Smart AND Alive

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

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

Read.

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

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

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

Please take off your shoes HERE!!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unfair Match

Occasionally I get to speak to people about my marriage to my wife (as opposed to my marriage to my work). I get to do so because the person in question actually takes a breath and then I push their inane topic aside for one of my own.

There was a time where I would have believed there was one person who is perfect for you, a match made just for you alone, and you will balance each other out like 500 foxes see-sawing with a Rhino. I now label that time of belief: "ignorance".

One mistake with that daft notion is that people can be quantified simply. I'm sorry, reality (aka life) is not World Of Warcraft, and my being a Level 80 Paladin does not mean I know how to load the dishwasher. You have no idea of the complexities of human relationships until you're stuck in one until death or lawyers (I'll take death every time).

If each personality trait could be given a measure, and then you were objectively measured against someone else, it would not account for what I call the Bat-@#$% effect. That is the theory that covers the cases where I forget how to walk and stumble into a wall, and the times where she remembers where her glasses are. Moments that are crazy as Chiroptera-Feces.

I realize I'm outmatched. For example; my wife is more alluring to men than I am repulsive to women, as is evidenced that she slipped through my vices and we got married. And no, "slipped through my vices" is not an obscure euphemism, so let's burn that oyster right there.

One activity that we compromise on is what TV shows and Movies to watch. I have agreed to endure Glee, Friends, and whatever other program she wants because, well, she has good taste. She has watched Sherlock Holmes and is on promise to watch "Pride and Prejudice".

For Christmas she gave me "Blade Runner: the current final cut". I presume Sir Ridley Scott will continue producing Blade Runner releases like a birthcontrol challenged reality TV star. Every 9 months until it kills him.

My bride had never watched what is the best Sci-Fi movie before Serenity, so she coped through. For me it was sublime, for her it was the equivalent of a cinematic waterboarding; confusing and a affront to her Human Rights.

I guess I'm more effeminate in my tastes, than she is masculine in hers. It's not fair, but anyone who says that marriage is fair has settled for less than wonderful. Wonderful is filling in the inadequacies between the two of you with love, like mortar between bricks of different shapes.

That way your marriage can be built like a brick ....house.

The gift of bartering hope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Praying punishment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Childhood Direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everone fits in, except for her.

I have heard the phrase "I don't fit in" (or variants thereof) often enough to infer a trend. That trend is if there is a group of more than two people, one will be whiny.

"Not fitting in" to one's family is also cliché. To all those who have felt this way, at one time or another, I have this to say to you: I expected as much.

Families are small groups of humans who are forced together by law and DNA. How does anyone get the idea that members of a family should be identical? Our social nature drives us to quickly identify who is the easiest one to leave out in a situation.

Anthropologically this makes sense because if SOMEONE has to be eaten by the Tyrannosaur then we might as well be organized about the decision. Only the government would form a committee to decide how to respond in an emergency, the rest of us have already decided who we will collectively trip/push down in order to survive.

In my family of origin there were 3 children. It was a perpetual game of survivor where alliances were formed by who had the best toys (me) and who had the most in common (my sisters). Other variables were accounted like who our parents were angry with. I have learned your siblings will stand by you through nearly everything except when Mom finds out who ate most of the cookies in the pantry.

In my current family there are 4 of us. I might have thought that my "odd one out" days were over. I was wrong.

The other week we were gifted a larger television. The caveat was that it needed fixing. Despite the stakes being against me I actually fixed it without breaking it further or injuring myself.

As my wife was recovering from the shock of me being handy I gushed:
Me: "Guess what the TV has!"
Her: "A remote control? Your fist mark in the screen from a fit of frustration? Pneumonia?"
Me: "No, a DVI input!"
Her:
Blink.

Blink.

"So?"
Me: "You can connect a computer to the tv with full resolution!"
Her: "So?"
Me: "Now we can use the tv as a second monitor with my laptop!"
Her: "Why would we do that?"

Undeterred I presented my findings to my children when they arrived home.
Me: "Kids, guess what!"
Them: "What!?"
Me: "We can plug the computer into the TV!"
Older child: "COOL!"
Younger child: "Can I play webkinz on it!?"

As it turns out my wife is the one who doesn't fit in, provided it relates to what a computer can connect to. Now I just have to get the kids to lay off me while I try to get an adapter that will FIT that plug and then get their blasted Ubuntu build to have a refresh rate that actually MATCHES the tv.

Don't try to be funny

‘Nurds’ are not the most socially capable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A special place

There are many places in my house. There is the place my children scatter shoes like retreating armies do with land mines (with similar effectiveness). That is called the porch. There is the spot that attracts dust, hair an any valuables you need. That is under the refrigerator. There is the place where we don’t allow the children to go lest they ask too many questions about what they find there. Actually, there are two places if you count the filing cabinet that holds our past bills and taxes.

Some of these places seem to come into their own through the passage of time, such as the kitchen counter. It is the place of paper, no matter how many times I move them away there are some there on my return. I swear there are spores of school notices, child artwork and paid bills that react with the moist kitchen air and burst into being.

Other places are decreed either by a single event (the place where all food is thrown out from contact with, also known as the place where the child vomited).

In times past it was not unusual for residences to have their own chapel. They also had parlours, which in my opinion blows away “living room”. Just try saying “Parlour” in your best Larry The Cable Guy impression. If he can’t say it, it must sound intelligent.

I know of one place in my home that is holy. It is a place of reflection, education, inspiration and occasionally perspiration. It is the chapel of my keep, the throne of my castle, you get the idea. This place is sacrosanct, and while it is occupied, all others must give way.

Now it happens that we are blessed with two such places. The upper one is used for many things; brushing teeth, doing hair, preparing for bed. It is a delicate blue hue, with a window looking upon cedar trees in our back yard. There is a tub there where one can bathe to candlelight whilst listening to soothing tones from Bach’s first Brandenburg Concerto.

The other room is a shower and a crapper. I like to think of myself as a considerate man, one who loves his family, and so I use the less convenient of the two for the sake of my marriage. It is quite safe there as there is no space for the door to open when you are inside. Most of our closets are bigger in square footage.

So it was that I was there for one reason or another, forgive the term, engrossed in a John Grisham novel. The dryer was running in the next room, but it didn’t matter too much because I can hear the children coming from two rooms away since they shout their directional intentions around the house. It’s like my whole building is an uncontrolled airspace with those two “I’m going to my room now. I’m using the stairs. I’ve changed my mind and I’m coming back to the parlour.”

So it was, I was quietly reading, when my wife who had crept panther-like through the laundry room burst the door open. I mean that in the full violence of the action. The way the door exploded it reminded me of a swat team, or people in sweats opening a Wal-Mart during a Black Friday sale.

Our eyes met and we both screamed. It was a synchronized “AAAAAAAHHHHH!” The door only opened two inches. This is all that is allowed before the door actually hits me. The lock is so old it is non-existent. My wife mumbled “so sorry” and closed the door again.

In her defense she claims she knocked. If she did I’m certain it was with a straight arm as she pushed the door open like a running back clearing the defensive line. For me I’m shaken that the sanctuary was so interrupted. Thank goodness I was where I was, because she scared it out of me.

As a safe guard I think I’ll get my wife and I to join the children in the chorus of announcing our intentions to enter rooms from across the house. And I guess I should put a new lock on the door.

Unringing the Dead Ringer

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

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

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

At my house or one just like mine apparently.

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

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

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

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

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

Stalin for time

Capitalize: (intransitive verb) to gain by turning something to advantage.

Budget: A make believe story on a spreadsheet.

One of the key elements to pre-marriage counseling is money management. Surprisingly my wife and I didn't do well on this aspect and have still managed to remain hitched. I blame her good looks and poor pattern recognition of my shortcomings.

If I were asked to describe our financial style in one word I would say "Simple". Money comes in, money goes out.

Our monetary method is somewhat communistic. I don't mean that one of us lives wonderfully whilst repressing the others. It is simply the money goes into the account and is meted out from there.

I never considered having a separate account for "my money". Once I heard of the idea I knew it wouldn't work for two reasons:
1. We are a single income family (that would be realistic communism there)
2. I am a very selfish man (All I need is the mustache to complete the caricature)

This method has helped build unity in the family, allowing us to dole out the money as is needed. The question of who spends the money on bills, food and other items is determined by trial and error, I tried it and it was an error. Thus my wife is the controller of the cash flow, except that she foolishly hasn't taken back my debit card.

To make sure neither of us blows that month's mortgage on knick knacks or a great deal on a 42" plasma tv we have a rule: Any purchase over $100 requires both of us to ratify.

Typically I don't need to ask my wife for anything since I am so cheap and my desires are so whimsical that all she needs to do is ask me if there are pretty colours in the room and I forget what I called to buy.

So the other week it was I who received the call. I was at work at 8:30 in the morning when my phone rang with the home phone number displayed.

Me: Wow, you're up earl...
Her: (Breathless) Honey, I have something important
- here my heart stops thinking a child is hurt or family member is in hospital -
Her: (continuing) to ask you.
Me: Go ahead honey. (Still quite afraid this is going to be a question if I need the car or really ever did care about the cat)
Her: Mamma Mia is coming to town and I want to buy tickets. Can I?

My wife loves the show Mamma Mia. For those who don't know it is a musical that utilizes ABBA songs. I'm still waiting for the musical "Can't Touch This" to come out.

Me: How much are the tickets. (I'm Stalin for time here)
Her: About $80 a seat, I think. Or $180. I can't remember. (I know I have to wrap up the call before she begins to pee from excitement)

In marriage you try to learn from each others passions and gain depth to your life. If you can't manage that you at least let them get what they want once in a while. It is in that spirit of giving that I decided to Capitalize on the situation. I racked my brain for things I always wanted but knew were too big or expensive to ask for.

Me: Ooookay, but if they're $180 a seat leave me out and I'll buy some nice computer games with my share. And if Rammstein ever comes back to Minneapolis I get to go. (Hold my breath here, this was a BIG gamble).
Her: Sure. Bye!

Right. In the end the tickets weren't that expensive but my end of the bargain stands. I get to go see a band that by all odds will never return to the northern US. In principle I gained a concession, but instead of imploding my tympanic membranes with Industrial Metal I'll hold hands and sing along to ABBA.

So that is how you keep a marriage going. Share the wealth, bargain fairly, and be accommodating to each other. Unless she takes my armrest at the show, because I paid good money to put my elbow there.

Exercising Restraint

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Group Email Cycle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Children, they become you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Acceptance (kind of)

I am now well established in my 11th year of marriage. Over the past 70 months I've changed my mind a lot. It turns out there is a staggering amount you don't know when you're single, and inexplicably a larger amount you're wrong about that you only find out once you're married.

One post-nuptial opinion adjustment was what was best about being exclusive until termination. I won't enlighten you to my previous, not family rated but definitely family growing idea. I will divulge my updated mindset; it is acceptance.

It turns out successful marriage isn't driving each other to be who you think they could become, it's realizing that love can wear sweats and sweat. See acceptance goes both ways, she COULD expect you to keep washboard abs, or she COULD love you with your large capacity Maytag gut. And once you introduce small shouting humans to the mix it's best to keep the pressure in the household low.

Yet you do change each other in small ways, you just do it without intending to. Like how I am subverting my wife into a geek.

The other week I was sick with the flu. I lost a week where I remember about 3 things, coughing, fever and Megaman. See I could not manage the mental capacity for the difficulty of Civilization, so I loaded up an old Nintendo emulator and played some fun retro gaming.

Once recovered I continued in my nostalgia and set up Super Mario Brothers for my wife. She played about 3 computer games in her life, and this was one of them. Having it around again she began to play, then yell at her computer.

So in a twist of fate my wife is becoming a gamer. I'm a ways off from having her write Hello World, but having her rant about flying turtles and mushrooms is nice all the same. It makes up for how excited I get when the Pampered Chef catalog comes.

Be nice and organized. Please.

The Helpdesk.

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

Wow.

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

They are nice people.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Played, economically.

I recently finished reading Freakonomics. It is not a do-it-yourself manual for making money selling animal costumes to grown men. If it were, it would not be described as "do-it-yourself". Oh, and I wouldn't have read it.

Freakonomics is a book that is about economics applied to bizarre, unrelated facets of society. It is similar to "Predictably Irrational", another book by an economist. I prefer the latter book personally, if you must choose between reading one or the other.

My interest in economics springs mainly from my drive to understand theology. I don't mean in a televangelist fraud sort of way either. The part of you that has the part of you you would call the soul would be your brain. You can lose (or replace) any part of the human body and not be considered any "less spiritual". But if you're missing your head, well then...

So studying the brain is the science of neurology, which then leads to the behavioural actions in psychology, which are analyzed in groups as sociology, which can be tracked by their decisions (buying things) through economics.

I'm kidding, I said that to seem smart.

Yesterday my wife showed me a gift-card style coupon from a local store.
Her: Look we get $50 off at this furniture store!
Me: What if we don't buy anything, do they owe us $50 in cash then?
Her: (Ignoring me for some reason) We get it if we spend more than $300.
Me: Oh. (as in "this is the end of this conversation "oh")
Her: But if we go in tomorrow we get $100 off.
Me: So that's 30% at best.
Her: I guess. But our younger daughter needs a new mattress.

Now I must stop and say I thought myself very clever. Not only did I successfully calculate the percentage, but I made the idea of shopping seem pointless. Since I do wish to remain married I showed my true compassion in offering a token concession.

Me: Why not try another store where the odds are better that you'll get 50% off or better?
Her: Ok, hey, I just found one in this catalogue. 50% off. Normally $700!

At this moment my economics reading caught up to me. About 5 seconds too late. She had pulled a marketing trick on me and I had fallen for it. The trick is to get you to compare similar items, but one is modified negatively to convince you that you are making the better choice.

You can do this thought experiment at home. Pretend you get to date one of two identical twins. They are identical except one has been hit with a shovel. A shovel on a backhoe. In the face. Now the one NOT mangled is SUCH the choice.

I decided to be an adult about it. An adult who is a sore loser.

Me: Nice you just played me there.
Her: Huh?
Me: You got me to agree on buying a mattress for our children. Very clever.
Her: What are you talking about?

At this moment I was shaken. Was she really clueless she had used economics to her advantage, or was she so far ahead of me that this was a feint to put me off the scent?

Suffice to say she achieved both goals, convincing me we should buy a mattress for the child and resolving that whether through skill or gift she can run circles around me mentally. It's like she's on a 10 speed bike and I'm riding a tricycle. With a flat.

If anyone could recommend a good psychology book it would be appreciated.

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.

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."

Room for Relationship

This is the week of St. Valentines Day. A celebration of man's inability to remember to express his love to his mate. So this year instead of offering suggestions on how to procure the perfect gift, I will offer how to avoid inspiring your spouse to recreate the St. Valentines day massacre with you.

Most rooms in a home have their own set of rules. Hang up your coat. Put the footstool away under the chair so I don't trip in the morning. Light a match.

This simple bit of etiquette allows us to function with a minimum of hard feelings due to nagging and being nagged.

Except in the kitchen.

No room is more sacred than the place where we disassemble organisms only to cobble them together in an unnatural form, burn them, then eat the consequences. Cake never sounded so bad.

When I'm in the kitchen alone I:
- Turn on music that my wife hates, and turn it up.
- Tidy up
- Re-arrange the things she put in the wrong spot.
- Cook

She is no different. So one would think "Having the love of your life share a moment of creation with you would be a beautiful, romantic thing". One would be wrong.

I have rarely been in such peril of being impaled. One example is:
Me: Can you pass me the other measuring cup?
Her: Why do you need it?
Me: To measure the water, dear Liza, dear Liza.
Her: Just wash the one you just used.
Me: Why do I need to? We have several measuring cups.
Her: I don't like the extra dishes, dear Henry, dear Henry.
Me: But we have a machine that washes them for you. Why don't we throw out all the duplicates of our dishes then and keep 4 place settings?
Her: Don't be silly.
Me: Is that your word for logical?

This plays out almost every time we work together. Issues of:
Dish reuse
Spice level
Cooking temperature
Variance from recipes
Music to cook to

have all managed to cause one of us to be more helpful by leaving the room.

The solution to all of this is work in the same room, but don't work on the same thing. This week we co-operated because she did the assembly, I did the prep, and the kids stayed out of the room.

So that is my Valentines gift to you. Hire a cook.