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.

*Almost* proud of my home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My weird roots: Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My weird roots: Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

I touch on sports today.

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

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

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

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

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

Everything's better with monkeys.

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

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

Caveats:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Code monkey go to bed now.

Petting

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm an optimist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old and opinionated

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then Web 2.0 came along.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Favourite Job Experiences - part 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Favourite Job Experiences - part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Favourite Job Experiences #2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Favourite Job Experiences - part 1

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

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

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

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

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