Freud would have laughed too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loss of composure in: 10 seconds.

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

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

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

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

Ken 2.0 and Ken 2.0a

I really hope to be a successful parent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not...bitter..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who are you VS Who you are

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He yelled "Hey short guy!"

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

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

Business, Career and a Dress code.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little trains of thought

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Question the Answer

I am a red thinker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Secret Identity

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

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

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

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

I will be in trouble for that one methinks.

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

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

Another one that just got me in trouble.

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

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

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

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

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

Who's your daddy?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I guess it was a privilege

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are you thinking?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think she has my eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grown-up age kids.

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

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

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

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

Here are some games played in the business world:

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

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

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

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

Definitely expected NOT to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stuff you ask yourself

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

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

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

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

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

She want's a Pirates of the Caribbean party.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The unspeakably happiest place on earth

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

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

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

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

It was people screaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why I believe in Drive-Thru

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Making my kids into who they are.

I am a father of two wonderful children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.