids?"
"Sustained. Did you click on 'Start' yet?"

Instead of the class clown I'm the office grouch. I could easily make the time to be more attentive to others, but then who would do my job?

And there I go again... (I meant who would be the office grouch)

Second place personality

I have a second place personality. You know how people can have a winning or a losing personality, well mine is the kind that strives to impress others only to trip and fall at the finish line.

It's tragically hilarious. I will capture others attention with witty dialog or banter. I can do it for at least 3 sentences. Then without warning my lower opinion of them falls out of my mouth and all over their respect of me. It's like playing a game of craps with my mouth. Sooner or later I'll invite a hard five at my face.

As a child I learned to suppress my wit because I was smart enough to know the cause of my own suffering. Now that it's incorrect to dole out wedgies at work I seem to be making up for lost time.

Yesterday I was in the elevator returning to work from lunch. I wanted to get back from my workout with at least 5 minutes to eat before time ran out. On one of the floors some people got on just after someone exited.

Usually I enjoy the moment of intellectual superiority where I point out they have made a mistake (another misuse of wit). I lord my capacity to determine the direction of the elevator from the indicators on the wall over those who don't know which way is up.

But being in a rush I was less patient and jovial. So as the people attempted to get on I moaned "This one is going up." They clued in only after entering the box that hangs from a hidden cable. Then one person said "I don't want to go up..." and tried to leave, stopping the painfully slow door and causing it to open again. At the same moment her friends pulled her back and said "No..."

This 10 second delay on my break broke me and I said with a smile:
"Don't punish me for your indecision."

They all looked at me and the part of my brain that heeds the teachings of St. Fu was absent. I continued with the same 'winning' smile:
"Why am I being punished? What did I do wrong?"

The succinct reply from the wishy-washy directionally challenged one was the sublime repartee:
"Because you are."

Nice. 25 years and that response still confounds me. It is a logic black hole, it only gets stronger the more explanations you throw at it.

I was tempted to press all the buttons when I exited the elevator and consequently punish all of them, but I only motioned as if I would. My intention was to show I could be a jerk like them, but I'm too weak to be. They probably have forgotten about the rude babbling guy with a palsied twitch that nearly bumped him into the elevator panel.

And that is an example of why second place is the first loser.

Occupo pardus!

There used to be a concept called "quality time" with your kids. It was popular in the early 90's. I remember this because my Dad often invited me for it in my early teens.

I remember it well because for Dad it seemed "quality time" meant barking my knuckles doing some menial work that was too depressing for him to do alone. Like dig a hole in the backyard looking for the sewer exit from the house. This was to discover his estimate to be wrong by 30 feet only after I had dug a 10 foot hole in the yard.

As a father myself I try to have what would be termed "Positive Memorable Situations" at least once a month with my two young daughters. I think it's important that they develop a strong connection with their father. It's also so my wife doesn't warp them too much.

The main trouble is you can't usually plan or predict these teachable, impressionable moments. You just have to roll with the moment. Perhaps if some Dad successfully plans time with his kids he can let me know the secret. I'm sure it has to do with using the calendar and writing.

So today, my wife and I and my younger daughter arrived home together. The older child was at an activity for the day, a perfect opportunity for 'bonding'.

My wife did something odd as she was removing her wallet and keys from her person. She began to do what could be best described as a personal cancer check of the lower organs, but while fully clothed. She must have caught my "what the mercy are you doing" look as she said:

"There is a hole in these pants. Right here." Gesturing to the location she sought to verify the said wardrobe defect from both sides.

In an instant of cosmic alignment my younger daughter and I both mimicked my wife, only with looks of consternation to match some trying to taste test which motor oil is synthetic.

And that was the magic moment where we connected as father and daughter. We simultaneously pulled our underwear up to our belly buttons and poking fingers at our own midsections. It was classless but fun.

I'm sure that I managed to accomplish the triple task of connecting with my daughter, loosing a little of her remaining respect for me as an authority figure, and ensuring my wife will treat me with the same intellectual fortitude that I displayed in that moment. I'll remember it as the time in the porch that my younger daughter and I gave ourselves front wedgies.

Maybe I can coin a new term for Parent/Child bonding: Occupo pardus!

At least I'd have died laughing.

Driving with children in the car requires more attention than usually given. Obviously the 1/4 sized human tied to the back seat makes most people be more careful when piloting a 1/4 ton of metal in the tantric confusion we call traffic.

You have to tie them in by law, but of course the physics of a 60 pound object ricocheting inside the vehicle after a sudden stop is another good reason. It's kind of funny that not everyone does that with dogs. Should someone have a fender bender, that unlucky individual now has 100 pounds of barking meat careening about the cabin.

This past week we went out for laser tag for my birthday. I'm in my thirties and when asked what I wanted to do for my birthday I said "shoot you all". Laser tag was the only legal choice.

Returning from that I made a short side trip to pick up the NEW microwave for our house. I'm ashamed to say how exciting that was. In addition it goes nice with my new pepper grinder, barbecue brush and tongs and mushroom brush.

The children were pinned to their seats by the requisite straps and were cordially discussing the recent game of pointing fake guns at their family and shooting.

I suggested that they were easy targets because they were so easy to pick out, were slow and noisy. I also mused that the fact they shot their teammates so often was that their mother and I might look similar in the flurry of pretend space battle.

They disagreed though. The younger child argued that we were quite different because, in her own words:

"No Dad, I can tell you apart. Mom is heavier."

Silence from the front seat. I discovered that should I lose the capability to breathe while driving I CAN keep the car on the road. My wife was speechless either due to her suppressed giggling or tears.

My older daughter feeling the binding needs to be specific and correct her sister piped up. Her exact words were:

"No, Mom is WIDER than Dad."

She added the emphasis to ensure that her sister was not confused, and put it in a condescending tone and pace that had the word last two seconds.

At this point I am now driving 20 km/h below the speed limit in an attempt to not drive off the road. The contained laughter poured out as water from my eyes. My wife was now looking like she'd lost something on the floor.

Thankfully we arrived at our destination safely. Once we could breathe I think we mentioned that they should be more polite when addressing people's size and mass.

Our next car will be a limo. That way I can put the privacy screen up when that happens again.

Jobs with benefits

Tomorrow is my birthday. The joy of it is that counting sleep, work and transit time and I'm looking at spending a wonderful 31% of my 'anniversary of breathing air' doing what I want to.

I used to be more positive about work. At least the first week after being hired. My job isn't bad, but somehow the positive-go-getter attitude fades like a skid mark after so many washes.

2 and a half decades ago, when I first joined the military reserves I was so gung-ho. A somewhat jaded superior pointed that out to me saying that 'someday you'll be just like us'.

'How depressing' I thought. 'You're downright ugly'. He also was not a happy little soldier anymore, and he was promising me the same future. 'I won't be that way, I'll serve Her Majesty with all my resolve and vigor' I promised myself.

Two years later I quit because I missed a Weird Al concert to attend a range shoot.

Each subsequent employment has had me make a similar promise to myself. And yet it happens. Work beats the desire to work out of me.

3 years ago I promised myself I would make the my job work by rigidly adhering to the rules and doing the best job I could. I believed I could be the bureaucrat who made the system work.

6 months later I asked for a transfer to another department.

Once there I determined to be the 'fresh blood' that brought new life to the department, showing them that a lack of knowledge and skill can be overcome by trying harder than everyone else.

20 months later I asked to be transferred back.

I'm no quitter. 10 years of marriage, 8 years of parenthood, I even stuck through a whole season of wrestling because I had committed to. No where else in my life am I as negative and cynical as I am at my job.

So to all you young up-and-comers (Perverts who read my blog don't have to re-read the last sentence) consider the new culture of work a positive one.

It used to be you had one career for life and were miserable for it. Now you have just have jobs with benefits.

Your accomplishments won't have a lasting impact (unless they are debacles, then you won't stay around to make another). Your retirement lunch will be later in life with fewer people attending. Still you have the gift of short term, temporary happiness. Enjoy it while you can.

Oh, and learn to love what you do, no matter what the stuffed shirts (perverts get to save time here too) say about dressing up as your favorite Star Wars character.

What's new? How are you?

It amazes me that people still come to me for advice, or comfort, or first aid. As I slowly degenerate, my patience with everyone diminishes. As of this week it is directly proportionate to the square of the number of words spoken to me.

An example is:

Hi. (Patience 100%)
Am I interrupting? (Patience 91%)
This might be a stupid question but here goes.... (Patience -44%)

I used to try not to be rude. I've done away with that. It kept encouraging people to talk me into a self-abusive state.

Now I openly mock, berate, and simply ignore anyone who has exceeded my patience:interest ratio in a conversation, with one adjustment. Append the equation of (100(1+(|patience:interest|)) to my wife and anyone she wants me to pay attention to. Like the kids.

As if my unwillingness to endure inane dialogue was not enough of a personality fault I've recently realized I actively avoid certain types of people. It isn't based on race, colour, creed, religion, gender, age or even smell. It is based on when I saw you last.

You see polite conversation demands asking how things are going and what is new. If I have seen you in the last 6 months this is pretty safe because mostly everyone I know leads a boring life.

But so help you if I haven't seen you in more than that. The odds that you have been hired, fired, engaged, married, had a kid, had a grandkid, started a band, or begun to collect rocks goes up exponentially.

And even if you haven't had anything new or interesting happen polite society demands that I not let that be and shake you down for info until I find something that proves you aren't a time traveler or have been in prison.

The crux of the problem is I will see these people when I have somewhere else to be right away. So I have 3 choices available:

1. Meet and greet you, spending the next 30 minutes JUST outside the grocery lineup while my family waits for me to return with the required fixings for dinner.
2. Meet and greet you, but shrug you off by avoiding any leading questions of new or interesting happenings in your life. Effectively this is saying "I'm sorry you recognized me over here."
3. Boldly sneak away and hope you don't notice me. Have a back up plan of pulling the fire alarm if you do and making a run for it.

I am still slightly upset with myself for practicing that third option so frequently, albeit without ever having to use the alarm. So I apologize for my behavior, but I am confident you'd rather me treat you like a social pariah than be rude to you. That way you can continue to tell yourself "maybe he didn't see me because of his apparent neck injury and spinal fusing. Look at the poor guy limp...".

And hey, here, now, tell me: How are you? What's new?

Seeing is better than hearing.

It has been said that children learn more from what they see than what they are told. I would believe that, because my kids don't react to me SAYING 'go to bed' or 'stop hitting her' or 'good heavens no that's flammable'. They like to wait until I do get up and physically assist them.

I used to think it was smart that my cat would do that. She would obstinately stare at me from the table as I bellowed for her to get her litter stained feet off the dinner table, and only move once I pulled my sorry butt reluctantly out of my chair.

Now when my kids do that it's just annoying. I know they don't have hearing troubles because occasionally I whisper 'chocolate to eat' and they come running from across the house. They rarely outrun their mother though...

As part of teaching them by 'seeing' I let them watch me play video games. This works because I'm selfish and can hide it behind their incapability at the games without any practice.

Today my younger one pulled up a chair behind me while I was 'flying' in a flight simulator. I made a game of it and said she could be my passenger. She put on a cute little pretend seatbelt, helped pick the airplane (a Bell Ranger helicopter) and the airport (Toronto city centre).

Me: "Ok honey, where do you want to go? The Eaton's centre? The training office I was at the other week? The Skydome?"
Her: "No, just crash into a building. How about that one?"
Me: "That's the CN tower, it's the tallest free standing structure in the world"
Her: "Oh. Crash into it."
Me: "You were born in 2003 weren't you."

I'm just happy she was so scared of the real plane this year that she didn't say anything. Sometimes the crippling fear of children can be advantageous.

I just hope I don't get pulled over by the police with her along. I don't want to think of what she'd suggest to the officer, but I imagine it would involve beatings and cavity searches. She would learn a lot from seeing that day...

Freud would have laughed too.

There is a saying that goes "I may grow old, but I will never grow up." I would say that applies well to my father who despite working for a bureaucracy and raising 3 children kept his sense of humour.

I often enjoy his anecdotes of practical jokes and general enjoyment of the more serious moments of life. The honest fact is during the traditional reading of the 10 commandments in Church my father and I have a charismatic moment of emotional fits of laughter. We can never get past coveting our neighbors 'ass'.

There are times where it is inappropriate to have a giggle breakdown. A videoconference is one of them. It gives the impression that there is a problem with the equipment or an earthquake has struck the office.

Interrupting is a bad thing. And so no matter how funny the moment is, pinch your mouth closed, tear up like someone had onions for lunch, and see if you can hold your breath long enough for the funny moment to pass.

A few weeks ago we were discussing some new servers and server housing equipment that was coming to the office. This is exciting because our lives are boring. I was so into paying attention for mistakes that we were half way through the topic before I clued in and said to my in-room co-workers (our microphone WAS muted):

"Do you realize he has been discussing big racks for 5 minutes and none of us commented on it?"

Loss of composure in: 10 seconds.

That did it. The presenter continued to discuss the problem of ensuring the equipment would fit by saying "We could get a tape measure to assess the racks. You guys haven't had a problem with humongous racks up there, have you?"

It must have been fun to see us begin to glow red trying to contain the outburst. Then all three of us began to bellow in laughter, tears running down our faces.

The worst part is trying to point out to a grown man in a business meeting that you're laughing at what he is saying because it sounds like boobies. No lesson in college prepares you for that. Thankfully I've never had to explain to a priest why I get so emotional during the reading of the 10 commandments.

I may be increasingly cellular degenerate, but I'll still find body parts funny.

Ken 2.0 and Ken 2.0a

I really hope to be a successful parent.

This isn't a cry for help from someone who skipped those classes in grade 5. Trust me, I know how it works. I would draw you a word picture but that would make you jealous.

My measure of parenting success is that my children surpass me in ways that are good. Despite this noble pursuit, my wife does discourage me from introducing my children as "Ken 2.0 and 2.0a". Something about them being scared or scarred.

Some things are going well. They read better than I did at their age. They are both better than me at drawing. They are considerate and polite enough to dupe everyone else but their parents. So far so good.

May I mention that my children so easily exceeding me in all areas is no poor reflection on my parents. I was just a terrible child, able to dupe only my dear Grandmother, who for some reason attributed all my wrongdoing to my sisters and parents. I don't think any words can describe how beautiful it is to be rotten and have a sibling blamed for your rottenness.

Part of helping these beta versions actually reach their release date (when they are eighteen) is some simple "what is good for you" sessions. And by sessions I mean telling them what they must do.

There are some things, like roads, large areas of open water and train tracks, where you do try to put some fear and respect into the innocent dears. They just have no concept of what one tonne of metal moving at over 1.16 meters per second in a 0.83 meter per second speed limit does to an otherwise healthy waterbag with limbs.

There are other important, although less dramatic lessons that they pick up. Like don't eat rocks, don't throw rocks, don't throw your food. And not smoking.

The other day I came home to see chalk drawings on my driveway. Among the typical replicas of crime scene outlines (in hot pink) there was this dire warning:

"Beware"
"Dangerous"
"No Smoking!"
"Or Else"

This was followed by the usual smokebusters symbol and two stick figures who were holding cigarettes. Their eyes had been replaced with X's to symbolize their sudden demise to the side effects of taking a puff in my driveway.

It was a bit macabre and zealous, not to mention quite threatening. I don't know who told my older daughter that smoking was unhealthy, but I want to interview them on their techniques. And then write a book on that and profit from it.

You have been warned: don't smoke around Ken 2.0

Fair=(x(A/B))+1

Siblings. It is hard to describe what effect they have on your life. I never had a moment of my life where I was my parent's only child, although I have had a few moments were I think I was disowned. Like the day I forgot Mom's coffee at home.

Being a brother or a sister means you have to share. No matter what bunk your parents tell you about "loving everyone equally" you know it's not true. See if they REALLY loved you they would have let YOU sit in the front seat after your older sister left for university, and not let the youngest get perma-shotgun.

Not...bitter..

Most of sibling life is a vain attempt of achieving the unnatural state of discord also known as "fair". Fair is loosely defined by this equation:

Fair=(x(A/B))+1

x is the item in question, be it Smarties or minutes with a toy. A is the age difference in years from the next sibling. B is the birth order ranking. Then once you have the amount calculated, fair is only complete when you have one more than the next person.

Since my children were, and still are not twins I was able to observe this effect on my older daughter. And the result was what can be best described as giving her a little human pet that she thinks she needs to house train.

One item of chagrin is the seating arrangement at the supper table. The coveted position is beside my wife. They cry about who sits there. They push. They deviously switch food and table settings to get their way.

I'm in no way scarred by this. I just suggest they flank my wife and leave me to have all the elbow room on my side of the table.

My older daughter has observed that her little sister gets the privilege of being inadvertently elbowed by my wife while kicking me in the legs more often. When she bemoaned this my suggestion was to stop the noise she was making and come up with a solution.

Her idea was great. She would chart how often each child sat beside their mother. The advent of this dinventory resulted in this exchange:

Older child: Ok, so you sat down beside Mom tonight. I'll write that down on my list.
Younger child: Then I'll erase the list.
Older child: Then I'll write it in permanent marker.
Younger child: Then I'll throw it out.

It was like a transcript of "World's worst hostage negotiators".

Suffice to say that now I have an idea of their futures. The older one will likely be an engineer or perhaps an accountant. The younger one will be either a politician or a CEO for a large organization.

Who are you VS Who you are

Identity: (5) The sense of self, providing sameness and continuity in personality over time and sometimes disturbed in mental illnesses, as schizophrenia.

Isn't it funny that in contemporary English the question "Who Are You" is not equivocal to the statement "Who you are". In fact it is normally confused with the question "What is your name"

In ancient times the 'name' of a person would consist of the whole of the person, their acts and reputation. Now days it reflects on the social leanings of one's parents, as in:

You: Who are you?
Them: My name is "Sunflower Daisy Starstruck".
You: Were your parent's hippies?
Them: WHOOOAH, are you psychic?

When we try to define who we are that is a complex undertaking. We don't see ourselves in a vacuum. If we could our thoughts would be akin to "Good heavens I can't breathe... aaarrrgh". I say thoughts because in a vacuum no one can hear you scream, normally because the motor is too loud.

Our 'identity' is interpreted by how others perceive us, but this is a shifting thing too. For example, in my office I am identified as "Ken the geek". This changes when I am at a convention for geeks. Then I am "Ken the guy who double dipped in the guacamole".

So when I have the benefit of insight from a complete stranger I tend to consider it. After all, they don't have the usual context to compare me against. It is like an empirically pure, uninfluenced perception into my soul.

I change buses at the bus station each day. Being cold I often go inside the heated shelter to wait. And one of the people who commonly waits there is someone I'll refer to as "Ed".

Ed is a big guy. He is about 6'5", around 300 pounds. He wears a toque most of the year, and his glasses are something out of a 1970's police show. He is also someone you would define as 'challenged'.

Ed is gentle and sweet, and in appearance and intonation reminds me of "Lenny" from "Of Mice and Men". I say "hi" to Ed almost every day. He never replies.

It would be easier to take if he didn't go out of his way to talk to every woman present. He'll call out "Hi Lady" until he get's a response. Then some small talk will ensue. In 10 years of riding the bus I think he's given me the time of day once, and one weather report.

And then, this week for the first time he addressed me. Without knowing my name I expected him to call out "Hi Man", but he gave me one of those unique, profound revelations into how the world perceives me.

He yelled "Hey short guy!"

The saddest bit to me was there was no question who this gentle giant was talking to. I engaged in some conversation, but I was too embarrassed to be witty.

That may be a new nickname for me on the bus, but it isn't who I am. Except to Ed.

Business, Career and a Dress code.

Work is something you do, a career is when your work becomes your identity.

For some people their career has respect built right in: Doctors, Nurses, Police Officers, Military personnel, 'McDonalds' line managers. They all have more respect than what people give a professional bureaucrat.

It could be that all of them get to wear uniforms. By the way, the thin difference between a uniform and a costume is when everyone wears the same costume it's a uniform.

I grudgingly accept that after a decade I am officially in a CAREER. Not because I chose it, but because I failed to chose to avoid it. And now I am a professional order follower and repeater of the popular line 'please reboot'.

I once asked a project manager if they ever dreamed as a child that they would one day grow up to nag other grown ups about their inability to finish their work. Silly question, any child who dreams of that would spend their adult life in a different institution.

I mock bureaucracy a fair amount here and it really does deserve it. No one aspires to build an empire that has no limits to the number of rules it can impose on itself.

A business is an artificial entity without a soul or a mind. This differentiates it from political lobbyists because a business wasn't born normal. A business exists simply as a vehicle to make money.

When the business's business is to NOT make money then you have what amounts to a lobotomized Frankenstein's monster suffering from manic depression. And much like that monster, no matter what food or organs you put into it the result would be the same: A mashup of Pinocchio and Night of the Living Dead. By the way, I don't count charities or not for profits here because they do want to make money for their clients.

I have had the pleasure to work with dozens of motivated, professional people who are good at what they do. And yet somehow we still end up with the maddening situation of waiting for someone to get back to someone for some information that a team of 7 year old sleuths could track down.

In an effort to bring some dignity back to my job I may try wearing my Hawaiian shirts as a uniform. That way people can take me seriously when I say "Don't worry, corporate told me to do this, and as long as I don't think about it, it should work out fine. And if not, just please reboot."

Little trains of thought

I don't know why it's called a train of thought. A train is linear, it is serialized, and not by adding iron, riboflavin and hocked by freakish leprechauns with their shriveled marshmallows. That probably explains why his eyes are so disproportionately big. Shudder.

Typically following someone else's process of ideas is akin to a comic of Billy from Family Circus wandering around the neighborhood. Except that imagine that Billy's blind and dizzy. And drunk.

I had that surreal experience this past weekend with my older daughter. We were watching a lot of Mythbusters. Why? Because they BLOW THINGS UP!

Since she was so influenced by the show she will not be getting a chemistry set any time soon. As a child I was SO peeved that my set didn't include the Anarchists cookbook. I can't expect any more purely studious response from her now that one of her favourite shows includes heavy use of C4.

So in between sessions she watched an episode of world's funniest animals. I thought nothing of it because I need something to look down my nose at. So my wife watched the show with her while I went and read a cookbook.

Returning half an hour later I walked into a room bubbling with excitement like a Sodium Bicarbonate and Acetic Acid cocktail. My daughter had a PLAN, and if you know her, this happens at least twice a day. Usually it involves markers, water, paper, and an attempt to wallpaper one of the few nicely painted surfaces in my house.

This one involved taking photos of the cat with poop on her bum.

My intellectual response was something like: ?????!!!!!?????

She explained that you could submit photos and videos of funny animal moments to the show. Then she explained that it was funny when the cat had a turd stuck to her little hairy butt.

My wife gently explained that this may not be the funny that the show's producers wanted to see, although I could imagine a headline of 'Scat Cat' working quite well. Then the rest of the picture filled in with this statement from the child:

Her: But it's always funny when she is like that on your bed.

Yep. It was like looking at a magic eye poster and realizing the picture is of a family member's washroom, in use. Not something you ever want to think about.

So I'll have to agree with my wife, the bed needs new sheets.

Question the Answer

I am a red thinker.

I don't mean in some Lenninist fascin, it is the result of taking the 'Smart Skills' personal evaluation.

Red thinkers are categorized by attention to detail and desire for data. We don't mention the pocket protectors or the tape around glasses, but it's strongly implied.

As a result of my attention to detail I'm a grammar geek. I try to make this a public service by pointing out when people are incorrect as often as possible. I do this as an adult because it's impolite to give wedgies in the office environment.

I'm not bitter that bullying went out of style AFTER I graduated public school. Hmmph.

One way I'm hurtfully helpful is I try to ask questions that require a yes or a no answer. It's partly for efficiency as I don't really want to hear what other people think, and partly that I doubt the average persons ability to succeed at anything harder than true or false tests.

I also answer the questions asked, but this often bothers folks. I have had to adjust my retorts to respond to the question asked and the one intended. In other words I'm a moist grammar checker.

A difficulty from this behavior, aside from social shunning and threats against my person, is that I often receive the benefit of someone else's half baked guess at what my true question was.

This defeats the purpose. I used to try to correct them, but now I just make it a game. I call it "Question the Answer".

It's like Jeopardy without money or fame amongst the over 60 crowd. I simply ask the question that would provide the answer I was just given. I tried this on a co-worker this week and had to stop myself so I didn't get hurt, either from him or from my own laughter.

Me: Will your project be done this week?
Him: It's not a matter of finishing it, it's a matter of getting the specifications right.
Me: What is the matter with the project?
Him: Nothing is wrong with it, I'm just working on cosmetic details.
Me: Are you working on cosmetics generally, or just the fine detail work?
Him: All I need is to get the interface to work fluidly with that guy's back end.
Me: Is there anything you want to tell me about your love life?

Yeah, it's a hoot. Try it sometime when you have nothing between you and a quick exit.

My Secret Identity

Hobby: a pursuit outside one's regular occupation engaged in especially for relaxation. Merriam Webster Dictionary

I am one of peculiar pass times. In my culture it is common for a man of my age and social position to enjoy watching sports; namely Hockey, Football and NASCAR.

For some reason this doesn't appeal to me. And it isn't some inclination away from activities that portray groups of mostly men in Gladiatorial themed competitions.

Ok, maybe it is, but I'm smart enough not to point out that Freud would have a few words for the most virulent of that fan base. Especially when they watch the sport live and half naked.

I will be in trouble for that one methinks.

My hobbies are ironically presumed less characteristic of a man. Writing, acting, classical music and of course, cooking. I have only recently been re-instated to the kitchen at my home.

I was once allowed to be a cook right after we were married. It took a Christmas dinner party conversation on the finer points of pastry creation to convince my wife that I belonged elsewhere. She simply said 'I need somewhere where I'm better than you.' My reply of 'you COULD practise for the bedroom' was thankfully held until now.

Another one that just got me in trouble.

Nonetheless my re-introduction to the culinary mastery came from a series of business trips that wore out my wife's palette for fast food and frozen pizza. By the way she is a great cook and has a higher success rate on recipes, I think because she follows them.

I was making homemade pizza this week, reviewing my favourite cooking show as I did it, when she asked:

Her: Why are you trying to do it perfectly?
Me: Because I love doing this. Do me a favour, turn up the Rossini on the stereo please.
Her: But why don't you just let it be good enough?
Me: Because in my day job I never get to see anything like this.
Her: A lump of dough?
Me: A COMPLETED work. Of my own hands. My chief challenge of my day job is heroically struggling against a bureaucracy that measures jobs in fortnights.

And so in a floury rant at my wife I discovered why I pursue creative outlets like that. My job is so mind-numbingly unimportant that being able to make a perfect pizza becomes not only an obsession, it becomes my secret identity. And not the one that involves flying using underarm deodorant.
The pizza crust was a bit of a failure by the way; but at least I enjoyed the short journey to 'eww Dad, this tastes ucky'. It's far better than the much longer, boring epic quest to be given an award certificate with my name misspelled on it.

So what do you do to escape the insignificance of your contribution to your place of employment?

Who's your daddy?

Parenthood is an odd occupation. It's surprising how few people remain their normal sane selves after they have children.

With mothers it's somewhat understandable. Having a three month hangover followed by your hips partially dislocating and then pushing a bowling ball out ANY orifice will have permanent psychological effects.

For fathers watching that happen leaves it's own marks, like the permanent imprint of her fingernails in your forearm while you listen to her frighten the anesthesiologist with her impression of 'Dr. Claw having a fit of Tourettes'.

One way I've noticed I'm 'different' in a 'special' way after having kids is wanting them to know who I am. This goes deeper than 'who's your daddy', although reminding them that I happen to be better than them in everything is nice too. Just because they are small doesn't mean they don't want to school me in any contest, like the 'My little pony' board game.

I think we want our children to really know us partly for validation and partly for legacy. I hope that I have more to offer my children than 50% of their chromosomal odds and the opportunity to observe how not to do things first hand. I want my company to be a positive influence on their life, that I can be a hero, and not just a vaudevillian clown.

I want them to understand me, to know what motivates my decisions. Surprisingly I also want them to respect me, which is pretty much mutually exclusive. You don't realize how boneheaded a lot of your choices are until you try to explain them to a 5 year old.

Her: Why can't I have the pudding, Mommy said I could.
Me: Because I don't like talking to your mother about parenting.
Her: Why?
Me: Because I feel stupid when I do.

Her: Daddy, why did you say you were going to do the dishes, and then didn't.
Me: Honey, Daddy is tired.
Her: Why?
Me: Sitting at my desk all day sucked the life out of me. And I wanted to make your mother stop whining about you two. Promising things to people has that affect.

And I realize that now that my older daughter has me figured. Recently she looked fondly at me and said:

Her: Daddy, do you know what we should do for your birthday dinner?
Me: [thought bubble]Go stay at your grandparents for half an hour while Mommy and I have 'fancy time'? [/thought bubble] No honey, what?
Her: We should serve you only meat. And Beer.

For eight years old she's surprisingly clever. Still I reminded her she had forgotten dessert. Children are unbearable if they think they are right.

I guess it was a privilege

"When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said in a rather scornful tone," it means just what I choose it to mean -- neither more nor less."

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

Last week I had the privilege of sitting in on question period in our national house of parliament. And most of the words in that sentence don't mean what they say. Just like the people talking in the parliament.

It is not a house, no one lives there. This Parliament doesn't have a Dr. FuNkenstein (but that would have been SO cool). The speaker just sits there and is talked to. Few direct questions are asked and fewer are answered. And I truly doubt privilege covers the experience properly.

I love the fact that my political process allows me to sit in on my employees whenever they are 'busy at work'. The problem comes in the fact that I am thoroughly unhappy with their performance.

And it was a performance. It was like watching a grade nine pep rally face off. Except there was no mooning or streaking, which would only have raised the dignity of the whole affair.

When I described the event to my wife she thought I meant there were a few schools attending the session and were ill behaved. "No" I explained "the students sat quietly and followed the rules."

Both sides of the house would shout and clamor to drown out the opposite side if they said anything they didn't like. They were rude. They made faces at each other. There were demeaning and disrespectful gestures and body language used.

If any of them had the wherewithal to disassemble a pen I am darn sure spitballs would have been flying. And worst of all they hardly achieved anything in over an hour of work, but all felt too tired to stay after the cameras were turned off.

And had I not been so afraid of the police with their phasers set to 'make him pee his pants' I would have said this piece:

"MR SPEAKER! I am appalled at the behavior of these people. I would call them representatives of our citizens but for the obvious fact that the people of our country are more civilized than apes in expensive suits. I call on you to get order of this house before they begin to fling feces literally instead of just out of their mouths.

I would never accept this behavior from my own children, my nieces or nephews, or random children I see in public. I demand that you impose a 40 minute detention and have them put their heads on their desks so they can think about their bad attitude."

Either that or just have a full run through of something Funkadelic so the whole experience can be surreal. I would be a lot less disappointed if their costumes were not suits.

What are you thinking?

There are a few chosen professions where you enact your trade via proxy. In some cases it is clear why this would be wrong, like, say Firefighters. Or Natural Gas technicians.

But geeks are in the more benign category of careers for remote helping. Inso that we won't kill you, but you'll want to see a doctor about us after a while.

Most of my interactions on the phone are pleasant. They involve co-workers that I enjoy spending my ever shorter life with. And they are typically professional and wish to get the job done, mainly because it involves them getting on with their day by working instead of conversing with people who talk through their noses, or other orifices.

But once in a while you get a special treat of a call. And that is what I want to discuss today. These calls involve people who on that day are vague to a fault, confused almost with purpose, and for some reason don't want their computer fixed before you suffer major head trauma from the inside out. Sometimes the person on the other end of the conversation is a relative, which makes it even harder.

And as a person who could be considered 'special' in social interactions I am too timid to push them to getting on with the call. And because your week probably needed a seasoning of the macabre I'll let you read my thoughts. I have an unspoken dialogue that sounds a lot like this:

Me: - Tech support, we fix your everyday.
Them: - Yeah, my program isn't working.
Me: - Must not reply 'all your base belong to us' - Which program?
Them: - This one!
Me: - If I pretend I'm dead maybe they will go away. ...
Them: - The thingy to do the forms.
Me: - If I chloroform myself right now, is that considered self inflicted injury? - Oh, how far do you get?
Them: - Nowhere.
Me: - Then by logic you haven't tried anything. You're either depressed or lazy. May I recommend an Anthony Robins tape to you? - Ok, can you click on Start, then Programs, then click the program icon.
Them: - Why are these computers so slow?
Me: - Shut up. ...
Them: - You computer people aren't good at making them work better.
Me: - Please shut up. ...
Them: - And my icons keep moving around, can you fix that?
Me: - For the love of mercy shut up. - Can you see the icon for the program?
Them: - I can't see anything.
Me: - Dear heaven you've gone blind. - It should be in the program list. Can you read the list out to me?
Them: - Can't you just come here and fix my problem?
Me: - Yes, but the computer would remain untouched and one of us would have to plead insanity. - No. Just look for the icon that looks like a Jackal with a hernia.
Them: - Huh?
Me: - No Mom, I don't want to be a writer, I want to fix computers all day and have fun. - It's red. Looks like a box.
Them: - I don't see it. I just see this rectangle here. It's orange. Can you do something about the printer, it's making funny noises.
Me: - Happy Happy Joy Joy. I don't think you're happy enough. I'll teach you to be happy. Hahahahahaha --Just click the orange rectangle. Do you see the program now?

I'd be lying if I said that call ended in less than 5 minutes after that. I expect that as some cosmic joke I'll become suddenly telepathic and end up getting fired or brought before a human rights commission at the UN.

Of course the days that I'm not so swift with third level support I expect them to not think this when the network lights go all blinky.

I think she has my eyes.

As a parent I am always eager to find out if my kids are really like me. It's a weird game to play in a marriage, as you both compare what aspects of the child's behaviour and mood are like you, or more tellingly, like your spouse's parents.

It's really a continuation of the one-downmanship/one-upmanship you get when you marry someone. In merging two families together you tend to compare (sometimes unwillingly) the benefits and fallbacks of lineage.

For me it results in my family comparing how hard it was to have me around instead of my wife for those first 23 years. Hard stuff to hear from one's siblings. Or parents.

Now we do that with our kids. Here are some interactions:
Me: Her laugh sounds like mine.
My wife: No, yours sounds like a donkey having a siezure.

My wife: I think she has my eyes.
Me: Is that your excuse for not being able to find anything?

Me: She is so not a morning person. That is just like you.
My wife: I was a morning person before I was married. Maybe it's you.

When you DO find some positive trait that your child emulates it is pure joy. Going to Walt Disney World we were to discover which child had my fortitude for thrill rides, and which thought that an elevator was extreme test of will.

It turns out the older one takes after me. We stopped worrying about her when she rode Thunder Mountain the second time and described it as "boring". She and I even rode the teacups, the vomit inducing centrifuge that poses as an amusement ride.

I went easy on her until she practically yelled "faster!". By the end we were both incapable of standing upright or locating what side of our face our nose was on. And she started to cry because we didn't have time to ride them again that night.

My younger daughter takes after my wife that way. She is the only person I know of who thought the Monorail was too intense for her little capacity. Just so you know I'm still talking about the younger daughter.

It took two days to convince her to ride Pirates of the Caribbean. She was positive it was a death drop ride. Of course once she rode it she was thought that it was safe, and even fun. Getting her to ride anything was a mix of bribery, blackmail, threats and coercion. It was like living out scenes from Law and Order.

Maybe someday she will come to love all that simulates death by violent means, but until then I'll have to keep a cache of toys and chocolate if there is any family ride we want to do. Like a major airline or moving sidewalk.

Grown-up age kids.

There used to be a popular poster stating "Everything I needed to know in life I learned in Kindergarten". I couldn't agree with it, I didn't learn that you couldn't get 'pantsed' if you were wearing a belt until grade 10.

I don't know why but a lot of school age behavior carries on into the grown up workplace. For example, in high school there were grad dues, bake sales, and various fundraisers that you were pressured into participating in, all in the name of 'school spirit'.

School spirit by the way isn't the Mickey of Rum behind the bleachers, nor is it 'Moaning Myrtle' (I still get the wrong impression writing that name). It's the belief that your school is better because you have to go there.

At work there are bake sales, co-worker's kids selling raffle tickets and cheese, and of course 50/50 draws. And to my chagrin 50/50 is not a statement of the odds involved, but when the Doctor says that its entirely different.

Here are some games played in the business world:

The "I'm not here so you can't ask me a question teacher" look. This is common in meetings when project assignments are being handed out. Everyone stares at the table and won't make eye contact. It's like we're having a moment of silence in anticipation for whoever ends up with this job.

"Not It!" This is when paperwork is being delivered and no one will touch it with their hands. The rule is that if it touches your body or lands on your desk it's yours. My co-worker's policy of pack-rat clutter desk works well, as the paperwork just slides away.

Phone Tag. As the name implies you leave voice mail messages for each other, but refrain from giving the information the other person actually needs. See how long you can be unproductive without getting fired.

I guess what I'm saying is this: Kids, stay in school. You can't be taught this stuff anywhere else. Except in the Military. Or prison.

Definitely expected NOT to.

Humans, as social creatures, will adjust their behaviour to match the expectations of the group. This is usually a positive thing, forcing people to repress their tendencies to assault, steal, walk around naked and vote for single issue parties. Occasionally though it is outdated and unhelpful.

I was shopping for shoes this weekend. Nice work shoes, not sneakers or workboots or rocket roller blades. I had to look for STYLE.

I must confess that I was not born with any fashion sense in my DNA. I have more capability of developing gills than I do of picking out a good pair of pants. I don't remember willingly buying anything clothing related for myself before the age of 30. My life was one of hand-me-downs, cast-offs, and occasionally Mom taking me shopping by telling me we were going for ice cream.

'So what' you say. 'You have your wife or your mother, take them along.' This is good advice, and I have been satisfied so far. But dang it, I'm in my 30's. I should be able to pick out a decent shirt to wear, on my own, like a big boy. And no, I'm not comforted by all the other guys with their wives/girlfriends/mothers waiting outside the change room to make them 'turn around so I can see how it fits' while they all wonder when they'll get the promised ice cream.

Sending me into a store unattended yields the same result as sending a colour-blind chimp with a lobotomy. I find this out when I bring the items to my wife, or mother, or 8 year old and they say 'yech, that looks awful, put it back'. It's particularly embarrassing when the 8 year old diss' you in front of a bunch of 20 something metro guys. I know I could take the lot of them, but they do look very smart in those fitted shirts.

When I was in my 20's I was either too busy to care, or I was already engaged or married and figured I didn't need to look good anymore. I achieved that tremendously.

Now I'm in my emotionally fragile 30's. I know I'm no longer young, and I'm not 'old' yet, and I desperately want to look good before gravity takes too much of a hold on my skin.

So today I asked a coworker, a GUY who has fashion sense, what the secret is. He gave me good advice on clothing cuts, colour matching, and why I should never let my chest hair show. Anymore.

I do speculate how this affected anyone overhearing the conversation about my pants:

Him: You're lucky because you have a great a**.
Me: Thanks.
Him: You just want to make sure you have the creases in the right spots, which you do.
Me: So there should be more than one?

I don't like being helpless, and I intend to learn how to dress myself before I'm 40. And for darn sure I'm taking myself out for ice cream after.

Stuff you ask yourself

Parenting is a role infused with questions. You will question if you are doing a good job. You will question your sanity. And you will question how the children managed to paint yogurt on the underside of the table.

Thankfully the empirical indicators of the answers abound. Catching the children squeezing small yogurt cups until they pop would be one. Finding yourself repeatedly muttering to yourself "If you THINK that I'm going to let THAT happen you have got another thing coming!" would be another.

But it is a special treat to discover that your attempts at parenting are better than Mowgli's option of being raised by wolves.

As as side effect, or benefit, the children inexplicably become like you. I guess we should see it coming, given that we do react akin to our parents, right down to the emphasis of the words repeatedly muttered to ourselves.

My older daughter is turning 8 next week. For her birthday she chose a theme based on a Disney movie.

She want's a Pirates of the Caribbean party.

Now yes that IS tremendously cool, at least for her 30ish year old dad. Her school friends didn't understand, but if my little girl would rather exemplify Captain Jack Sparrow over Hannah Montanna I am all for it.

It results from letting her watch the original movie before going to Walt Disney World. I wanted her to know something about the ride before going. And I wanted her to like more movies that I do.

We as good parents are doing our part in preparing for her party. My wife has researched party games, cake options and sent out pirate themed invitations. I'm growing a beard to look more 'piratey'.

Then this week I get a call from my wife. I was at work, and the kids were at breakfast.

Me: "IT support, we're smart so you don't have to be."
Her: "Hello"
Me: "Hi honey, what can I do for you."
Her: "Talk to your older daughter. She is convinced that since pirates didn't brush their hair she shouldn't either."

I had to convince the child that her time to be a pirate was the day of her party, not the two weeks leading up to it, and that all hygiene, including bathing, would be required. Then this morning she said "I need to eat my vitamin C because pirates didn't get fruits or vegetables."

Dang, the kid is staving off scurvy. I'm beginning to question if this is going too far.

The unspeakably happiest place on earth

Part of the joy of traveling is the chance to be introspective. A new environment and atmosphere is conducive to a better understanding of yourself. It's also awesome to bail on work for two weeks.

We recently returned from Walt Disney World. 2 weeks in Florida, and then the 50 degree centigrade change to the temperature at home. During the visit I had the chance to learn a few things about myself.

I have always liked the most thrilling, gut-wrenching, vomit-encouraging rides at parks. I used to think it was the feeling of disconnect between the motion of my skeletal structure and my internal organs. Now I know differently.

It was on Expedition Everest that I found myself laughing, giggling and enjoying the moment. It wasn't the giddy spinning in the dark or the unnatural plunges towards the earth.

It was people screaming.

I'm sorry to say that the cries of utter terror from complete strangers evoke a happiness in me that I'm not entirely comfortable with. I actually revert to maniacal laughter, complete with the "BWU" in front of my "HA HA HAAA's".

In case I needed further evidence of my unspeakable joy, I have but one regret from my two week visit in the happiest place on earth. I was able to ride the "Dinosaur" ride which consists of a rather gentle boat ride in dim lighting. Then with much roaring and flashing of light a giant carnivorous dinosaur lunges at your vehicle.

Oh, did I say that half the attendees of the ride were under the age of ten.

So I had my near-eight year old on the ride with me. And like most thrill rides a picture is taken at the opportune moment of greatest excitement. And my regret is not keeping the picture from our vehicle.

What was unique was that each person had a look of mortal peril. Half of the adults and children had eyes and mouths open, frozen in film to commemorate their shared pant wetting. The other half had resigned their dignity by squeezing their eyes shut and cowering so to not enjoy any of the non-going-to-eat-you-painfully parts of the ride.

I will always wish I had a perpetual reminder of corporately celebrated panic, but I can at least still hear those screams when I close my eyes at night. Am I alone in this?

I don't think I will be asked to promote Walt Disney World any time soon.

Why I believe in Drive-Thru

Recently I was able to enjoy a two week vacation with my family. This isn't a conflicted statement, I actually liked having my wife and kids in close proximity. The success to this is staying up later than the rest of them to have a few minutes of quiet each day.

The first day of the trip was a 6 hour drive. Driving with an almost 8 year old, a 5.5 year old, and a (I swear she still looks) twenty-ish year old person is more dangerous than it sounds.

Mainly it's the kids. They don't realize that piloting a near ton vehicle with 3.85 Joules of energy on snow covered roads is tricky enough. So you have the older one attempt to whistle the theme to the "Pirates of the Caribbean" using her repertoire of a single shrill key.

Meanwhile younger one decide that 'Purell' hand sanitizer should be used to clean the interior of the car. I thought someone had stuffed a cantelope and cucumber into the air intake of the car.

Four hours into the trip we pulled over at a fast food restaurant for lunch. It just opened and we were the first customers. I can only hope my mistake was caused in part due to exhaustion and part due to stress.

I like to have the children order their own meals. This gives them the practice of demanding older people do their bidding, because I'll be darned if I let them rehearse on me.

As all had ordered I implored my older daughter "Please tell the lady what you want for lunch." My child did so and ran off to join the rest of the family while I paid. As soon as I had received my credit card back the counter attendant moved away and my heart gained density fourfold.

I realized that I was suddenly very unsure of the gender of the person who took our order. It was either tremendously effeminate male or a woman who was mannish in appearance, slightly endowed and did not feel the need for support.

When you make a mistake like that in public you can't very well yell "I'm sorry, I meant tell the nice MAN your order." That is a shortcut to having your order special made for you.

So I had a cripplingly awkward time waiting for the food to arrive at the counter. I shuffled away as soon as it did, avoiding all eye contact with the person. Despite a longing to know if I was in the wrong or not I felt it best to do the brave thing and go to the car and sleep until the family came out when they were done.

From now on it's drive-thru on road trips. Sure it will reek of hand cleanser, and I'll be pulling french fries from the seat cushions for the next quarter, but it beats facing that hideous embarrassment ever again.

Making my kids into who they are.

I am a father of two wonderful children.

I repeat that sentence to myself a lot. It speaks to my loose grip on reality that I need affirmations like that.

Almost 8 years into being responsible, at least in a legal sense, I still find it amazing that the half-sized humans living at my house are in fact 50% or more me. On the rare occasion that I do realize this fact I well up with a fierce, protective emotion towards them. I suppose that's the feeling Mom's have most of the time.

There is wisdom in correctly identifying your role in the relationship to your child. There are some obviously wrong ones, like pet, owner or puppet-master. Then there is the subtly wrong one, friend.

The short reason for this is respect. A child needs boundaries, structure, rewards, discipline and protection. Being their buddy can seem cool and progressive but in the end it makes it hard to get them to take the garbage out.

Now that my children have developed personalities beyond 'sleepy food to poop transmogrifiers' I am seeing the affect my DNA, and chillingly, my personality is having on them.

This week my older daughter had to stay home from school because she was sick. So she curled up on the couch and watched three of her favourite movies back to back.

That isn't strange for a child. What is strange is that she picked the original Star Wars Trilogy. I had a sick day just like that 9 years ago. I'm just praying she doesn't find out about the Star Wars conventions.

The second edition of my spawn has taken a great affection for a computer game. That isn't odd. But it's not Webkinz or Care Bears.

She has a creepy skill and passion for 'One Must Fall 2097'. This is a 'Mortal Combat' knockoff from 15 years ago. The 5 year old bounces on the couch, mashing the controller with her little fist, and when she wins pumps her hand in the air saying 'I Win, you're dead!'

It's like a mashup of a Mormon commercial meeting Chucky from "Child's play".

This is where the value of keeping the parental role can really pay off. After losing a game I can say 'Go to bed' and then proceed to play until I max my robot out so I don't lose the next battle.