Children, not just incoherant adults.

My wife and I worked around a potential fight last night. It was great. We communicated what we wanted the other to do, or in this case, stop doing to make us happier.

I wanted her to not use the salad bowl as a helmet before dinner. She wanted me to not tell the kids to "kindly plug their largest head orifice with food" and let them tell her about their day.

I have experienced two of the three known communication styles of children. When they are new you want them to talk, to communicate, and for the love of all that is merciful to show some intelligence. The first words are recorded, wept over and I think there are even "Hallmark" cards for.

During that time you coax the little primate-like imitations of you to relate at a slightly higher level than the family pet. And by the age of 4 they finally do. The next stage begins like an avalanche and things cascade out of control.

The final stage is the "Shut up, I'm not talking to you. Whatever!" stage, which I have only 6 years before it hits. If I'm lucky.

Back to the second stage. Getting young children to just be quiet for less than 5 minutes is a practical impossibility. It would be OK if they were conjecturing on the purpose of existence or the moral criteria for conflict. No, it is normally akin to this conversation I had with my almost 5 year old tonight:

Her: Dad?
Me: Yes hone...
Her: Know what I
Her: What I
Her: What I want
Her: Dad?
Me: Yes h...
Her: Know what I want for
Her: For
Her: Dad, know what I want for dessert?
Me: No honey, what do you...
Her: I want
Her: I want a
Her: I want a princess....
Her: pillow.
Her: And
Me: And?
Her: And a, (yelling) Mom, what do I want?

Yes, most conversations with her are at that level. The 7 year old is probably twice as efficient, but still stammers in high speed like listening to Porky Pig with ADHD. And my children are AHEAD of the curve for all developmental milestones, especially language.

So during dinner this level of discourse had my wife saying:

"Ok kids, just eat now."
"Please eat your dinner."
"Stop talking and eat."
"PLEASE stop talking and eat."
"Just eat."
"No, no more talking. Eat."

The fact my wife was reverting to their style of talking worried me. I stopped the kids (I have more practice) and the rest of the dinner went fine.

I'm still yet to deal with how the near 5 year old responds when addressed, as illustrated here:

Me: Honey?
Her: What?

Me: Care to try that again?
Her: What Daddy?

Me: Please assemble a sentence with as many syllables as you are old.
Her: What?

SIGH. They are very intelligent little people, which is why it is so frustrating to have them false start sentences like a "Chatty Cathy" doll with a stuck gear.

I guess they are still so excited by the ideas they are having that they can't take time to process them into a succinct package. Hearing the concept, first and second drafts, and then being the editor for each thought that comes in their heads is exhausting. I give my wife credit to do this without weeping (most days).

Forget logic, use your computersititon!

I used to believe that technology jobs were best done by logical people. After a decade of experience I laugh at that supposition now.

When a computer breaks there are some general troubleshooting rules:

1. Reboot.
2. Wiggle the cables.
3. Try another account.
4. Reboot again.
5. Google the problem.
6. Read the manual.
7. Throw out the computer.

The main exceptions are:
- Broken Cupholders
- Missing Any keys
- PEOPLE WHO CAN'T FIND THEIR capslock BUTTON

After 10 years of fixing computers, I have added a few items to the list. It now reads:

1. Reboot.
2. Wiggle the cables.
3. Try another account.
4. Shake a stick over the computer.
5. Reboot again.
6. Google the problem.
7. Throw a dog at the computer.
8. Read the manual.
9. Chant the filesystem path backwards.
10. Reboot holding my breath.
11. Throw out the computer.

It turns out there are certain times that fixing a computer has little to do with logic, and a lot to do with dumb luck.

This happened a few years ago when I fixed a soundcard on a computer. Sound was coming out of the speakers, but so faint you needed to jam your ears against them. I did the above list, including updating drivers, swapping out the soundcard, trying the soundcard in another machine, changing speakers. Nothing worked.

My last thought was to daisy chain amplified speakers to get more volume. I then slowly thought that "I am adding more power to the sound...".

I changed the power supply. It fixed the problem.

This was a coup d'etat. I baffled my geek buddies with this solution. I still don't know why the computer didn't fail outright, it shouldn't have worked at all if underpowered.

This happened the week that changing the watch battery on a computer fixed it's inability to boot at all. I had just recommended buying a new computer when lo and behold, the $10 part fixed it. I still don't know why.

These fixes are great when they happen to me. What is really superstitious luck can be passed of as insightful genius.

Yesterday we were troubleshooting a server at work. It's running slower than it should by a factor of 3. We did testing and determined that the problem was the hard drive read speed.

One co-worker wanted to start pulling the spare hard drives from the server. While it was running. To me this seemed like something I would have suggested 9 years ago. We ignored him all morning because, well, that's just crazy talk. It's in the category of "Rain Man" suggestions.

In the afternoon we were getting frustrated. He then changed his suggestions from pulling the data to turning off the processors.

"RIGHT." (Grin and nod). "How about after that we go get a dog and throw it at the server. But make sure it's not a chihuahua, they only work on Mac's."

My other co-worker had become desperate either to fix the problem or shut the other guy up, so he turned off a processor. With 4 on the server there was a relatively low risk.

No improvement. So another was turned off. Still nothing. They turned off the 3rd. The server ran fine again.

?

So making the server slower at doing things made the hard drives read faster?

!?!

I still can't wrap my head around HOW this is even possible. The now gloating co-worker said that we didn't have a multi-processor machine before, so that must have been what changed. We gently reminded him we DID have a dual-processor server before.

The moral of the story: If your computer doesn't work, try immersing it in yogurt, or taping feathers to the cables, or sing to it in Swahili. Let me know if any of that works, because clearly logic and sensible approach are no longer the way to do my job.

Good cop, Bad cop

We play "Good Cop, Bad Cop" in my house. Not the fun way that gets people killed in embarrassing but fascinating ways on CSI, but in parenting. When we are disciplining, one takes the firmer discipline role, the other comforts the victim, or tries to lure the truth from the small bags of water and lies. Most times my wife is the "Good Cop", like today.

Today my older daughter was arguing with my wife. I know this is a dangerous game. I have the scars and the bad back from the couch to prove it. And the child doesn't use smart arguing techniques like taking the logical extreme or misinterpretation. She simply interrupts her mother and makes her demand, or gives her proof why her mommy is wrong.

I remember I did that once to my Mom. It was the first and last time we had a footrace. I proved I could outrun my Mom, especially upstairs. I also proved my ability to corner myself quite efficiently by erroneously believing that if I made it to my bedroom and called "base" I was safe.

Why does this wonderful, generous, bright child toy with the fragile emotional balance of someone twice her size who has the history of making her life less than fun when she mouths off? She was having an obstinate moment today when I heard this phrase:

"No, you're wrong. Woman."

Should a pin have dropped, it would have been easy to echo locate. My wife, the woman I am desperately in love with, thankfully chose not to end this little person's enrollment in our family at that moment. She gently, but firmly, restated that she was "Mommy", not "Woman". I on the other hand was the emotional one having a combination of giggling and weeping in the kitchen.

I was the "Bad Cop" yesterday. The kids were downstairs "playing" when I heard a thump and my younger daughter begin her "I think I'm hurt" wailing. It's funny when she can't find us in this state. She'll wander room to room and it will sound like the doppler effect of a cat trapped on a ceiling fan.

I, being the sensitive artist father, gently bellowed:

"You'd better be bleeding to cry like that".

Well I was damned, but she turned the corner with blood on her lips. Her big sister had punched her. My wife and I switched roles, she took the "Bad Cop" role of immediately disciplining the older daughter, while I comforted the child I had almost said "AHHH shaddap!" to.

It turns out she attempted to punch her older sister in the face, but missed. I would normally call that natural consequences, but my wife has read better books on parenting than I have. What is funny is both kids have a Clouseau/Kato relationship with me. They take punches at me whenever they can. So of course they had some skill in it. As a fringe benefit I'm set to go a few rounds in the ring with a dwarf.

I'm not sure why we balance the discipline the way we do. Although, considering the behavior the past two days we may be doing some re-evaluation. I'd like to suggest "Good Cop, Interpretive Dance Cop".

Seeing myself at work

I received a vision of what it is like to work with me. It happened while we were watching "Airplane!" the other day. I realized that I am "Johnny, the office boy".

Watch this to get a quick refresher:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pd9oTKwRyIk

I am annoyingly literal to make a good joke, or just a joke. I find creative ways of expressing myself. And a few times it's been good enough to write down.

I work in a medium sized office which is part of a very large business. Great plans are often put in motion with little to no thought of how to execute them. I get some ideas, but they often include guillotines.

One project was a department-wide upgrade of computers. Their solution to a problem was in my humble opinion sdrawkcab-ssa. But I found my voice to express it this way:

"We are trying to solve this problem the same way we would try to have a cat pull a horse drawn carriage. All we need are more cats, more harnesses, smaller whips, better roads and lighter people. We overlook the obvious answer."

Now I was in appoplexic fit of anger at being told to do what would break more things than it fixed. I am a passionate man, and I have these fits too often in this job.

Other phrases have made it into a Kenism list, like:

"She's maniacally stupid. It's like she's trying to hurt us with her dumbness."

[Responding to "I have a stupid question"]: "No, you don't have a stupid question. All questions are stupid, not just yours."

"This program is like an alcoholic uncle with a job. You're embarrased by it, it looks awful, no one likes to admit it exists, but at least it works."

"No one makes a good choice in a moment of passion. You don't run away with the sensible but unattractive person, that's a cold calculated decision."

"Hoping to fix the flawed procedure through full implementation is trying to wear down a speedbump by placing it on a freeway."

Yeah, I'm just a hoot to work with. I overreact, mishear people to be funny and I play emotionally crippling practical jokes. You can pity my co-workers, or laugh with me.

The Monkey's Paw punched me in the...

We went camping this weekend. It was fairly fun to spend 2 nights and 3 days in the woods with my family. More fun if I don't dwell on it too closely.

Camping is therapeutic to family development. It puts our 4 somewhat emotionally healthy individuals into a cloth room with no running water or electricity. In these conditions it takes a few hours before the bickering, yelling, and unfortunate human odors to take hold. And that's just my wife and I.

When my wife was asked why we liked camping she was short on answers. I like it because it's fun to legally burn things, see the stars, and not feel the uncontrollable pull of electronics. Oh, and I hate being around people.

We try to keep our campsite clean and kids quiet. I resent it when in campgrounds children scream and shriek at the top of their lungs. I wish it were a reverse of the "kicking scares away sharks" tactic for bears. I get comfort imagining a bear lumbering into their campsite just to scare their kinds into silence.

Yesterday morning I was tending to the breakfast while trying to teach my older daughter about making a campfire. In the midst of describing to my bright 7 year old that tepees were actually somewhat vertical in construction I was interrupted by a cacophony from the tent.

To quote my wife:
"Oh God! Wait! No! Stop! No! NOOOO! Not here! Help!"

I imagine that's the script for someone inadvertently wearing moose musk during a rut and consequently becoming the object of some bull's desire. Gives new meaning to being "caught in a rut", although I would choose "Hunter violated by moose in season" as my newspaper headline.

I was aghast. How could my wife make that much noise in a campground at 8 in the morning? I said:
"I sure hope that she pooped in our tent for you to be making that much noise"

Now let me digress to the "Monkey's Paw" for a moment. The Monkey's Paw is a short story by William Wymark Jacobs about fate and wishes. It is a horror story not too unlike mine, except that mine is only a horror to me. I have wished for my daughter to be hurt if she's making a noise "like that". I have wished for human waste to be deposited in my fabric room. These, unlike the lottery, are wishes that do come true. It's like I have a frikkin sadist Jimminy Cricket.

Sure enough I enter the tent to find my wife hurriedly moving clothes and books upstream from our tent Huang He. My younger daughter has struck a pose from an 80's hair band lead singer, legs spread wide. She is watching with fascination the fact that she has indeed peed in my temporary abode. We cleaned her up, cleaned the tent up, instituted an "emergency log" toilet behind the tents, and went on with the day.

And yes, we will go camping again. Why? I still don't know yet.

Timing

Timing can mean everything. In the case of General John Sedgwick it meant that he would be an example of "famous last words".

This is especially true in marriage. What is funny on one day can be grounds for separate vacations, your vacation being in the car and starting now.

This past weekend I proceeded to insulate the windows of our house with plastic wrap. Come to think of it, I'm not sure why I didn't use the saran-wrap stuff. It's probably cheaper.

For those in warmer pastures or whose buildings do not have vacant gaps in the walls partially filled with glass, the idea is to trap air between the leaky window and the plastic. Comments about practicing 'safe housing' are not appreciated.

The procedure is deceptively short on the packaging. It involves:
A) Clean the frame
B) Put the two sided tape around the frame
C) Cut a piece of plastic to fit the frame
D) Affix plastic to tape
E) Use hair dryer to shrink the plastic so you don't assume you're having a stroke when you look out the window.

Here are my instructions based on experience:
1) Pull out last years plastic and tape. Think you have enough.
2) Clean window sill with water and rag.
3) Knock over pail of water on pile of books..
4) After clean-up of mess, dry window sill
5) Unroll tape and affix to frame.
6) Realize last years tape won't work.
7) Swear, then go to store to buy more tape.
8) Buy plastic that doubled in price from last year because demand of being environmentally sound has increased.
9) Re-affix tape to frame only to find damp spot you missed with the towel.
10) Re-affix tape to frame third time.
11) Measure window.
12) Measure plastic.
13) Inexplicably move 2" when cutting the plastic, making it too small for the window.
14) Conduct 'Cirque du soleil' routine affixing plastic to tape.
15) Burn out hair-dryer on the first window.
16) Accidentally touch overheated hair dryer to the plastic, burning a hole in it.
17) Swear really loud.

This gets twice as long if you want to put the plastic on the inside of the window frame to accommodate the blind. No, not an accessibility thing, the pull down blind so your neighbours don't receive confirmation that you are really that unattractive unclothed.

It was after these steps that my wife walked in and said

"Oh, I JUST finished getting last year's tape off the window sills. Do we even need that stuff?"

That did not help my blood pressure which was already allowing me to see the vein structure of my eyeballs. I'm not sure of how I replied, but suffice to say it was angry gibberish that I apologized for later.

So the trick to preventing those perfectly timed comments is lock yourself in the room where you're doing repairs, or wait until the family is away from home. The downside is that when you fall off the ladder/electrocute yourself/staple yourself to the wall no one can find you for a while. To ensure someone comes looking just say you're making the next meal.

I'm done the job now, and I'm just waiting for the kids to poke holes in the plastic because it's there.

Inheritance

Inheritance:(noun)
1 a : the act of inheriting property
b : the reception of genetic qualities by transmission from parent to offspring
c : the acquisition of a possession, condition, or trait from past generations

I wish my parents had kept notes. Note to self: Keep notes.

As a parent I am participating in the longest running joke in history. We like to *THINK* we are doing a better job than our parents, learning from their mistakes. In evidence I either must submit that I have no idea what I'm doing or biology has proved me recessive.

Last weekend I took both daughters out fishing for, you guessed it, pike. All were genuinely excited, especially my wife who opted to stay behind and tend to some unread pages in a book.

One hour later we were sitting in the boat, picnic lunch packed, ready for a morning and possibly an afternoon of catch and release, catching 2 more times for the fishing derby in town.

With it being my younger daughters first time on the lake she had expressed fear that I would drive the boat too fast (~10 kn). I'm not sure if it's the speed (fast things scare her), the noise (loud things scare her), or the movement (et al).

I was a good dad and took it slow. The lines were cast and soon enough my older daughter had this nice fish on her line:



As the fish was brought alongside I heard a hissing and a squealing that meant that the zodiac had been punctured or my younger child had another phobia to identify. It then occurred to me that in all the times she had been fishing there had been no fish caught. Her idea of a live fish was a goldfish.

I hauled in the fish and made sure it would not jump, bite, or blink at any of the occupants. I reflected on my parenting to date as my smaller one considered walking on water as a viable alternative to continuing fishing.

I had never shown her my crippling fear of fish. I had forced myself to grab that slimy emblem of writhing death all while choking back the whimpering terror that gripped me. This was her issue. Or one her mother gave her.

We continued to fish until the older one was bored. That took half an hour. I managed to overcome the younger one's fear of the the 'fast' setting on the boat when we had to battle back against an 8 kn wind.

I guess some phobias are inherited. If so that kid won't be able to watch the horror movies "The Black Hole" or "Mr. Boogedy" until she's 15.

Unless she gets those genetics from her Mom.

Menu for help

I work in a bureaucracy. I don't know any child who aspires to the lofty goal of order taker and passer on-er. I also do not know of anyone who is grateful for the system, except those who are insulated from the annoying requests of common folk. Think of it as a labyrinth without David Bowie.

There are few warning signs louder than when David Bowie would make your office a COOLER place.

Being a cog in a giant robot that lumbers in circles as a dog would chase it's tail in thick oatmeal has its limits. You can't make the machine flail faster, but you can slow it down.

A wise co-worker once put it this way while on the phone with another office: "Please put me in touch with someone with the power to say YES."

I can't make anything happen per-se, but I sure can put a damper on your day if you need my help. I may not be your sunshine, but I can be the cologne-deficient co-worker between you and the window.

I do try to be above stopping work to show my own power. It may come as a surprise but I don't feel more virile by saying "You don't have the right forms". Nope, THAT wasn't the cause of my emasculation.

But I have found that I do have a secret set of rules on the priority of my work. And this I use almost unconsciously. I suspect most people have this but have not honestly admitted it. I myself just can't pass up the opportunity for bribery.

I evaluate bonuses and penalties in queue position. These are typically applied on your next request for help.

Position -- Cause
+3 -------- Cookies/candy at workstation for me to eat.
+2 -------- Read my blog.
+1 -------- Laugh at my jokes instead of me.
+1 -------- Compliment for my Hawaiian shirt.
+3 -------- I overhear you bragging about how great I am as a tech.
+1 -------- You ask for a technical explanation and listen without yawning.
-3 -------- You show up at the last minute and demand I do the work right away when it wasn't an emergency 2 hours ago.
-2 -------- Asked me to gather information that isn't part of my job.
-2 -------- Asked for help and then are not available when scheduled
-3 -------- Asked for help but don`t follow my directions and then blame me for your continued problems.
-4 -------- Spent 20 minutes of my time telling me how busy you are and why the computers hold you back when the fix will take 2 minutes of your full co-operation.
-1 -------- Mean disposition.
-2 -------- Stinky.
-3 -------- Awkwardly stood too close to me in an otherwise empty elevator.
+7 -------- Can quote Firefly.

I wish I could tell you the queue on any given day, but I make it up as I go along. Can't let the job get boring now...

Centre of attention

There are a few truisms about parenting:

- There will always be food around your house, particular in hard to reach corners of the floor.
- Despite saying "that's why we can't have nice things" you will continue to buy them and hope they won't have Sharpie graffiti on them.
- You are always proud of your child.

I don't know why we are proud of our children. It's not like they have done anything we haven't. My daughters can't outdo us in math for 3 years at least.

Perhaps it's a hope that they are partly us but without all the issues. To that I say "just wait".

Occasionally your child will be the centre of attention. Sometimes it involves states of undress in public assembly, or them quoting you verbatim on sensitive issues, or they decide to hold you hostage through public shaming via a temper tantrum.

Those are not good times.

The other times, times where they are cute or showing off their development that is weeks ahead of average children their age, it is kind of nice.

I'm not sure which one it was the other week.

We were at my cousin's wedding. The food was eaten, the speeches told, and the dancing began. I instructed my children that they were not to touch the wedding cake, presents, or go on the dance floor until everyone was called. I may or may not have made comments about the well being of favourite toys if they failed to do so, but memory is a funny thing.

They were good and waited until we could all collectively humiliate ourselves by thrashing about in a controlled fashion in an attempt to follow the downbeat of the music.

My older daughter didn't even try.

I wanted to have a dance with each of my little girls. A sentimental thing where you dress them up really nice, do their hair, and pray to heaven that someone will photograph you when you're dancing with them and not when you're uttering threats into their little weepy faces.

The older one refused my offers, begging, and pleading for a dance. What a flashback to grades 7 through 12 for me.

Instead she stood by herself, grooving through a repertoire of 12 moves she picked up from Mamma Mia, Hairspray and Elmocize. She was so into the moment she didn't notice other people dancing around her, or even the tempo of the song that was playing. I began to believe she could hear the music about to be played and was keeping time to that.

Her enjoyment of it, and her immersion in the music brought what amounted to a small paparazzi to film and photograph her. Yep, I love the 21st century where everyone is a budding photographer for National Geographic. Myself included. I know at least 6 settings on my $300 camera.

I couldn't tell if I should be proud or ashamed of her, until I realized that the only reason people would film me dancing is to give Johnny Depp someone else to emulate when portraying Captain Jack Sparrow. I think it's time to watch Elmocize again.

Why? There is no why.

As a computer technician I struggle to find the proper parallel to my career. Metaphors there are plenty of, like "I am the dung beetle of the cubes. Others take in good stuff, and I make my living dealing with the problems they make from that."

I am not like a firefighter, a doctor, a lawyer, baker or candle stick maker. The best I have come up with is detective.

I don't mean the cool yet inwardly turmoiled crew of a Crime Scene Investigation unit. No, just a plainclothes cop who has to derive meaning from a few clues left there.

And like the more unglamorous aspects of that honorable profession I too must shake down the usual suspects; the client and the computer. This has the normal fun associated with trying to figure out where the cat started to throw up after discovering the trail in bare feet.

The most commonly useless question I am asked when attempting to restore order and peace to the network is "Why do you think it happened?"

Frankly my dear, I don't give a posterior of a Rattus. I honestly don't care why your wallpaper changed from cute puppy to inappropriate and scarring image. I lose no sleep upon the mystery of the missing desktop icons. My brain is not preyed upon by questions on the re-ordering of your favorites.

I do my job, which is undo what you did, doing what you shouldn't, which now keeps you from doing what you are supposed to.

Every once in a while I do care though. Once in a while.

A year and a half ago I was called out to a computer that was, in their own words, "Typing on its own."

Riiight. Was this before or after the pixies and elves made themselves familiar with your bottle of hooch in your desk drawer?

I went over immediately as the suspicion was a virus. I arrived to save the day and ran the client through the usual battery of questions. What was the last thing you did? What were you trying to do? Can you tie your own shoelaces? Innie or Outie?

I sat down and tried to re-create the problem. No more maddening a task there is but an inconsistent problem with a computer. If you can break it again, you can fix it.

Nothing happened. I was about to help myself to their stash in the desk when I uttered "Looks like nothing is happening."

And it typed. On its own.

"What the... There it is again! And again! Those are all words but that is one crazy sentence."

I tried at least a dozen of my best incantations and hexes on the beast (The computer). Nothing. It continued to mock me with what looked like the screenplay plot of the second half of 2001 Space Odyssey.

It was only during a perplexed pause that the answer became clear: The computer typed when I talked.

Somehow the client had managed to activate the "Voice-to-Text" option on their computer. This was an occasion to find out how on earth they had done that.

I could not think of a better practical joke than that one, and I had to know how to do it to an unsuspecting co-worker.

A windowbar into my soul

During my career I have been many things: Phone answering service, programmer, guru, idiot, scapegoat, the guy who drank all the coffee. It is not frequent that I am accused of sharing my inner thoughts, except when I forget to put the conference call on mute when saying "pfffft!".

Rarely do you get a glimpse into the soul of another human being than when they are creative. For example, many people look at "Voice of Fire" and say it captures the essence of Enron.

I know this all too well. I do some acting, directing, and on occasion, writing for the Church that I attend. I am hardly nervous with acting, I have slight anxiety when I'm directing, and full Grand Mal Seizures when something I've written is preformed.

It's because I can't hide behind the director or the script as I can when you don't like my acting or direction. If people like my writing, then they like me. I would rather play patty-cake with a cheese grater than have my work disliked.

Thankfully most of my artistic creations in my day job consist of spreadsheets or instructional pages. It is hard to feel hurt when someone doesn't like your email. It's not my problem they don't know how to read sarcasm in my emoticons or plain html.

|:-(.

(that's Bert about to go to the doctor to have that mole looked at)

Except when I'm programming.

I am a notoriously sloppy programmer. I am the only one I know who could make a Gordian knot out of spaghetti code.

Couple it with the usual project planning which has the predictability of a texting driver and you end up with 'artifacts' that reveal my secret names for parts of a program.

I worked on one large redesign which had me program about 25 forms in MS Access 97. For the less geeky that is akin to running the Iditarod with a lone, maladroit chihuahua.

It was a phased release, which is fancy talk for we didn't complete it, we just debugged it until we gave up. Each time I went to the clients I would be surprised at what they could find. Who knew you could insert a colon into a button. I've heard it happening the other way round though...

Then one day someone turned to me in testing and said

Them: "What is bigfreakinform?"
Me: "Huh?"
Them: "bigfreakinform. It says it right there."
Me: "Gee, it was supposed to say 'Good morning'. I'll get around to that."

And for the next 4 years that form which truly WAS a big freaking form held it's name. A small windowbar into my soul. From then on I tried to limit the use of cuss words in my naming of modules.

Playing mind games with the kids

Kids are funny.

I'm not sure where the urge originates, but I love to play practical jokes on my children for my own amusement. It's not uncommon, half of the parents I know do it. Specifically the male half.

I remember my father hiding on us when we were camping. Quality parenting for us included lying in wait for three children walking back from the outhouse in the dark, and then springing out with a snarl like a bear with a fur wedgie.

I continue that wonderful tradition, attempting to set my offspring's emotional development back a few years for a few good laughs.

Somehow though the kids are FAR funnier when they are not trying to be. And I'm the only one not laughing.

Last week we were playing a board game with the kids. We do this to:
- Teach them rules
- Improve their social skills
- Provide us the opportunity to say "Sit still" more often

The game in question was an intellectual game involving questions on various subjects from grades 1 through 6. It reflects badly on us as parents that we did not win said game. In my defense the dice were loaded. In my wife's defense she doesn't think that practicing mental math is a "cool and fun" pastime. WhatEver!

One question was asked of my bright 6 year old. She can read at levels beyond her grade, and she is no slouch in any of the other subjects. The only areas of difficulty for her are legibility and silence. Can anyone say 'Doctor'?

The question was "What is in a camel's hump."

I repressed my laughter so well I'm sure it became a stone somewhere in my abdomen. My bright eyed little wonder pondered it for a moment and then said:

"The passenger's luggage?"

We decided to give her older sister a shot. A good opportunity to let her shine. She didn't.

Older daughter: "Poop"?

These kids must not have seen a healthy camel in their short lives. Its the sort of idea that intelligent design could not have come up with, although I know a few committees who would have. I was still trying to wrap my brain around an animal with a built in flesh-trunk, or worse, a fecal backpack.

The usual guess of water was thrown out there before we could correct them with the right answer of "Fat".

I think I may need to have a chat with them on basic animal anatomy. All I need them saying is "Is that a fanny-pack you're wearing, or are you storing up water for a long march through the desert?"

All Hallows Even Dress Up

Last week we celebrated Halloween. We conducted the annual ceremonies including:

- Ritual disembowelment and mutilation of a gourd-like squash.
- Poisoning the local populace with unhealthy amounts of sucrose.
- Presuming alternate appearances to mislead others in regards to our identity.

I put off picking a costume until Wednesday last week. I was discussing my lack of a disguise with a co-worker and I loved the idea of every costume suggestion until I considered my locks. It will be some year in the future that I'll be Buster Bluth.

The problem comes for me in that I have a fine mane of hair. I'm a man in my 30's with a full scalp of follicles. And that visible, dead protein filament is a source of some pride. And warmth.

Realizing that I had few options left I began to muse on people who were famous with my hair:

Fabio
Michael Landon
MacGyver

And there was my winner. I thought it was cool that I MacGyver'd my costume by wearing a leather jacket and carrying around a plastic bag of miscellany.

Now it is time to divulge my ignorance (in this area). I have NEVER watched a MacGyver episode. All I know of him is what I saw on YouTube and whatever Marge Simpson's sisters said about him. To be honest I thought the female obsession with him ended there.

To quote Obi Wan Kenobi: "I was wrong."

I wore the costume to work. People asked what I was. I told the witty "MacGyver'd my own costume" story. Then, if they were female, they confessed their infatuation with the character. To me.

Awkward.

Really, what do you do with that? In my case it amounts to weird pauses and unsuccessful attempts at changing the subject. Clearly they are NOT obsessed with me, but I just managed to dress up as one of their forgotten desires from the 90's. Dang dude, not cool. Not cool at all.

If you are ever caught in that situation, don't try to guess their costume, al la:

Me: "Yeah, MacGyver... so... did you dress up as a participant in 'What not to wear?'"
Them: "Jerk."

I'm thinking Fabio would have been a safer bet. Maybe I'll get a goose mask for next year.

Sometimes it's hard to feel sorry for them.

Part of raising children is instilling into them proper use of the language and good etiquette. Traditionally this is done by the mother, particularly after the father utters 3 of the 7 words you shan't say on TV. In my defense I had spilled scalding coffee on myself.

We are a family that does not swear. This means we are allowed to say Hell, Damn, Crap, and Jeez providing they are not in the same conversation. Words of greater offense can be said very quietly as often as you like as long as the kids don't hear it.

There are a few strategies on why you don't teach your kids their first F-bomb in the first 5 years of life. Mainly it has to do with their total lack of social awareness and restraint, especially when at your parent's house for dinner. The answer to "Where did you learn that kind of language" should never include the words Mommy, Daddy, bathroom or bedroom.

If you do have what could pass for a fit of Tourette's and the kids hear you you can cover it off by not making note of it. It helps to distract them, but be careful. I think I've conditioned my kids that they get to go shopping for candy every time someone hits their finger with a hammer.

If they do repeat the new, unabridged vocabulary do not do the following:

Gasp
Faint
Say "Don't use that effin language"
Laugh

The last one is the hardest for me. The danger is if they clue in that the word gets a reaction they will make all adults their puppets with the gratuitous use of four letter words. Oh, they know how to play us, which is why we must not teach them the tune.

Tonight my younger daughter had a sliver in her finger. This was the usual trauma involving her choice of surgeon to remove the lumber (measuring 1 cm long). She picked Mom.

The delicate procedure performed, a layer of antiseptic ointment and tourniquet applied, the little person was carried off to bed since the anesthetic of "Sit still or else" hadn't worn off yet.

I was saying goodnight to her when she presented her injury for a fatherly kiss in order to speed it's healing. In doing so she flipped me the bird.

Must... Not... Laugh.

If this kid figured out that by presenting the correct appendage manifests into adult hilarity or fury there would be no end to it. I could see myself boarding up the rear windows in the van to prevent retribution from passing motorists.

So if my kid signs to you "F you very much", please just smile and say "Yes, that must have hurt."

Why I'm not allowed at parties anymore.

How did it get this way?

In my life as a technologist I am asked many things:

"Is someone paying you to dress that poorly?"
"Should I move in with the guy if he hasn't moved out from cheating on his wife?"
"Why won't it do the thing?"

Yeah. Not fun. Being the person I am I tune them out and whenever their voice goes up at the end of the sentence I have one answer:

Buy an apple.

When people find out I'm a geek they ask me what sort of technical device they should get. Or they take it as an opportunity to complain about vague computer problems with descriptions that defy my capability to provide a straight answer. Either way they want one thing: free stuff, or good stuff for cheap.

When I respond to any random query with purchase an apple the usual reply is

Them: "I can't afford one. What would you get?"
Me: "An apple. I would save up for it. This is on the assumption I'm you and thus have no talent with computers."
Them: "Can't you just get the music/movies/laptops/mp3 player/phone to do the same thing but pay less?"
Me: "Yes. Yes I can. It's called 4 years of college put to good use freeloading."
Them: "Can't you teach me? Or better yet, just do it for me?"
Me: "So let me get this straight, you want an iphone/ipod/macbook but you don't want to pay for it? Have you considered theft?"

That is why I'm not allowed at parties anymore. That and I make fun of any beer that doesn't have the calorie content of a loaf of bread. Labbatts Blew alright.

Life is a game

I am frequently looking for creative ways to teach my children life lessons. This is because the little stumps don't listen to me when I speak in a normal, calm tone. I sometimes wonder if they are playing a long term practical joke so I shout at everyone I meet.

In a duel attempt to be 'fun loving' and 'intentional' I decided I would play a board game with them last week. We played "The Game of Life".

My main goals were simple:

1) Have fun with the kids.
2) Teach them some basic money management.

It turns out "The Game of Life" has little bearing on reality. The wages:bills ratio isn't reflective of our mortgage, there is no "You're addicted to World Of Warcraft, you lose your job and family due to neglect" square, and apparently driving over a mountain nets you $300,000.

One difference in our strategies was that both kids took pride in having kids of their own. I was reminded of Cletus calling out his kids on the Simpsons. Whereas I was sending them a subtle message of being happily married with no kids, and my wife liked to sit in the back while I drove. And I drove a Rolls Royce.

In hopes to aid my older daughter in counting and money management I had her be the banker. This alone thwarted both goals.

She easily forgot WHERE the money was coming from and going to. A quick recap, from my perspective:

"No honey, you can't take your sisters money that she owes the bank and keep in in your pile. That is larceny."
"Darling, we pay our bills from our own money, not the bank. That is misappropriation."
"You little thief, you gave yourself $300,000 when it said you have won $30,000."
"You're not supposed to skim unless you give yourself backdated stock options!!!!"

It reminded me of Enron, or perhaps Arrested Development. Suffice to say the game ended early by a cataclysmic death to all of us by an "Act of Dad" and thus, an early bedtime.

Clearly Life is a game I'm bound to lose, but maybe injustice will prevail and the little miscreant will earn her fortune by stealing from the rich and giving to herself. Then I can live in her basement and play World of Warcraft.

Of Fortune Cookies and Preemptive Strikes

This past week we had a furnace failure. When the heat doesn't work in the winter my wife becomes quite industrious. She commandeers all the blankets on the bed to conserve warmth.

As a technician I love to watch other technicians work. Part of it is intellectual curiosity to see the inner workings of someone elses job. The exception to that was when my wife had c-sections with our children. Ignorace == bliss.

The other reason I watch is so I get my turn annoying someone to distraction by hanging around them while they work. I'm polite enough not to say "My furnace doesn't like me" or "I'm just not good with central heating." That would be silly.

He finished the job in 5 minutes. A bit of steel wool and rubbing and the fire just lit up right away. I gladly paid him his money and then bragged about it on facebook.

I'm hoping the previous paragraph gets taken out of context. He He.

Anyway, I did not complain that the job was done quickly. I understand that for him it takes 5 minutes it would take me all day, and I would endanger my household, void a warranty and probably dent the wall in frustration.

In my job I also "just know" how to fix something. Then I get blamed for that knowledge. Yesterday I fixed two devices simply by being in proximity to them.

The client asked (foolishly) "What did you do?"
Me: "I just talked to you and it worked."
Them: "Why wouldn't it work for me."
Me: "Did you try talking to the device sternly?"

As I progress in my profession I become better at fixing things this way. I have now taken to printing lists of commonly asked questions and handing out laminated copies.

Them: "What is the new website address?"
Me: "Look in your pocket."
Them: "Oh, hey, it's on this card."

Them: "Hey do you have the number for..."
Me: "Turn to your right, grab a card, go and read it."

The line between co-dependency and efficiency is kind of blurry. I like to see it as a cross between a fortune cookie and a preemptive strike. I'm not worried, yet. If I start to incorporate "Don't call an ex after you've been drinking." please stop me.

Introducing the Neuman

I dislike talking about sports.

I used to be a jock. An athlete of some repute, I won awards throughout high school in all the sports that didn't have anyone else participating.

Sometime between the mid 90's and now I have moved from fan to derisive opponent. I think it has something to do with the fact that if all professional sporting events were canceled the only negative impact would be that the Rhino party would receive more votes as Leaf fans tried to find something else to support.

To be fair I also dislike discussing the following subjects:
The weather.
What day of the week it is.
Relationships with low emotional investment.
Celebrities.
Puppies.

As a result I like to discuss things more cerebral in nature, like the benefits of a particular programming language or the difficulties in pursuing world peace. Unfortunately all of these discussions degrade to one of two things.

One end is the predictable "Godwin's Law", which states: "As an online discussion grows longer, the probability of a comparison involving Nazis or Hitler approaches 1."

The prevention of comparing SSL to the SS (the SSSSSL?) is achieved by announcing, out loud, "Godwin". It's a geeky punch-buggy to the brain, without the satisfaction, or whining, of actually hitting.

The other eventual degradation is, well, jokes told in Grade 7. By boys.

We have come up with a new law in order to make our workplace one of less chance of harassment, embarrassment and one where we find new parts of the human anatomy to compare projects. It is called "Neuman's Law", which states "As a discussion between nerds grows longer, the probability they will make crude innuendo approaches 1."

We named it after Alfred E. Newman, of MAD magazine. We opted not to use the term "Heffner" as it would self-Neumanate. The result of the new law has shortened most of our conversations from a session of Parliament to 3 sentences.

The benefit is that most of us guess what the next joke would be, so we call out "Neuman" and then giggle at what we could have said. Our maturity is still pre-high school, but at least we're quiet about it.

Unlike those blasted Hab fans...

Polite Society

Polite society can be defined as a group of people who care too much for their appearance to make an example of yours, yet don't care enough to overcome their reservations to save you future shame.

Children are not polite society.

Underdone humans are so impressed with their ability to observe something that they will not hesitate to make it known to all people within earshot. This is candid when other kids do it and mortifying if your own are the ones speaking.

It is a new loop around the nearest star and as such I have taken it on to be in better shape. My goal: 100 miles by the end of the month. Of running, not driving.

Week one went well as I didn't quit. I whined, moaned, lurched, slipped and cursed my way through several runs. Unfortunately due to busy schedules and incapably slow speed of my pace I hardly saw my family as a result.

I would arrive in the door limping and wheezing like Darth Vader on a bender. My family would be in the final stages of leaving for the children's evening activity. The final stages involve my wife badgering, berating, nagging and chasing the children out the door.

In an attempt to make the most of the 15 waking minutes I have with my children I chose to stretch within earshot of them. I strolled to the sink to get a drink, but received my fill before I arrived.

I had taken off my shirt as I was warm and didn't think it THAT inappropriate. I was at least half clothed. And I really wasn't thinking clearly due to what sounded like a partially collapsed lung.

My younger child turned to me, pointed at my bellybutton and said:

Her: "Daddy, you need to get rid of that."
Me: "What, my belly button?"
Her: "No, your fat."

Ok, so I am carrying a few extra pounds of blubber for the long winter. Apparently the 'humane comment' switch isn't active by default.

Me: "Ummmmm."
Her: "It's probably because of those."

She is now pointing at my 'man breasts'.

Me: "Huh? Wha..."
Her: "Well, it's ok, because Grandpa has a baby elephant."

My Dad, the man who taught me how to repress swears and put out fires with diesel fuel has a cute saying. When allusion to his "Molson Muscle" is made he says it's his "Baby elephant, only the trunk has come out so far."

This whole conversation managed to remove my pride, my dignity and any hope of reasoning with that child. It was a flurry of statements more hideously misdirected than the last. Which statement to counter first? I recovered enough to say:

Me: "I think Mom is waiting for you."

I'll let her Mom have the conversations on body image and how men can't carry to term baby elephants. Until then I think I'll only bring that one out to company I don't want to be invited back to.

"I am lame"

Children don't make you proud, they simply reveal your overwhelming insecurities and evoke a reciprocal coping mechanism.

Before I had kids I made few efforts to change other people into copies of me. I've discovered that you can't change other people, unless you work in a hospital and then it's an ucky job.

I have tried to adjust the likes/dislikes category of my wife. I was subtle by buying her books with positive, motivating messages that I thought she needed to hear but would punch me out for saying. Suffice to say that the gifts she gives me are a LOT better now that I've stopped that.

With your children it is another matter entirely. You DO make them into who they are going to be. And as their little brains develop they reject your weird reality and take off with their friends.

Until those difficult years (which will not affect my offspring because I am in denial) I am ruthlessly vicariously living through their enjoyment of fine arts. Which means I watch Star Wars with them.

Over the holidays we were able to enjoy some good old traditional tv-show marathons. The first one was "Top Gear". If you are not one of the billion people who watch this show (literal, not exaggerated number) it is a British driving program with dry humour and brilliant videography and directing.

I selfishly put the program on and enjoyed show after show. My wife joined in because for some peculiar reason she also likes the show. I think it might be Richard Hammond, but back to my state of denial.

My kids both began to watch. They enjoyed it enough not to whine about Scooby-Doo being on another channel. The only show the one did nag about was: MYTHBUSTERS! And it turns out there was a 4 hour marathon of that program next.

Yes, my older daughter LOVES Mythbusters. So do I. Science. Explosions. It's chemistry class without all the math. And sprinkler systems.

It didn't occur to me that this might have a problem until after the kids were in bed. A news program had a person being censored, repeatedly. During this we heard the unmistakable footfall of a child thinking they were sneaky enough to come downstairs to watch TV after bedtime.

Me: "What are you doing down here honey?"
Her: "I thought you were watching Mythbusters without me."

Instead of inspiring my children to love awesome shows for the intellectual, artistic merit and cool factor that their Dad enjoys them, I have instead fostered a Pavlovian response that will eventually lead them to watching Jerry Springer and listening to Rap music.

My advice to parents is this: You are lame. Repeat that until it no longer hurts. And enjoy the time where your children are oblivious to the fact and will still watch TV and movies with you.