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."

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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.