Bossy is an impolite way to describe efficient.

People sometimes say I'm a nice guy. These times are not during meetings.

I'm not against meetings per-se, especially ones where I'm the chairperson. All others bore me to death, unless I can dominate the conversation until people confuse me with the chair.

I mean the chair person. I am hardly ever confused with furniture aside from Lay-Z-Boy recliners.

Effectively, meetings are for people unable to articulate themselves in email or are equally incompetent in comprehension thereof. If it could have been done in written communication it would have. The clue comes in when the meeting is little more than a series of dictated memos.

I firmly believe that the purpose is usually for someone to be observed so you know when to S-L-O-W D-O-W-N and repeat yourself based on visual cues. Everyone else is invited to prevent singling that person out. I say this because I'm pretty sure I've been both the filler and the dullard.

The single most frustrating part of the meeting is when someone, often said dullard, becomes microfocused on one minutae of detail and can not let it go. Reasoning with them is like using a laser to burn the eyes out of the person in the mirror.

Them: Will the system be yellow?
Me: Huh?
Them: The screen shows a yellow picture. I don't want to look at a yellow program.
Me: Oh. Ha ha. Yes, the projector has a problem with the pin for the yellow signal from the computer. For the third time, the program won't be yellow.
Them: Are you sure, because I see it's yellow right here.

The only correct way of dealing with this is asking them WHAT colour they want it and then charge them $100 for the change.

This week we had a family meeting. It was to plan out some chores for the week. I pulled out a spiffy bulletin board, printed out chores, applied them to pushpins and attempted to include the children in scheduling the tasks they were to shirk and procrastinate.

What was I thinking?

Quite quickly my younger daughter assumed the role of the dullard. As Master Yoda would say "much of her father I see in her".

Her: There is no downstairs bedroom.
Me: Yes, that is Granny and Grandpa's bedroom.
Her: Thats the basement bedroom.
Me: Same thing.
Her: No it isn't.
Me: What direction do you have to go to get to it?
Her: Downstairs.
Me: Point mad...
Her: To the basement.

The older one continually pestered if we were done yet. This was before we started the meeting.

Suffice to say family meetings adhere consistently to the pattern of workplace meetings, except that at work when someone is assigned duties they don't immediately whine and suck their thumb. They save that for their cubicle.

"In my day..."

There are some telltale signs in life. Milestones that blur by like the sign indicating your exit, you notice them in passing just enough to go "was that just...?"

Old timers like to predict these moments of passage to the younger ones because it gives them a sense of pride only found by enduring hardship and then turning around to watch the next fool hit the wall at full kilter. A kinder, softer hazing if you will.

Today I passed a milestone, but the doctor's assure me that is perfectly normal. It still hurts though...

Sorry. Kind of.

Anyway, I realized today that I am not part of "the current generation". The clue came when it occurred to me that I had pride and it led me to delineate this from other people by using the phrase "in my day".

Kids today don't hide their ignorance. This is more than their wearing of clothes that sag and buckle worse than an elephant swimsuit contest. I understand their fashion is making a statement, and the statement is "I reject your reality of looking decent and competent."

No the ignorance is in the questions posed in Facebook, MySpace, and my personal favorite YouTube text comments.

In MY day you had shame if you didn't know something. You hid your inability to fix your car, or motorbike, or simply your 10 speed. You went home and messed up the job royal by yourself. Then you found a friend who could be trusted with fixing your mistakes by giving him a 24 of beer, even if you had to give him your Dads. We were stupid and quiet about it!

I'm not saying things are worse now. On the contrary, I let all the gullible people ask the questions, then I search out the threads and laugh at them. Then I take note of the correct answer.

The future will be a brighter place, if only because we collectively ask the questions that should have been found out through careful research or reckless experimentation.

Acting my age

"I may grow old but I'll never grow up." This is popular slogan articulating the desire to live out life as Peter Pan.

I don't mean imagining a 45 year old man with a beer gut sporting green tights, matching t-shirt and a cap with a feather pretending he's capable of sustained unaided flight, as amusing as the vision is. I mean that idea that we'll never stop having fun.

The problem with this statement is that the idea of 'fun' is a subjective definition. What is 'fun' for me at an amusement park would be an inspiring human lunch fountain for someone with motion sickness. What is entertaining for you might just be illegal in Botswana, Azerbaijan, or Mississippi.

This week my older daughter asked me a serious question:
Her: Daddy, why do you act like a little boy around the Wii and Cookies? I'm worried about you.

How does one deal with this, especially when the second child and then your beloved spouse concurs heartily?

The question refers to my giggling, capering and cheering whenever I get:
A) A cookie
B) To play the Wii

Note that this is not the only time I react that way, but those are the only areas she has been able to observe.

I have read that the outward expression of joy and contentment completes appreciation. That no matter how much you think your wife is "allll THAT" it isn't fulfilled until you say it out loud. The meal is not complete without the Belch and the "good grits".

I'm hoping she buys that argument.

Nonetheless I don't agree with the sentiment that maturity is mutually exclusive from enjoying life. I will grow up and grow old and I will celebrate the privilege of doing both. I intend to make the best use of all faculties in that process.

Which is longhand for "I now know when it's appropriate to make lightsaber sounds when holding a yardstick, and I will continue to pretend to be Legolas on frozen snowbanks, but now I can speak Sindarin."

Love the job

It is a rare gift to have a job where you do what you love. The type of employment where the person is always overpaid because somehow they found the opportunity to be rewarded for what would otherwise be a time-wasting hobby.

For the rest of us we have a few responses. Some are involuntary, like hoping karma will deal those lucky folks a hot water tank failure in the morning. Other responses are our own choices.

Such as, tt is a rarer type of person who chooses to love what they do. These people are above circumstance and are a fountain of inspiration, and jealousy.

I like to think I'm one of those people. At least some of the time. The happy type not the jealous one.

The primary advantage of my current employment is that it is "stable". If my job were a person, it would be the bored love child of Eugene Levy and Ben Stein. Add that to the list of mental images that frighten me.

In my day to day business I COULD get run down by the routine of it. Another, worse response is to become overattentive to petty details, losing proportion faster than a marshmallow in the microwave.

If you have never seen that happen, please go and nuke a mallow now. I'll wait.

Clean up isn't fun, is it? Anyway what I do to keep the freshness at work (aside from putting those car air fresheners in my office) is I have fun.

Fun is a relative term. What is funny to me as a practical joke is someone else workers compensation claim. As a result I try to include everyone in the ha ha moments.

I wear costumes. I play practical jokes that are nice and funny. I put up funny signs on my office door.

This time I modified office equipment. In a fit of routine inspired inspiration I did this to our shredder:



I would say I 'pimped' out the shredder, but with those eyelashes someone would get the wrong idea. And visions of trauma.

Suffice to say it did pick up the office morale that day. Until I proclaimed that I should spend more time dressing up the office equipment. Now I'm not allowed to be left alone with a printer.

So the moral of the story is: Learn to love your job. Since you spend most of your waking life there it's better to enjoy it than be miserable.

Knee Jerk Reaction

When a friend (or stranger I wish to suitably terrify) is on their way to having their first child (I don't mean driving to the hospital) I try to encourage them. Unfortunately my dictionary was missing a page so I just made my own definition for "encourage", which is "to subdue or subvert emotionally through the use of pessimistic predictions".

Life-of-the-party.

I say something like: "Hey, having kids will change you more than anything. It will exhaust you, make you question your sanity, drain you financially, and no matter how well you do you will suspect you are terrible whilst at the same time judging EVERYONE you know because they don't parent like you do. Oh, and the first time the kid dumps it will look like tar mixed with black licorice."

I cover the important things.

From the time the fleshy pink noisemaker can move you have to be quicker than a ninja goalie. By the way, if anyone wants me to get into hockey that would do it.

Kids are magnetically drawn to what will hurt them. They inexplicably toddle around carrying pull-toys until they embed them in their forehead, they pound their oversized neck ornament against coffee tables sending them to the hospital, they fall down ravines trying to outrun snowballs.

Sorry for all that Mom.

Not only is that needed, but you need the mental adeptness to stop them when they are old enough to outrun you. In a split second you must:

- Determine why what they are doing this time is wrong.
- Decide whose fault it is.
- Evaluate whether positive or negative incentive is required.
- Assess the parenting volume (whisper of death or voice of doom) and voice (icy, restrained, or bezerker goblin with hemorrhoids)

It is at that moment that parents most frequently suffer random temporal negative cognitive development adjustment. You say a stupid.

I regularly cycle through my children's names before settling on "you in my line of sight". I have 2 children. I utter threats that mean nothing like "I'll tear the arms off a cushion-less chair and tickle you with them if you don't stop!" And occasionally I mix truncated cursing with guttural rage that could be confused for speaking in tongues.

The other day my children were avoiding bedtime while simultaneously playing with some helium balloons. It was my wife's turn to get them moving because I had managed to look too busy to be involved. My bride's rapier wit eluded her at this moment. It was like watching palsied mongoose.

Her: "Put those balloons down and go to bed! You heard me."

I looked at the roof where the balloons lay. "Down? If the kids are bright they will try, that will take a few minutes."

I would offer hope to other parents, and the best I can manage is learn to laugh quietly at your spouse when they say those things. The flummoxed inarticulate can still hit.

Be nice and organized. Please.

The Helpdesk.

It goes by other names. "Service Desk", "Customer Service", "The hotline". I have never heard any of them spoken with enthusiasm. I conducted a short survey today and they both agreed that it was an undesirable business number to call. I believe one person said "it's like violent constipation".

Wow.

To those who don't know what constitutes a helpdesk, it is a phone number you call when you need something fixed, normally electronics. This brilliant, insightful comic will help you understand the process. I myself know people who work, or have worked at helpdesks. Get ready for a shock:

They are nice people.

Why is there the disconnect then? I blame the software. I have used three different "professional" helpdesk software packages. All of them are the logic equivalent of building the Eiffel tower using KNEX made of cooked spaghetti.

When you work on the helpdesk you have angry people who are disappointed with the necessity of calling you; calling you. It isn't your fault they were stuck on hold for 25 minutes, but you're the next one they talk to. It's like being the waiter for a slow chef who makes bad food.

Once you have a description of their problem (filtering out complaints and determining the right symptoms) you must enter it into the SYSTEM. And that, my friends, is as close to purgatory as software gets.

Take something simple, like, a lost email toolbar. You must categorize it, but the categories are not well labeled, descriptive, or logical. It's like trying to complete Zork using Zoolander as a character (he can't turn left after all).

So you select each dropdown in a haphazard guessing game hoping to score pay dirt, which is, to enable the magic button to deposit the ticket into the system. But is email corporate or desktop application? Is it a break, error or data issue?

You must keep moving forward or face starting over. It's like running a maze mixed with a gauntlet crossed with the running of the bulls. It only ends in hitting something, crying and manure. Add to it the pressure to keep the calls quick, solve the problems correctly, and move the backlog of tickets on.

These are not places where people are encouraged to be ingenuous and artistic, fusing passion and energy into technological customer gracing glory. These are places where you must follow the rules and succeed in spite of them.

So please, when you call a helpdesk be patient and organized. The person you eventually talk to is someone's little boy or little girl all grown up and working for minimum wage to listen to you.

And make mention of how they must hate the newest system, they will appreciate it.

Children, they become you.

This may come as a surprise, but I do not have a typical approach to parenting. I have a mind for science, or at least that's what I wrote on the donor card. This leads me to see most moments of life as trial-and-error and empirical experiments.

For example; I now know how to consistently trip a circuit breaker, turn chicken into charcoal and overflow the toilet. As nice as it is to practice science with dinner or perhaps the wiring of the home it is a less acceptable attitude with children.

As a result I parent in the Shesaid fashion, which is to do what She said to do. My wife just happens to be educated in Early Childhood Development and is a bit of a subject matter expert since she's the only one of us to have the children emerge out of.

So I try to be a good person. I know that parenting is important and that I should try to teach my kids to do things and have them do what they should. In the end though no matter how many books I read to them or speeches I give or obedience classes I enroll them in they are doomed to become
just
like
us.

Subject number one is my older daughter, hence the numerical sequence starting at one. (Yes, this would make me nothing and my wife the negative one). Last week she had "electronics day" where she could bring in an mp3 player if she ponied up $2. Her top 5 songs were:

5. My Life on the Crazy Train (Mashup of Ozzy Ozbourne, Pink, Kelly Clarkson and Daft Punk)
4. The Final Countdown (Europe)
3. Axel F (Crazy Frog)
2. The Safety Dance (Men Without Hats)
1. Code Monkey (Jonathan Coulton, censored by Dad)

She wanted to play Code Monkey for her class. 9 year old girl wanting to play a joke song about a programmer's lame life instead of High School Musical. I'd worry about it except I'm confident it will keep all but the nerdy boys away from her, and I'm pretty sure I can take them.

At home she choreographed an epic dance number to "The Final Countdown". This was like Footloose meets Cats on Red Bull. She listened to the song about 10 times in a row. I was about to give her my own final countdown.

Not geeky enough? She recently watched Tron for a second time. She liked it so much the first time she needed another fix. Then I was her hero by downloading light cycle games and we played together much to our collective amusement.

The end conclusion I can derive is that the kids will become like us whether we like it or not, so we had better be the best people we can be. And learn to like more popular music for the sake of their social status.

In the meantime I have to say I have one of the coolest 9 year olds ever.

The Group Email Cycle

I would like to address a serious issue in business today. This isn't about taking performance enhancing drugs (coffee) or misuse of the office supply cabinet (scotch tape + phone = dozens of practical joke ideas).

This is a new issue, one that has few parallels to times past. I'm talking about the Group Email Cycle.

As part of the normal routine most office workers are spammed internally. This isn't a medical condition or something you need to look up on urban dictionary . It is the group emails sent to you, and you alone; plus everyone else in the organization.

Most of us quietly grumble about it in the same way one complains about people who can't park between the lines. Annoying: Yes. Will you be the villain in taking justice: Definitely.

And then once every few years someone DOES reply, and uses the reply to all feature. In the days of paper memos you would have to be some special level of angry to xerox a pithy reply to everyone in the organization. Now you just need to be maladroit at using a mouse; and honestly, who isn't.

I was able to observe a cycle in this year's round of server clogging fun. And by that I don't mean LAN admins polka dancing wearing wooden shoes, as fantastically eccentric as that would be.

Here is, the Group Email Cycle (not as long or epic as Wagner's Ring Cycle, sorry to disappoint):

Surprise: This is when people receive an email from someone they don't know on a subject they could care less about.
"Oh gosh, someone just sent me an email about that email I didn't care to read. I'll send them a note to let them know."

Anger: After a few replies to all we move to the angry email phase. This is when the righteous anger kicks in before the cognitive reckoning can say "make sure you're not making the problem worse"
"Some idiot just sent another email about that dumb corporate email trying to fix the problem. I'll point out THEIR mistake and put them in THEIR spot! Then they'll feel so bad they'll thank me, and so will everyone else."

Humour: This phase occurs when someone realizes that everyone involved so far has been hilariously unprofessional, and for some reason feels left out.
"Hey, look at all these emails. Wow, some of these people sure are angry. I'll make them laugh and they'll all thank me and like me ever so much for it. Maybe I'll get promoted."

Surprise (2): This is when people who expected it to run it's course discover to their chagrin that they must continue to click DELETE. In a hope to fix this they send out more email to all.
"Hey, these folk are still at it, and they're getting funny. I'll point it out and they'll all realize this has gone far enough and acknowledge me as the intellectual superior."

Fury: Clearly the most fun of the bunch. This phase is usually a reaction to the humour phase. You can imagine someone shouting out each letter as they type the scathing response in mostly capitals.
"THESE PEOPLE HAVE to STOP! THIS is A WORKPLACE! BE PROFESSIONAL, DON'T HAVE FUN! I'LL CURE THEM WITH CAPITAL POWERED HOLY FURY!"

Management Threat: Finally an email comes out from the sender of the original "To all staff". It is another "To all staff" reminding them that the email cycle has run it's course and they had best get to work.

So what do I say to do with all of this? When this happens save EVERY email. All of them. Then when you go to any new office or corporate function you can make new connections and put yourself at an immediate advantage by saying "Oh, aren't you that person who was part of the reply to all thing a few weeks ago?" Hilarious.

Exercising Restraint

Exercising restraint. I'm trying to teach my children that lesson. It applies to so many areas of life: public outbursts, emotional outbursts, and those odd stomach feelings that lead to outbursts of the pants kind.

The lesson must be learned on when to give in to the feelings you have, and when not to. We can not easily control our feelings; yet. Music, alcohol and chocolate do work to degrees, but I recommend none in excess and gravely caution using all three in excess at the same time. Christmas comes but once a year you know.

We CAN control our response to those impulses. For example, I had the following exchange with a friend who I had just informed that a common acquaintance was great with child.

Him: "So-and-so is pregnant?"
Me: "Yup, She has a growth in her."
Him: "Isn't that like a tumor?"
Me: "Until it comes out and screams at you."

I exercised the restraint of NOT saying that with the common acquaintance, or anyone who has or could bear children, within earshot.

Knowing when, and where to give in makes all the difference. Succumbing to the temptation to graze from a co-worker's candy dish is bad; waiting for them to turn their back first is cunning.

Lately I have been trying to get into the discipline of running. This is exactly how it sounds: as painful and difficult as replacing that body wash sponge with steel wool. As a result almost any excuse is a good one.

So when my older daughter called me at the office two weeks ago I had the challenge of exercising my restraint of exercise avoidance impulse.

Her: "Daddy, I want you to get a ride home today."
Me: "Why is that honey, I was hoping to deplete myself of oxygen and dignity today."
Her: "My friend is over and she was hoping we could play 'Capture the flag'".

See I took a day off to help my 9 and 6 year old daughters, and two other 9 year old girls assemble foam swords of their own out of wooden doweling, pool noodles and duct tape. I'm out $10 each, we all have a fun recreation of hitting each other with reasonable impunity.

Now I have a kicking arsenal of safe and colourful re-enforced pool noodle assault weapons. Seeing a 6 year old girl standing at 4' tall wield a 6.5' long lime green sword is a thing of beauty to the eyes and a point of peril to the sensitive bits.

To avoid it being a simple but rousing game of "Daddy Piniata" I suggested "Capture the flag", where we divide into teams, hide a "flag", and then try to steal each others flag. If your flag is stolen you must beat that person until they drop it and then you can take it back.

So when I get a call at work asking me to rush home to play this game some more, I waived my restraint and a good time was had by all. Wisdom is knowing when to give in and when to duck.

Unringing the Dead Ringer

There are a few aspects of movies that I can't stand. One is the oversimplified science. When I type madly at a keyboard and say "the flux diode must have had a conjuncture with a polarized radical ion inciting temporal fusion across the dimensional plane" the only thing that happens is someone within earshot yells "shut up". The fact I'm mocking that person at the time may have something to do with it.

Another is the mono-dimensional character. Every evil person I've met had redeeming qualities: Takes care of their Mom, puts out the garbage, likes kittens (for lunch as well as a tasty afternoon snack).

The last is the "bad guy" who is foiled by kids. Really, where on earth do writers get this Contained biothermal derivative subsisting of fused photosynthesized and motive celluar matter?

At my house or one just like mine apparently.

My wife is at the losing end of the battle to have us (the two small humans who look like me and me) be less competitive. The children behave that way to establish their position in their subculture (aka the family) which is a waste of time because I won't like them more if they win or not. I care if they pick up their toys and bring me my slippers.

I on the other hand am competitive to keep my wife's attention and beat the living daylights out of the NPC characters in Mario Kart. You know how some computer games reportedly cause seizures? Well that one causes road rage. I have said some VERY bad things at Peach when she wins a race.

The other night we were having a game as a family and my older daughter pointed at the younger one, appropriately enough to point out she was winning impaired. My wife used her gift of parenting and told the child "remember, when you point a finger at someone, four more point back at you."

My response would be "the thumb isn't a finger". My child on the other hand (pun intended) proceeded to point all fingers at her sister, with the index standing apart. She smiled triumphantly at my wife who to her credit did not smite me for giggling.

I'm afraid that the children know they can outsmart us and we will continue to fail to foil the plans for later bedtimes, midnight snacks and half done chores. I'm not worried though, I may not be able to unring that bell, but I'm sure I can be the louder ding-dong. I am competitive after all.

Don't try to be funny

‘Nurds’ are not the most socially capable.

Some of this comes from our desire to assert ourselves in our pecking order. In normal society you assert yourself by lifting something heavy. Apparently it is impressive to show off that you can do more labour than someone far weaker with a set of pulleys and a vague memory of Grade 10 physics.

Geeks on the other hand show off by displaying our superiority of knowledge. If I can make you feel stupid through technical allusions, abstract references and puns then I am your better. Resultantly we are not often invited to parties, evacuations or group pictures.

Another factor is that one does not make their computer run better by discussing NASCAR or by sitting around in a group and sharing feelings. On the contrary, we need to isolate ourselves and work with the computer, alone and uninterrupted. This is applied science!

And then, once in a while, we grow a sense of humour. Being funny: Good. It makes people laugh and helps them feel better about their day and their lives. It would help immensely if we nerds actually cared about others emotions. The only reason we take note of them at all is to factor them into our estimates of job duration and difficulty. A good crier can add 40 minutes to your day.

Being funny as a way to show how smart you are: Bad. I am slowly learning this, but not enough for these poor co-workers who were foolish enough to ask my opinions rather than drinking tequila and asking a “Magic 8” ball.

This first person asked me if I could assist her in the connection of an external monitor to her laptop. I agreed, and provided this additional advice:

Just don't get it backwards. The power and signal only flows uni-directionally. Polarizing it will overload the capacitors in the monitor and the power source will overheat the liquid crystals until they become a vapour. Although this is a colourful trick the mist also happens to be toxic.

If you laughed at that you should make sure you know your own way out of each building you are in, because I suspect the exiting people may not bother you in the event of an emergency.

The second person sent me an email when I was out of town. In my defense it had been a long day and I was frustrated with the problem that had confounded the best techs in our organization; and my incapability of providing any assistance from where I was.

You have both defied the odds and exhausted my cache of reasonable solutions. I will now offer absurd options in hope that they will work where science could not.
When using your computer try:
1. Chewing pretzels with the left side of your mouth.
2. Burn scent-free incense
3. Turn off all radios, lights, and hide anything displaying the letter “L”
4. Rapidly alternate crossing your 3rd and 4th toes
5. Quietly chant the model of your computer
6. Throw a Vachon pastry at the computer unit.
7. Play Peek-A-Boo with the monitor.

So how do you work with a geek when they do this? Intimidate them with how much you can lift. Fear is a powerful motivator.

Childhood Direction.

It is the most wonderful time of the year. To me that sentence makes sense by substituting the old English word wonderful (meaning full of wonder, awesome, splendid, shiny) with the modern word meaning pathologically over-scheduled.

For me this takes special meaning as I have just finished three months of preparing a large production for Christmas. After dozens of repetitions I now have facial ticks when I hear certain Christmas songs. It's special though because as soon as people saw it they said "Great Job" followed shortly by "What's next."

I'm a director at our Church. This means I pretend to be important and know what I'm doing, I boss everyone around in some hope that I'll be able to make a success of the endeavor. Really it's like parenting, senior management, or politics.

For me it is important as I try to communicate my artistic vision that no one interrupt me. Otherwise they won't fall for it and they'll know I'm making it all up as I go along.

I'd heard that you are never to work with kids or animals. I know why now. I have worked with my own children, and they are animals.

Most of my actors have a deep respect for my authority because they know it is the facade holding back my fragile emotional state. If you don't want to clean up the mess, don't poke the water balloon (which technically I am, except the balloon skin is made of, well, skin).

My children on the other hand have made a life long practice of pushing daddy to the point of gibbering and drooling in a fit of anger or laughter. And so since this month doesn't have enough family dysfunction I have my older daughter in the play for Christmas Eve.

The script is brilliant, written by a close friend and I am enjoying the artistic freedom given to me. The actors have been great to follow direction and offer ideas when prompted. Except my kid.

Me: Ok, I want all of you to show fear. Think of something scary, like fish. I don't know, fish frighten me. So do Tyrannosaurs. Try this, a MER-Tyrannosaur. Then scream and run for the fire exit.
Her: I think they should be happy. It says so in the script.
Me: DARLING, let me direct.
Her: Ok.
Me: Fine, so then the Batmobile will come in stage right, driven by a Caveman...
Her: (To the other actors) You guys be happy.
Me: NO! No. Ok. You all be scared, you (pointing at my daughter) be VERY scared of the angry director who can take away your Chronicles of Narnia cds.

There you have it. Don't bring your work home and don't work with your family. I think I'll use this philosophy on doing the dishes...

Praying punishment

In my routine of directing at Church I like to pray before we start each rehearsal. This reminds people that they need to be good because it isn't just bad taste to invoke an aneurism on your director RIGHT after praying, it is sacrilegious.

I try to get other people to pray during practice. This is partly because of my concern that I'll really mess up someone with my near heretical ramblings at God, and partly because of my laziness, which if I had more initiative I would harness my children to a rickshaw so I wouldn't have to walk.

This rehearsal we were running about 5 minutes late which is really good for artists. When I asked for someone other than me to pray my older daughter volunteered. The sweet, fair haired 9 year old child folded her hands atop the stuffed animal she had as a prop, bowed her head and prayed:

"Dear God. Thank you for bringing everyone here, even though some of them were late. Please help them learn to be on time. Let us have a good practice. Amen."

The two adults in the room nearly choked on their laughter. Now she is not the first to be passive aggressive in prayer, but the honesty and innocence of it caught me off guard.

For those who weren't aware of it, the Church (pick your denomination) has had plenty of people who want people to change for the good. Unfortunately some just resort to simple manipulation tactics to achieve this.

Listening to her pray it reminded me of awkward times where a preacher would pray "Dear God, let all those who have fallen from your grace by keying new Toyota Corollas be returned to the path of righteousness and reparation for insurance premiums."

There are other types of group praying that are punishment to many involved. The "give thanks for everything and pray for everyone for 30 minutes" prayer is a blight to all those with small children, small bladders or small attention spans. That one is usually right before a meal while the food gets cold.

Then there is the "mumbler with pauses after words that sound like amen" leaves many a person embarrassed for loudly saying "AMEN" before making for the bathroom.

And of course there is the "fit 1st year theology course on the Bible in" prayer where large tracts of memorized scripture are quoted back to God while someone feels compelled to say "Amen" at every full stop, encouraging a re-creation of the book of Ezekiel in random order.

Suffice to say I'll point out to my daughter that out loud public prayer can be heard by others and perhaps she should be discreet about her passive aggression. Perhaps keep it limited to complaining about the incoming dinner.

The gift of bartering hope.

Christmas is typically a time of hope. This is evidenced in the number of statements starting with "I hope..."; such as:
"... I guessed his size right. If not he can always use the shirt as a tarp."
"... I remembered to take the packing slip from kijiji off the package."
"... the extended family has a blanket case of laryngitis."

I was reflecting on the theme of hope after a recent flight. It was a small trip; small plane, small place to go, gratefully small stay. The passengers outnumbered the crew 3 to 2, there were 3 of us. The plane was small enough not to be equipped with bathroom facilities.

This was a wonderful flight with fully catered meals and pilots who professionally steered the glorified tin can with smooth ease. They even offered us a thermos of coffee, which I greedily drank because the flight was just over an hour. I can hold my bladder until we're on the ground.

As it turns out, the pointer/steerers of the metal that floats on air decided against landing in a storm of freezing rain where they could not see the ground from a safe landing altitude. Thus we turned back, another hour and a half home.

I was not worried about the flight back or the aborted landing. I trust the judgement of the men in the front seats. I wasn't hoping to make it back alive, I wanted to make it back with dry pants. I honestly considered re-using that thermos.

In conversations afterwards several people confessed their fear of flying, especially in small planes. I told them this was foolish because I have no tact.

My argument is I would rather be chauffeured around by a couple of people who not only are professionally trained for what they are doing, but also that their life also depends on doing a good job. Most doctors do not have the same percentage chance of surviving the surgery as their patients, except the ones who have pushed the nurses just too far that last time.

Continuing the point, mainly because I have as much empathic awareness as a menopausal wolverine, I debated that if you were still nervous about your pilots you could try to barter them more hope to get home. I provided this hypothetical solution:

Me: "Hey flyboy, eager to get home to the little lady?"
Him: "I'm divorced. From a woman that could be best described as a walwrus with anger issues."
Me: "No worries champ, I know of some great women that I could hook you up with. Some might be married, but I'm sure we could 'arrange' their availability.
Him: "Huh?"
Me: "But if you don't yaw that way I'm sure someone is out there, right inside the terminal, but you have to get us home safe or you'll never know."

See that way you either instil in them hope, or creep them out enough to sedate and secure you so you're no longer aware for the flight. Either way it is far safer than relying on the competence and situational awareness of the average driver on the roads. That is where hope, prayer, and a buffer of 2 car lengths is needed.

Smart AND Alive

Somehow I have gained a reputation of someone of intelligence. Not sure how that happened, I wish I did. Group perceptions of me have not always been positive; the weird kid, the small one, the one who never should wear sweatpants without a belt.

For those who wish to shake off the terrible nickname and perhaps move to the next phase of therapy, I have some advice. Follow this one easy step and you will appear as a computer genius:

Read.

I refuse to keep track of how often I'm asked "how did you know how to do that" when I know the answer was staring the person in the face, in English, in 10 point MS Sans Serif. Some numbers don't make you feel better, like the fat content in the Double Quarter Pounder and the amount of calories the average human should never eat.

Suffice to say that I have become accustomed to reading almost everything presented to me. The exception is any email longer than a paragraph. Life is too short to go on and on about whatever caused you to ask me for what I will refuse. Just put what you want in the subject line so I can put "no" in the reply.

Recently I was in a business. On the inside door, in bold letters, was the simple demand:

Please take off your shoes HERE!!!!

I say it is a demand not a request by the number of exclamation points. Someone inhaled a lot of sharpie fumes to make that point 4 times.

I gladly left my somewhat snowy shoes at the door and wandered in. I wasn't sure if each exclamation point was a tally of the number of corporal retributions for breaking the rule, but I could not claim ignorance. The sign could have been an eye test for pilots, the kind they must read while flying past.

During my wanderings in the building I was approached by an employee of the facility. I did not know this person from Adam, although I suspect Adam would also have listened out of fear for physical safety and physical intimidation through sheer size. This thankfully gentle giant said:

Man who could crush me with a handshake: You should wear shoes.
Me: Ummmm. Yeah. About that. Didn't the, you know, wow you're tall. The sign... at the front...
Dude who could seriously scare Chuck Norris: If you don't wear shoes, then the Janitor won't have a job to do.
Me: Oh.

I was tempted to say "With that logic, I should make myself useful by not using the garbage cans? Maybe I get you a second cleaner if I just fail house training and defile the floor? Is there an unemployed general contractor who would appreciate me to do some general mayhem?"

At this point I reflect fondly on public school. Only through the repeated hazings and mistreatment could I learn the valuable lesson of "Shut the HECK up when you have something witty to say." A little part of my logical side died at that moment. That was a small loss compared to the complete annihilation of my existence through a fatal case of foot-in-mouth disease.

I did put on my shoes, and mused gratefully upon the two lessons that have kept me alive, and intact for so long. Read carefully, and don't mouth off unless you have a clear path to run away.

It's better if you don't mean to.

It's ironic to me how the greatest moments seem to happen by accident.

In the case of Stanislav Petrov it just so happened that a calm, level headed individual was manning the early warning room in the USSR when a computer reported that WWIII had started. Apparently he was so underwhelmed with his performance that he didn't even tell his later wife that he had saved the world.

2 summers ago we were staying at my older sister's farm. My younger sister and her son were in the tent trailer between the 5th wheel we were in and our older sister's house.

I was already in bed, my sisters had decided to stay up a bit longer and visit in the house. As I settled in the darkness my wife said "Do you here someone crying?" Sure enough my sister's son was upset, and Mommy wasn't right there.

Being a good uncle I made sure my loins were girt and then dashed to the house. I figured I would be little comfort to the little guy as he didn't know me that well yet. I saved time going through the two side doors and ran to the front window, where I could clearly see them still visiting in the living room.

Then they both screamed. And jumped. And screamed again.

In my haste I had run to the picture window and gestured to my sister, intending her to take that as "come out and check on your child." What my sisters saw was the disembodied torso of someone motioning at them out of the blackness of the lonely prairie night.

My poor brother in law had it the worst. He got to watch his wife and sister in law spontaneously switch into fits of hysteria, but when he turned I'd already moved away from the window. The family repute sure took a hit then.

So my best scaring of my sisters was completely innocent. Really.

The other day I wanted to re-program my joysticks. It was Sunday afternoon and the kids were supposedly resting in their beds. They were quiet, which really is all I can ever hope for.

I strode into the bedroom to fetch said simulated flying apparatuses. I keep them in the nightstand beside the bed in case I have a nightmare where I need to land an aircraft.

The bed is about 3 feet from the far wall, lined up so I have to walk around the foot of the bed to get to the table on the far side. I stepped through the array of stuffed animals and clothes which cover my house like leaves in the fall.

As I turned the corner of the bed I noticed the most lifelike, life sized doll I had ever seen. It was lying beside the bed, pushed up against the box that the bed sits on. Surrounding it were other stuffed animals and less realistic dolls.

As I tried to grasp how such a toy could have been brought into the house, and why it was left there, it's eyes opened and it said "Hi Daddy."

And I screamed. And jumped. And then screamed again.

My younger daughter had decided to hide there. The child who finds it impossible to sit still at the dinner table, or at a movie, or in the car, could lie still and silent for 20 minutes on my bedroom floor.

I don't think her intention was to shorten my lifespan, but she soon wore the grin of someone who had been given the present they had longed for but was incapable of describing.

In a karma sort of way I had it coming. Still I doubt my younger daughter will let this go. My OCD has now increased as I find it necessary to check around corners for creepy children lying down waiting for me. I think a mirror to see around corners will be added to the nightstand now.

No sleep makes me stupid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or was it the other way around?

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

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

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

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

Anti-work

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

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

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

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

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

The status bar.

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

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

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

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

That means I wait around to hit 'Next'.

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

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

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

Except rebooting.

I hope she thinks I'm pretty at least.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Calvin-Bowl

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

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

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

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

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

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

I expect them to eat their meals.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mmmmm, dead pig grease."

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

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

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

"I think the pig died from bone loss."

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