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.

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.

Middle-Hero in training

I like to think of myself as a helpful person. That in no way has any bearing on the reality; which is I'm a busybody.

It wasn't hard to make the transition from geek to mother hen for all of society. I didn't worry about what others thought of me. Most people fail to hide their contempt or utter disinterest. And I'm opinionated. That seems to be all that is required.

I prefer to imagine that I am the 'nice guy who stood up for everyone' to all those around me, but I expect that in a follow up interview I'll be pointed out as the man who wasn't there.

For example, I have not restrained my tongue on the bus when people have acted badly. Unfortunately at those moments the brain condition that delays witty repartee by two days still exists. In it's place is the catalog of parental scolding.

Although I must say it IS effective to say "No-one here appreciates that sort of language" to a foul mouthed 20 year old on a bus.

Beyond doing impressions of 'Granny' from the Beverly Hillbillies I'm also a middle-hero in training while waiting in line.

You see, I have a heart for those in the service industry. Sometimes they need one.

Kidding aside I have worked both at the counter and in the kitchen. I know what a bad customer can do to a sensitive, acne prone young man who is just trying to prove to the girls that he really is straight.

Because of that when I am in line I try to enjoy the experience. And those who know me fear that phrase. What that means is that I actually converse with the person taking my money away from me. They never give me my money back by the way. No harm in trying.

Today I was in line at the local sub shop. The lineup took 15 minutes to move to where I could order my sandwich. The attendants were clearly run off their feet and stressed. I formed a plan as quickly as I could.

With five minutes remaining I had it. If the line became long behind me I would fake a stutter. Yes, a speech impediment to truly outdo Porky the pig.

My plan was to allow the poor girl working on my sandwich the time to catch her breath, relax, and get my order right. That way I could slow the line down tremendously without provoking anyone to be angry with me for doing so.

And although I didn't have to execute it (the plan, not the sandwich-maker), I did mention my plan to said submarine assembly technician. She was grateful for the gesture, but pointed out they act like they were dervishes in a good whirl so people wouldn't be mad with them.

After all that I succeeded in making one person happier today, albeit by planning to do something.

I really need to get out of bureaucracy.

Coming soon to you: The smells of home, while you're away!

There is a long running debate on whether children are more affected by nature or nurture. Usually the arguments posed by either camp are wonderful examples of pop psychology mashing it up with statistics dropouts.

Inadvertently as a parent I have had a fairly long experiment. I don't nurture too well, I don't want the kids thinking they have a firm foothold on the premises. Besides, when I hear nurture I think 'breastfeeding' and my kids are too old for that now. And I'm a bit hairy.

On a recent business trip I was talking with my older daughter on the phone. It is a good chance to practice remote interrogation techniques. I swear my kids have some non-disclosure agreement on their learning at school.

After a good 3 minutes of shaking her down to get that she made a snowman at recess, my almost 8 year old says 'Sorry Daddy.'

The hair on the back of my neck rose. My beloved laptop was at home. Images of pouring apple juice from the keyboard danced through my head. I hesitantly asked for what she was apologizing.

Her: 'I just farted.'
Me: 'That's ok honey, I don't think I can smell it from here.'

Undeterred the child continued: 'I could fart into the phone.'

I paused to consider which to take more offense to. Her persistence, her idea that this was appropriate, or her knowledge of how telephones work.

Me: ???? 'Nooooo. Don't do that. People put their mouths near the phone.'
Her: 'No, I'll do it by the earpiece'

She was really pushing for this.

Me: 'No honey. Don't put on your butt what people put to their faces.'

It's the best I could come up with. What is really terrifying to me is how often she has done this and NOT apologized. Her little mind must have been racing on why Daddy wasn't reeling from her noxious gasses.

I imagine there is some macabre market for that sort of 'smells of home while you're away'. Perhaps this is why video phones never took off, maybe this is a more normal occurrence than I want to think about.

So if you ask me if this was a natural thing to do, or if by some freak act of parenting we gave her this idea, I'll point my finger at my wife (and hope she doesn't pull it). After all, she is the nurturing one.

Definitely expected to.

There is something about being a husband and a father that defines you as a person. Part of that definition is the expectation of yourself to provide for those you love. To take care of them, to protect them and irrationally, to fix things for them.

I have a long standing relationship with my snow blower. It is like an unhappily married old couple. There is a lot of tears, cursing, and nothing gets going when I want it to work, no matter how much pull starting is involved.

So far this winter I have lumped it and just shoveled. I have been hoping that my neighbors have an early onset of dementia and forget the fact I own a snow blower.

Today I tackled it. Not physically in a fit of frustration, I just attempted the fix.

I have learned that the best way to emasculate someone is to have them fail at something that they should be able to do, like cook eggs, remember an anniversary, or fix a small internal combustion engine. I would rather sit down to do all things bathroom rather than fail at those tasks.

Usually these operations end up with me in a fit of tears, throwing things around and pronouncing death on all things mechanical with every word they taught me in basic training. To obtain similar results just lock an orangutan in a room with only a crescent wrench and a banana trapped inside a lawnmower.

My wife has learned about these times. Today she stopped me and said "I'm so proud of you for trying." I think she was hoping to prevent the children learning how to swear in two languages. It was appreciated.

A lot of the problem is that I think "Hey, I'm a smart guy. I can fix computers. I can read. I have the internet. I can fix a machine that won't pull start."

I love how macho it sounds when I get to say "I think it's a problem with tainted fuel in the lines. I'll have to drain the carburetor." Usually the only time I say things like that are when I have to encode the message to my wife that I have to go potty.

I did get it working, which only slightly balanced out my day. I'm still sad that I couldn't get the extra 2GB of RAM I bought for my laptop to work in series with the SODIMM I already have. Cosmically I suspect somewhere there is a shop mechanic who just built a working cantenna.

The lesson for this is support those trying to fix stuff, especially if they fail spectacularly. Unless of course you enjoy watching them cry, and if so, just go pop some popcorn and offer suggestions like "you're not turning it hard enough".

'Well mannered and nice'

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

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

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

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

"So well mannered and nice."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chrismas - Doing stuff as a family

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dancing with the ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hearing voices

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crime, Punishment and Disease

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Square Evidence

Human beings are a fascinating freak of nature.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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