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.

For once it's not me.

It's nice to not be the one at fault. The struggle to set yourself above your peers is exhausting, or that's what the successful people tell me. It sure is easier when people auto-Darwinate their social standing by insulting someone who is present, or being the one to crack it off.

Our dinner table is a place where once a day we gather as a family to nag the children to sit nicely. Occasionally we actually interact there too. I discourage this because my younger daughter's idea of conversation is similar to having a discussion with a book on tape. The difference being people who record books have to take breaths.

Last week my older daughter was interrupted by the small pink noise generator. She took offense to this and exclaimed:

Child: "That is bloody annoying."

I thought it was a creative, effective and cute way to put her sister in her place. My wife corrected me by correcting her before I could applaud.

Wife: "Don't use that kind of language."

It doesn't help that the kid listens to it when practicing for a role in Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol". She also hears it in the lyrics of the sea shanties I sing in lieu of lullabies. Hey, I think it's sweet and appropriate to guide my younglings to dreamland with songs of drinking and womanizing.

So of course a few days later my wife and I were working in the kitchen together. And after making a small mistake my wife decried:

Wife: "Bloody Heck"

And the child who had just walked into the kitchen replied:

Child: "Mom, that isn't nice language to use."

At this point I put down the knife and choked on my own laughter. My wife didn't want me encouraging the children to lecture her so she said:

Wife: "Dear, pull yourself together."

Child: "Yes, pull yourself together Mom."

For once it wasn't me. And because those moments are so rare I value them like a supper where no-one wiggles in their chair.

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?"

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.

A time and a place for everything

I occasionally muse about our capability as a species to communicate, and it amazes me.

The passing of information and ideas between ourselves is tremendously complex. And no where else does it manifest it's infinite intricacies than in a committed, long term relationship, or life sentence as it's sometimes known.

First, are you speaking the same language:

Me: Then the compiler threw a segfault and I was all "duh, this isn't interpreted code".
My wife: Am I supposed to laugh now or keep nodding my head?

Second, are you understanding each others intent:

My wife: I feel tired.
Me: Then exercise, that should get the blood flowing.
My wife: I didn't want you to try to fix me.
Me: Then stop complaining about being broken.

A few weeks ago I was reminded of another way to misunderstand each other and then not talk for hours on end.

The fact that communication rhymes with expectation comes as no surprise. I expect communication to be succinct, functional and direct. Examples would be:

"Kids: Bed. Now."
"Man want food."
"Fire burn."
"You: Love. Now."

3 out of 4 times it works well. 25% of the time I'm lucky if I'm just disappointed.

My wife on the other hand does like to chat, often. Most times this is great because it gives me a chance to ignore the annoying people at my job so I can take important phone calls from home.

We have come to terms with when to not be in contact. If I am directing a drama, she won't call me unless necessary. If I am busy programming, she will avoid me to prevent hearing about bugs I've run into, or worse, want to brag about overcoming.

But when I'm camping?

I was camping in a semi-remote lake a few weeks ago. The fishing was a lot of work involving portaging a zodiac half a kilometer, followed by another half kilometer paddle through a shallow creek. At points a friend and I had to get out of the boat and walk so it could float over sandbars.

I carry a cellphone with me in case of the following:

1. Medical emergency with those camping.
2. Family emergency from those at home.

So when my phone began to ring while I stood knee deep in silty water I feared the worst. When I saw that it was my home my heart ran cold. What tragedy must have transpired to interrupt my one annual weekend of wilderness solitude?

Me: "Hello?"
My wife: "Hi hon. How is everything."
Me: "Ummm, wet. And growing dark. And we haven't eaten in 7 hours. What's wrong?"
My wife: "You know the kid's laptop? I can't shut it down. How do you do that?"

Yes. Tech support up a creek without a paddle. Or a boat as it was dragged away by my buddy who rightfully wanted to eat. I gave succinct, direct, functional instructions, then hung up as soon as I could.

Clearly my wife expected me to be available to chat and overcome problematic beeping electronics. I expected not to. In her defense it IS a Linux laptop that if in the "I'm a Mac, I'm a PC" adds would be cast as Frankenstein's monster.

In the end all was made well as no one was hurt and I was only the object of ridicule for a few hours.

That is because of another communication tool I've learned. Always end a phone call with your wife with "I love you".

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.

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...

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.

What I learned on my Labour day weekend

I am not a poster boy for our education system.

I can accept it as truism that I fail to be a poster boy for anything positive. If there were a "Soldering hot nerds" calendar I wouldn't make it. Even if it was a "365.25 geeks to put the lambda in your calculus" daily desk calendar.

Enough dwelling upon my inadequacies in a public forum. You might confuse this with a blog.

I don't learn very well from reading. I know this because I don't read manuals before breaking anything I receive. My learning style is a twisted combination of experience and observation.

I learn well from direct experience (a Bologna sandwich will not go away on its own if left in a locker) as well as observed (informing a drill sergeant that you're overqualified for his platoon is not advisable).

My marriage is no exception. I know now not to blame her mood on her feminine wiles, especially if she is just about to. Other things I pick up on by not endangering my life.

I visited my parents this weekend. They had just picked an amount of blueberries that can only be described as a bushel. It was like a Vaccinium version of the 5 loaves and 2 fish. I know this because I helped them cull the proverbial bottomless bucketful.

I say proverbial because I am yet to be satisfied with that description in a literal sense. Some restaurants SAY they have a bottomless glass of pop, but when it arrives I am disappointed to find the cylinder open on only one end. Bah.

Nonetheless as we picked through items ranging from 1cm to 1nm in diameter, attempting to pick the stems off with all the accuracy of a croquet match played using a backhoe to hold the mallet. During this time I had the joy of conversing with my parents.

When you have been a couple for longer than a few months you begin to attempt to finish each other's sentences. My wife does well at this. I do whenever I'm impatient. If I have a minute to spare I have fun.

Her: "Do you remember last week when I found that... that..."
Me: "Elephant in the gutter?"
Her: "No."
Me: "Triscut box attempting a coup of the bowls? The bowl of coup?"
Her: "NO!"
Me: "My directions on the systematic elimination of anyone named Terry? It had 'Culling all Terrys' on the cover."

I get a bonus if I can make her laugh. The bonus is she doesn't try to hurt me.

My parents, being married more than 40 years now, also answer each others sentences. I made a comment about how one of my children had been well behaved at something. My mother reflected on her own journey with fondness:

Mom: "Children are a joy..."
Dad: "That is short lived."

From her reaction he got that one wrong.

So I didn't learn anything new about HOW to finish my wife's questions, but I know WHERE I learned that behavour.

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.

Programming your kids

A few weeks ago a posted a note on how to program your spouse. Although no one has yet written a compiler for marriage I will move on to the next project. That way you are always seen as an innovator and never have to deal with the repercussions of your own bad ideas in person.

At least that is all I have learned from senior management and cabinet minister shuffling.

I realized today that you can, in fact, put parenting into syntax. Here is my attempt to rationalize the random actions over the past 8 years.

First off, as opposed to marriage, there ARE commands that can be issued. Unfortunately your snot nosed interpreter will confuse the first 7 entries as queries and return null. For example:

Dad$:> Hey, you, the one with the poor clothing choice and weird head to body ratio! \\This is the interrupt
Dad$:> Clean up toys \\Enter command.
Dad$:> !Timeout!
Dad$:> Clean up toys /Now \\The /Now option raises the process priority by .01
Dad$:> !Timeout!

Most parents of children over the age of 12 months have actually scripted this whole process into this neat little program:

Function GetTheKidToDoSomething(Demand)
  Do while KidIsIgnoringYou
    Issue Demand
    Issue Random Statement(HollowThreatsArray)
  Loop
Return (UpsetFace, Tears)

On the other hand as a parent you are a runtime system. The child has this figured out from day one and issues interrupts at a frequency of 7 Hz above your clock rate.

A quick note on clock rates. Clock rates are the number of things you can do a second, and are measured in Hz. A Hz is measured by how many eye twitches you get when the little wonder says "Mom?!" when you are on the phone. For example, my 6 year old has a clock rate that exceeds the next CRAY computer.

Variables:
Boolean - Yes/No. This is never used as the child will always return an excuse as a string.
Integer - Useful only in countdowns before you issue the command 'Discipline'.
String - Parent limit: 128 characters. 5 year old limit: 10^47 characters or until they pass out for want of breath.

Conditional Execution:
Conditional syntax usually follows the format of IF, THEN, OR ELSE followed by a loop. For example:
IF you don't sit still THEN I'll say sit still OR ELSE and repeat myself in a minute.

Case notation is not supported as their little primitive brains are full of Dora the Explorer and they can't handle more than one option.

Loops:
Loops are used excessively in parenting as shown in the script above. Once you become a parent you enter the "Parent Loop" which contains all other functions. The parent loop looks like:

FOR the rest of your life
  Love them
  Feed them
  Clothe them
  Fight with them to get them to bed
  Clean up the mess they leave behind 
     (or they leave FROM their behind)
  Worry about them
  Worry about your sanity
LOOP

Functions:
All functions in parenting are defined by their excessive looping and re-use of the string "NOW, I really mean it!" Functions are typically handed off to the spouse process with the statement "You deal with them".

Hopefully that sheds some light on parenting. If not, read a book. I hear they are really good at inspiring short term hope.

Can't type... so... difficulty... candid.

I am an educated man.

Not that the fact gains me any respect from my children. They still presume I'm incapable of investigating UNDER the covers for contraband books at bedtime.

I took 4 years of college. Interestingly enough the course I finished with was a 3 year diploma. At least I managed to get a few good stories out of it.

I learned a few things for my thousands invested. Sadly most I can't apply in my daily life, like:
- Flaring a Cessna 172 at 10 feet produces a loud bang followed by many little bounces.
- A highlighter can make an aggravating squeaking noise if pressed hard enough on a textbook.
- You can tie up a classmates telnet session for 5 minutes by piping large binaries to them.

One lesson I didn't learn was tact. That would be obvious from my demeanor, so let me clarify. I didn't learn Business tact.

This past week I sent a congratulatory email to a colleague. I send these whenever:
1. They did something brilliant worthy of accolade.
2. They did something bonehead worthy of scorn.
3. They were promoted.
4. I need something from them and can't find another way of softening them up.

This one was not a number 2. Honest praise is easy. Tactful celebration takes thought.

I don't like to lie. There is no indicator for going too far when you do. The odds of sounding like a supercharged hoover are too high for me.

They never taught that in college. How to congratulate without sucking or sucking up. The writing process was as such:

Dear so and so:

- Congrats on being awarded the position of...
- Congratulations on defeating your unworthy adversaries...
- Kudos for seizing opportunity like a viper in an outhouse...
- Congratulations on getting your new job. It must feel good to finally look up a different pair of pants on the corporate ladder...

I was stuck for 20 minutes finding the right words. In the end I was happy with how I managed to phrase it. I think next time I'll let Hallmark do my fibbing for me and send a dang card with "please transfer monies to my department". That or subcontract to the 419'rs for email authoring.

Things I observe at the gym.

Within a culture there are many havens of special protocol. I would be petrified to go abroad for fear that any other country might be as bat-turd crazy as us.

For those who haven't had the pleasure of a mixed weight room allow me to point out a few items of behavior:

The obvious:

1. Always wear a shirt, unless you're the biggest person there.
2. Always put your weights back, unless you're the biggest person there.
3. Clean your equipment when done, unless...

The subtle:

4. Someone is CLEARLY using a machine and is taking a rest between sets, and you want to use it, you MUST ask:
"Hey, can I fit a set in there?"
The answer MUST be:
"Yes" (especially if you're not the biggest there)
5. You may grunt or moan or scream providing it is on the last 3 reps of the last set. Hearing a 250 pound man scream like a little girl for half an hour while his face resembles a tomato, not cool man. Not cool.
6. Don't stare. No matter what the freak of nature looks like, don't stare.
7. Don't look at your muscle tone in the mirror, even in the change room, unless you're SURE you won't be caught. Otherwise old tomato-head will point and laugh.

No one ever tells you these rules, you pick them up REALLY quickly. Something about survival instinct. Here are two more I've recently observed.

8. Play hard music. Intense painful music. Hair metal is perfect if the screamer is on his 'roids again.

Lately the gym has been tuned into the 'soft rock' station. Nothing breaks a set of muscle tearing bicept curls like George Michael. I nearly died doing the bench press when Tiny Dancer came on. My last words would have been "What the BLANK is that!"

9. Men and women project. Men work all muscle groups above the waist. That's about it. We need a bench press, something to do curls with, and some odd back exercise to prevent us from becoming a hunchback. Our dream is to become 200lbs of muscle on a pair of toothpicks.

Women will work their legs on those machines I expect were liberated from an ob/gyn office when the Soviet Union collapsed. I cringe to even consider what cruel mind contrived a means to work those muscle groups.

This is funny to me because when men and women express what part of the body they most appreciate in the opposite gender:
Girls like guys with great legs.
Guys, well, it's obvious.

You WOULD think we would have figured this out and at least balanced out the workout, but I don't know a guy who does, and the women are never asking to cut in on my sets. I would know, I would have to put the weight back down when they were done.

So I've decided to try those human pretzel makers, but only when I'm the biggest one at the gym.

In other words I'm planning to work out alone.

Surprises, discoveries and funny

Parenthood asks a lot of you. It demands you to love something unconditionally despite the fact it has no manners or bowel controls when you meet it.

In return you end up asking a lot of things yourself. Like "Who left the crayon in the car?", "How do you get wax off of upholstery?" and the ever classic "Where did she learn that?"

Kids surprise you. Not in a "Here's a cold beer and a copy of Firefly" way, but in a "I thought that was impossible for such a small body to produce so much in volume (Decibel, liquid or solid, take your pick).

Tonight my younger daughter wandered in to show us something. Not unusual, I'm typically grateful that they can bring it to us, and not require "clean up in aisle 3".

Overreaction in 3,2,1...

She was holding out her finger to her mother. My wife tried to crawl over the back of the couch. She pushed the child's hand away and growled "Get that away from my face!"

The kid was offering the last smell of her garlic mashed potatoes. I didn't ask because it would result in a long anecdote about why my children don't know how to behave for their mother.

My wife calmed down when she realized it was food. As the small person with the gap in her teeth meandered back to the kitchen my wife leaned over to me and whispered

"She has been sticking her finger (whisper whisper) and getting me to smell it all day."

Oh. My. Word.

To reveal the mindset of the geek father I will use the Terminator dialog algorithm interface:

Response:
1. Why did you fall for it all day?
2. I don't smell bleach. Do you know what CLEAN is?
3. Segfault.
4. She takes after you.

Sadly number 4 was the best answer of the lot. I don't know where she learned it, or how to make her stop.

Oh yes, and soon after I heard her sweet little sing-song voice call out, announcing for the families curiosity and entertainment:

"There's a log in the toilet."

My six year old has discovered poop, and it is funny. I'll confront this head on and run away immediately instead of delaying the inevitable surprise. Anyone want to go fishing?

Smooth Operator

Relationships are built on communication. This should be a truism because I've never had a relationship with anyone I don't know about.

When my wife and I were first dating we would chat incessantly on the phone. Most of my relationships with girls involved a fair amount of this, I'm guessing so they didn't have to look at me while doing so.

I don't know anyone who didn't spend long conversations on the telephone with their "one and only, until someone better comes along". I would speculate that the generations before the phone didn't have relationships and dealt with this by arranged marriage.

Actually, I expect that is why Shakespeare was so good at poetry and prose. Our modern day bard could be expected to have this as a sonnet:

"'Oh my love',
he said to her,
cooing into the handset like a dove ordering pizza.
'I miss you already. I miss you the most.'

Her response
transcending words
struck a harmonious chord with his Aorta. 'Nah Ahhh.'
'I miss you more.'

Soul searching
like someone grasping,
reaching for change with a hole in their pocket.
He begins a ritual that will proclaim his hidden emotions.
'Ok, I need to go. You hang up first.'"

The other day this glorious woman who I am too lucky to be married to called me at work. I like that. It's much better than angry people who AREN'T related to me.

Me: "Tech support and darkside therapy. Are your kids out of control AND destroying your ultimate weapon? Do you suffer from rage and vengeance issues from some unresolved parental attachment? Don't give in to your anger, let's talk it out. I'm here for you."
Her: "Hi hon, I just called...(noise in the background sounding like my kids re-enacting Ben-Hur) can you hold on?"
Me: "No? (No response, she is already gone)"

Usually when someone calls and immediately puts me on hold, I return the favour and go do something else. But if it's your spouse you would best consider being good and attentive while she is not there.

I understand that that this was a good reason to call me to not talk. The wee miscreants were, in fact, imperiling each other's lives by fighting while she was on the phone.

Still I must reflect on those days when we would say nothing at all to each other for hours, but actually be making intelligible noise with our mouths.

Geek vs Geek

Geeks are profoundly insecure. They often live it out in fashion failure and the lording of information over others. Our motto may as well be: "I may be homely and weak, but at least I'm smart."

I was reminded of our bottomless limit of self-esteem issues recently when I heard of a server outage. Server outages shouldn't happen since proper maintenance and log checking should detect any issues before the little people start yelling that their 'Facebook' isn't working.

In response to the server failing I was told that the 'SWAT Team' was dispatched.

???!

I like to believe I'm just as more important as the next person, but this is a new level of delusion of having an interesting life. I envisioned full-body pocket protectors, extendable USB batons, shotguns loaded with compressed air.

I'm hoping that this idea will catch on in other businesses and we can pit them against each other in a no-filesystems barred nerd-off. The 'Geek Squad' vs the SysAdminTerminators.

As for me, I'll just continue endeavoring to make my job as boring as possible. Nothing says "I'm competent" better than this conversation:

Them: My computer just shows me a blue background with something about a Kernel Handler error.
Me: Ok, here is a spare until I fix that one. You DID back up your data on to the server, right?
Them: No.
Me: Then this is a job for, Super Hero IT! (I'd get a tshirt with the acronym because it would be fitting for the moment)

Is it in your DNA, or just in your head?

Are phobias genetic? Do we inherit them as a instinct to survive the attack of small rodents or hairy arachnids? Or is it a learned overreaction of repulsion that we haven't dealt with since we're still in denial of how poor of drivers we really are.

A few days ago we visited my parents house. Typically its a nice time of relaxation, comfort and love. This time it was rated PG due to mild peril.

Before coming down my Dad cautioned me that "Your younger one will have a roommate." Trying to sound like a good father I asked who would be co-habitating with the 6 year old.

"A bat"

"Oh"

I had a flashback of the paralyzing terror that overcame my mother and one of my sisters the last time we had a bat in our belfry. It was comic to see their eyes bulging with fear whilst hidden between a nearly closed door. This is why a fear of fish is desirable. If one breaks into MY house I'll just wait for it to die.

Still attempting to say things that good fathers do I warned my children about it like this:

"Kids, which of you wants to be a vampire?"

Apparently neither had a problem with a mouse with aspirations of grandeur whipping around their room and squeaking. I wondered how well that would fare when the time came.

As we were unpacking our chiropteric guest made it's entrance. I had no idea grown women could disappear with such skill. I now suspect my wife to be part ninja. She silently whisked herself into a bedroom, and the only announcement of her departure was the door slamming shut.

I carefully tracked our non-avian flight risk with a fish net I won at a fishing derby when Russia could still be spelled USSR. I managed to corner it in my old bedroom. While I was stalking the room and repressing the urge to slur my r's into w's my children demanded to see the bat. They insisted on helping look for it.

Their mother had not emerged from a bedroom yet and would occasionally yell "DO you have it YET?!" I was greatly tempted to lure her out so she could have her fit in full view.

I'm still married, partly because I didn't.

I did have a bat fly around my head a few times. It is odd how they wheel through the air, going right for your face. Not really scary except in a "Oh no, my beautiful face" way. We successfully caught it and released it into the wild of the backyard.

I'm happy to say my children don't share either of our phobias. Theirs still seems to be "resting at the appointed hour."

The long list of things you can't say.

In every culture there are taboos. Social etiquette that if broken result in forms of discipline ranging from shunning to dismemberment.

When you get married you enter a new culture. Ironically there is less culture, primarily due to less mold in the fridge and dairy products that are not science examples in changing of state.

In order to prevent your spouse from changing states, the key ones from contentment to hysteria, you adhere to set rules. Many of these are things you say, or more importantly, don't say. Such gems as:

1. No, those pants don't make you look nearly so fat as the ones you came in with.
2. I think my mother makes better pork chops. I think her secret was keeping the fluid IN them.
3. You look just like your mom.
4. Remember when our kid threw a tantrum? She takes after you when you miss a sale at the outlet mall.
5. I didn't like "Mamma Mia". It reminded me of "To Wong Foo", only with old ladies.

These are all thoughts that if they do happen to appear in your brain you have the wherewithal to not move them out of your mouth to accommodate your foot.

I humbly wish to add one that is a significant double standard. I'll suggest it as the 'M' word (despite being an acronym with a different starting letter).

I grew up with an older and a younger sister. This was great; they are fun, intelligent, amazing people. I blame the genetic pool.

Still in our difficult teen years my sisters would occasionally fall on a reason for a particularly emotional outburst. I found out that there are no good responses to that. They could say whatever they wanted about me, follow it up with that reason, and I would be the monster for saying:

- That is your problem. You're the one with the defective body, not me. I can keep my emotions in check all year round if I like.

or the even worse:

- I could tell.

Having discovered these pitfalls earlier in life I have since shut up on the subject, at least most of the time. Let me say this to you unlucky men who have not had the tutelage of sisters to magnify your shortcomings by their excellence:

Never tell her that she is emotional because it's "that time".

Just offer her chocolate. It's better than risking the dismemberment.

No sleep makes me stupid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or was it the other way around?

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

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

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

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

Anti-work

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

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

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

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

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

The status bar.

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

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

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

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

That means I wait around to hit 'Next'.

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

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

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

Except rebooting.