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.

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.