A Boxing Week Tale

She was fast becoming furious with the girl in front of her. "What do you mean you won't be doing any exchanges until the new year? I've been waiting in this goddamn line-up for 25 minutes and my son has been begging me to take him to pee for 20 of those minutes. And, no, I didn't see this tiny sign saying 'No returns during Boxing Week' because there were 200 people standing BETWEEN ME AND THE SIGN."

Her voice was getting louder and she couldn't stop it. The girl at the cash - and she really was just a girl - looked completely overwhelmed. The people behind her were waiting impatiently just as she had. But she couldn't just walk away without taking one last shot: "Have yourself a shitty New Years - you and your stupid return policy just ruined mine." And with that, she spun on her heels to make her escape, dignity in tatters.

Through the whole encounter, the 6 or 7-year old boy at the angry woman's side stood and stared at the girl behind the counter (her name tag said 'Jessica'). Even as his mom tried to storm away, the boy held Jessica's eye, his shame apparent. Jessica felt bad for him and quickly reached under the counter, grabbed the last candy cane, and thrust it into the boy's hand as he finally yielded to his mom's insistent tugging.

Now the boy and his mom went to the book store. There were legs everywhere. People kept bumping into him and his mom. Everyone seemed really mad. His mom stood in front of an empty shelf cursing that the one thing she came in for was gone. Then she dragged him to the smelly bathroom, and then to get a coffee at the place in the store with the cookies and stuff. The line went on forever. When they finally got to the front, his mom ordered her complicated drink and got him the last cookie. When the drink came, it was wrong (too many pumps or something). Now his mom was yelling again and the girl she was yelling at ('Heather') looked like she was about to cry. Her job was to make the coffee, but she wasn't the one that wrote down what his mom wanted. But that didn't matter to his mom. By the time she was done, the whole store was staring at them.

When his mom wasn't looking, he reached into his pocket and got out the candy cane Jessica had given him. Now he gave it to Heather. She put it in her pocket and gave him a small smile. He smiled back and then once again let himself be dragged away.

His mom had a bad day and was in a terrible mood until long after they got home.
Jessica had a bad day, hated her job, and didn't want to ever go back. But she did because she had to.
The only good part of Heather's day was the little boy who gave her the candy cane.
The little boy mostly forgot about the whole thing by the time they were in the car.

Sometimes his mom got frustrated. But the little boy knew it wasn't Jessica or Heather who frustrated her. It was everything else that pushed her to the point of yelling at complete strangers. She needed a good, long sleep so she could go back to being her usual, loving self.

Jessica couldn't pin her terrible day on one person. It was EVERYBODY, ALL DAY. She needed food and a good, long sleep to go back to her usual, happy self.

Heather, too, felt under attack from the minute the coffee shop opened until it mercifully closed 12 hours later. She needed to watch some TV and have a good, long sleep to go back to being her usual, relaxed self.

When they got home, the little boy had some food, watched some TV, and went to bed. Just before he closed his eyes, he wondered about why nice people weren't always nice to each other.

Then he drifted off and had a good, long sleep.

Post Your Birthday Wishes Round the Ole F-B

If you don't know "Tie a Yellow Ribbon", this will look a little stupid and self-serving. If you do, same...Happy Birthday David!

(With appropriate apologies to Tony Orlando & Dawn).

I'm o'er the hill, I've done my time.
Now, I've got to know which friends are really mine.
If you received my post telling you that I'd soon turn fif-ty,
Then you'll know just what to do,
If you still friend me, if you still friend me.

Whoa, post your birthday wishes round the ole F-B.
It's been fifty years, do you still friend me?
If I don't see your wishes coming through today to me,

I'll temporarily pretend, that you never were my friend, and put the blame on thee.
If I don't see your wishes coming through, today to me.

Young daughter, check my wall for me,
'Cause I couldn't bear to see what I might see.
I'm in a competition and my friends, they hold the key.
Your simple birthday greetings will help me top my family,
And I wrote that post to ask you please...

Whoa, post your birthday wishes round the ole F-B.
It's been fifty years, do you still friend me?
If I don't see your wishes coming through today to me,

I'll make a little fuss, forget about us, and put the blame on thee.
If I don't see your wishes coming through today to me.

Now the whole damned net is cheerin',
And I can't believe I see...

A hundred thousand wishes round the ole F-B.
I'm winnin' now.

Send your wishes round the ole F-B

Send your wishes if you still friend me

Send your wishes if your friends friend me

Send your wishes in a post to me

Send your wishes just by liking me

Or by liking someone else's post to me

You can also send your wishes with a call to me

And send your wishes though you don't know me...

<Fade out> 

(The music that is, not this guy - the 50 year-old with thumbs pointed proudly at his chest.)

Zombie Sam's First Day of School

Sam was a zombie child, but even zombie children have to go to school. Today was his first day.

He got to school a bit late, so all of the other (perfectly normal) children were already in their seats. He had to lurch to his seat at the back of the class with all of them watching. He heard the whispers and saw them pointing, and he felt sad.

The teacher asked all of the children to say their name and something that they like to do. When it was Sam's turn, he wanted to say "watch TV" but all that came out was "URRRGGGHHH". The other children laughed at him, and he felt even sadder.

The teacher started talking about the letter "A". The boy sitting next to Sam showed him a picture of a Zombie with a finger in his nose. Sam realized that the picture was supposed to be him, and he felt sadder still. The teacher chose that moment to ask him a question and got mad at him for not paying attention. Now he felt sad and embarrassed.

At recess, the other children played running games and he couldn't run. He saw a squirrel and staggered toward it, and all of the other children stopped what they were doing to watch. So he stopped and the squirrel got away.

At lunch, all of the other children had sandwiches, carrot sticks, and juice boxes in shiny new lunch bags. He had a greasy paper bag containing a dead chipmunk. When he started to eat it, the teacher said he couldn't because chipmunks eat peanuts and the school was peanut-free. Now he was sad, embarrassed and hungry.

In the afternoon, some skin fell of his face right in front of everybody. Some children laughed and some just looked scared. They all moved their chairs away from his. The teacher called the janitor. A grey little tear slid down what was left of Sam's cheek.

A little girl with a ponytail came over to him and said: "Don't be sad Sam." That made him feel a bit better.

When school was finally over and Sam started to shuffle home, the same little girl came over to him to ask if he wanted a drive home with her Daddy. She introduced him to her Daddy as "my new friend Sam." Sam stopped feeling sad and even grinned a little.

When her Daddy asked him where to drop him off. Sam pointed at the first house he saw. He didn't want the little girl to know that he stayed in the cemetery.

The Daddy waited to see that Sam got into his house safely. It wasn't his house but he pretended it was and tried to open the door. It was locked. The Daddy said that Sam should come back to their house until his parents got home. He did.

The little girl and Sam sat in her kitchen. The Daddy gave them each a glass of milk and a cookie. They ate in silence. Sam hated cookies and the milk was gross, but he pretended to like it.

When the little girl went to the bathroom, Sam reached into her family's fish bowl sitting on the counter and ate one of the goldfish. The Daddy saw him do it and sent him home. Sam wanted to say: "Sorry about the fish and thank you for being so nice", but all that came out was "URRRGGGHHH!"

It was a horrible day.

The End.

Moral of the story: The little girl made a new friend on the first day of school. She invited him home and left him alone with her Daddy for just a minute. When she got back, her Daddy had sent him home and didn't say why. She thought he was jerk. But he wasn't a jerk. He was a nice guy who made a good decision and then spared his daughter having to know why he made that decision. What was this zombie kid going to eat next? The cat? The girl? His daughter was mad at him for the rest of the night but that was okay because she was safe. Sometimes Daddies do things that seem bad but are actually good. Cut them some slack.

Halloween 2014 - Deadend Cemetery

The big boys made Timmy do it. Right after taunting him for his lame "bed-sheet ghost" costume, they told him (lied to him) that they were giving away really good treats at Deadend Cemetery. "Go there alone for a special treat...", they said. So he did.





He almost walked right into the barbed wire fence that emerged out of the unexplainable fog as he inched his way toward the Cemetery's front gate. It was dark and he couldn't see much.  

"Trick...or...treat...?" whispered the small boy into the chill.


And suddenly the Cemetery came to life... 








 
...an evil-looking pumpkin-headed figure rose out of the leafy ground, menacing smile and glowing red eyes fixed on Timmy...





...a rustling sound on the other side of the fence drew his eyes to the nearest grave, where a rotting figure was clawing its way through the maple carpet...

 

...movement to his left, and a single hand punched its way up out of the ground...










...swooping phantoms dove from the sky, howling with rage...

...a coiled cobra hissed its warning...

...a giant rat, with teeth bared, prepared to pounce...











...a tiny person...a baby...no, a were-baby, looked up from where it had been gnawing on something and let out a tiny ferocious growl...










...hinges creaked, and a single skeleton pushed open an uprooted casket...
















...and when Timmy, tiny, solitary Timmy, turned to run - a giant spider lunged toward him, riveting him in place, frozen with terror!

Out of the fog, a man (?) emerged, giant eyes peeking out from under his cap, a lantern in his hand.


"WHO'S THERE?" he demanded.





Timmy, stuttered out a second "Trick...or...treat...?"

And this time the man looked his way and held up the lantern...

"HOLY SHIT! IT'S A G-G-G-G-HOST!!!!" he screamed, before dropping his lantern and fleeing back into the murky depths of Deadend Cemetery.

Timmy stood there in stunned disbelief for several minutes. The cemetery went silent, and finally the small boy turned for home.

On his way, he saw the big boys again. He lifted his lame little bed-sheet ghost costume, mooned them, and said "there's your special treat, stupid jerks" (using a regular-sized font instead of the tiny font that he used to use, back when he was scared of things).

Tales from the Kindergarten Water Cooler

Now that we've (once again) got a daughter who's just starting out in school, we get a second chance to hear all of the great stories and adventures from Senior Kindergarten. None of this is made up, except the names and unless my 5-year-old correspondent (who I will call 'D' - for daughter) made it up.

The boy who can pick up the whole school

"There's a boy at school who can pick up the whole school", reported D the other day. Not sure what she meant, I probed for more details. D continued, "He told us he can pick up the whole school. Into the air. By picking it up." Then she added, "He's 4", because that's an important detail.

I can just imagine this boy, standing around with the 5ers, and they're all chatting about their various exploits: "I have a wiggly tooth." "I stuck my finger in my bum" (more on that one later). "I have a cat". When this poor 4-year-old, in a rush to keep up, blurts out "I can pick up the whole school." Heads slowly rotate towards him as his more seasoned classmates mull over the news. "Impressive, Dude," one of them likely says.

So I asked D if she believed him. She thought for a moment, then said "no, because it's attached to all of the other buildings."

Didn't think of that, did you little man? No way you can pick up a whole strip plaza.

The friend who stuck a finger where it shouldn't be stuck

D asked her mom (my wife, of course), "Does my bum hole go all the way into my body?" Her mom did what she always does when confronted with one of these tricky questions, she blew it off, then sent an e-mail to everyone in the family telling them all about this cute thing D had asked (I prefer blogging).

Later, when I heard about the question (not having been included in the e-mail), I chided my wife for not asking where the question was coming from. After all, she might have been worrying about something, or imagining something gross about how her body works.

Being the responsible father that I am, I asked. (Aside: I was also the responsible parent who took it upon himself to have 'the talk' with our eldest when she was old enough. And I had to make a lot of it up because my parents never had 'the talk' with me.)

D got a cute little smirk on her face (where else would it be?) and revealed that a friend had bragged about sticking a finger there. She also hinted that she was thinking about trying it too.

To answer her question, we went upstairs to consult a picture book she has about how the human body works. Alas, no good bum pictures.

We then turned to Google and searched for "pictures to show your child how a bum works" (or something like that). We got sidetracked when we saw a link about how to teach your child how to wipe his or her bum. Big mistake. Back to the search. This time we tried "pictures for children of bum anatomy" (trying to avoid the wrong kinds of bum pictures, of course). We found some good pictures and learned that your bum hole doesn't go all the way into your body.

We ultimately agreed that it's probably not a good idea to put anything up there. And that we'd wash our hands more rigorously and more frequently at school.

Princesses are real and they live in Florida
Schoolyard chatter has it that princesses are real and they live in Florida. This has been confirmed by several of the kindergarteners first-hand. They also vacation in California sometimes, which is where D saw some of them (we have pictures to prove it).

Apparently, one of the more street-smart children voiced a dissenting opinion ("they're people in costumes", or some such nonsense), but that kid has no credibility.

(As an aside, I'll tell you that being a smart-ass Dad, it's tough when your 5-year-old looks you in the eye and says "Princesses are real and they live in Florida" not to say "Yes, and some live in Thornhill too." But I didn't. I would never say such a thing.)
 

Oops, we missed "show-and-share"

D told me that we forgot to send her to school with something for "show-and-share" (what used to be called "show-and-tell").

"It was about Fall".

I told her that it was a shame that we didn't send anything in because that's a really good topic. I didn't tell her that it's not our fault when she forgets to bring something in for show-and-share, and that she's got to take responsibility for things like that. We like to prevent our kids from feeling responsible for things, after all.

Instead, I made a wee joke: "Because you didn't have something to show, did you fall down a lot instead?"

Again, the little smirk: "Yes, but that's not the same kind of fall." (I like the fact that first she said "Yes".)

Then I asked what other kids had shown-and-shared.

"There were lots of leaves".

I felt less bad.

Tales of Inspiration from the Weekend

A look back at a weekend of great growth for David:

1. If I had any prior doubt about how truly blessed I am, yesterday's crisis leaves me doubtless: My wife and I had our scheduled hot air balloon ride cancelled because the weather was too good (does that mean it was "clement"?)
2. The light over our staircase has been burnt out for a very long time. I am haunted by dreams where I fumble about in the dark trying to turn on lights throughout our house and they're all burnt out. These dreams started when that staircase light went dark. So, why didn't I just change it in all the time that's passed? Because it's positioned directly over an opening that stretches all the way to the basement, and it's got a heavy glass fixture. I am simply unequipped (literally and emotionally) to reach out over the chasm of death, remove the heavy glass fixture, carefully unscrew a dead light bulb, somehow screw in a new bulb (while dangling precariously two stories above the basement ceramics holding a heavy glass fixture and a spent bulb), replace the fixture, and make it safely back to land. And, by the way, with Angie there to help me, I would have had to wait in that precarious position while she dusted the inside of the fixture and all around the frame since one can never miss the opportunity to dust an open fixture. Well. Yesterday, inspired by my impending hot air balloon ride, I decided it was time to change the bulb. I brought the step ladder to the precipice, reached out to start unscrewing the fixture, and the thought occurred to me that maybe I could just reach over the fixture and replace the bulb without removing it. I could. I did. It was over in 30 seconds flat. How many Davids does it take to change a light bulb? Just one my friend. Just one.
3. Earlier in the weekend, a tarantulaesque (yes, spell check, that's a word) spider showed up in the garage. It was playing dead on the doorway to the outside, so I let it have its little fun and slipped casually back into the house. The next day, I caught it in its lie. Oh giant spider, did you really expect me to believe that your corpse had moved all by itself from the door to the floor of the garage? With that incontrovertible evidence that the creature still breathed (do giant spiders breathe?), it was now time for decisive action. "Mom!", I shouted, "There's a giant dead spider here in the garage that you should remove post-haste!" (Mom and Dad were over this weekend, don't you know). As Mom bravely reached down to remove the beast (still playing dead) paper towel in hand, she had a fortuitous second thought and decided to confirm that it was in fact dead by gently squishing it beneath her slipper. Just then, the horrendous thing jumped up, spitting and snarling, red eyes flashing with fury, and Mom (dear Mom, the bravest of the brave), finished the monster with an instinctual stomp. Then she gently scooped up its remains and dropped it into the previously empty garbage pail. It landed with an audible thud. A thud, I tell you.
4. I went to Home Depot to buy some stuff. Amongst other items, I wanted to buy a new ladder (this was before the amazing stairway light bulb feat of which I earlier gave account). I was hoping they'd show me two and I'd have a chance to say: "While I like the former, I'll take the ladder." It didn't go down that way. I didn't, in fact, buy a ladder at all. I did, however, successfully buy two big bags of sand. This was special magic sand that is used to seal cracks in walkways. You pour it onto the walkway, sweep it into the cracks, wet it, and it hardens into an impenetrable seal. Right before I bought it, I asked one of those very helpful Home Depot guys to confirm that I had the right product for the job. He snickered and said, "No, that's concrete. But I'd love to come watch you use that to seal your walkway." I used to feel safe in Home Depot. Now its magnificent hallways echo with the sound of scorn.
5. Speaking of scorn, the Blue Jays played their last game of the season this weekend. We all said we'd be happy with meaningful games in September. What we meant is that we'd be happy with meaningful games played well. If the Blue Jays were a giant spider, September was my Mother's slipper. 

So how do all these things connect? What did burnt out light bulbs, cancelled hot air balloon rides, giant spiders, an orange-apron-ed Home Depot bully, and the Blue Jays teach David this weekend? I'll tell you...

Change that bulb (if it's easy)! Stomp that spider (or get someone else to)! Ride that balloon (unless it's cancelled)! Buy that sand (but ask for help first)! And make all of your September games meaningful (even if you aren't up to the task of winning them until all of the pressure's off)! Don't let anything stop you from achieving your goals, unless they're just too big for you. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step; or you can just get into your car and drive it, or let someone else go and tell you how it was.

Have an okay week.

On the Decline of September

For me, September used to be the most poignant, exciting and depressing of all 12 months.

School used to start in September. It still does for many, but for how much longer? Year-round schools, American back-to-school in August, and the inevitable arrival of e-learning will eventually spell the end September's identity as the start of the school year. In my family's life already, this September was just another month. When my youngest daughter enters Grade 1 next year, maybe I'll feel the emotional wallop of September once again, but it feels like years since I have.

Autumn used to start in September. I realize it still does on paper, but with Mother Nature's recent tendency to season surf, it doesn't feel like spring ever really left or summer ever really gained a foothold, and now fall is looking a bit like all three. September's once proud place in the turning of the seasons is irrevocably under assault.

September used to be the single most important month in the television calendar. It's not even a good month any more. Only a few network shows that are mildly interesting will be starting up in September. Fewer than October, fewer than January/February, and probably fewer than June/July. Cable delivers the goods all year round. PVRs and the Internet are non-stop. As a kid, the Toronto Star TV magazine used to do a special Season Preview every September and I'd pour over its contents religiously. Those days are long, long gone.

September used to herald yet another exciting and promising Toronto Maple Leafs season. Fresh off the previous year's thrilling playoff victories, even a Stanley Cup or two, I remember looking forward to September's training camp as a time to take great pride in my home team. Other teams might have their false hopes in September, but only the Leafs were a sure thing. Oh, the joy of another season. How would they do it this year? By how many points would they lead the league? Which Leafs would lead the league in goals? In assists? In overall points? Alas, the Leafs are not as dominant now as they were in the '80s and '90s. Heck, they nearly missed the playoffs last year.


September, I lament your decline. You will be missed.


(Go Leafs Go! Save next year's September!)

Interview with a Couple

On the occasion of their 25th Anniversary, our intrepid reporter sat down with Husband and Wife to discuss how they overcame the odds and made it through 25 years together....

Reporter: 25 years! That's amazing. Tell me, how did you make it so far?

Husband: It's going to sound simplistic, but really it comes down to...
Wife: (Interrupting) Mutual respect.
Husband: I was going to say love.
Wife: (Nodding) Yes, mutual respect.

Reporter: So which is it? Love or respect?

Wife: Which is what?
Husband: He's asking if we made it so far because we love each other or because we respect each other?
Wife: What do you mean 'so far'? Are you planning on going somewhere?
Husband: No dear. I'm just repeating what the reporter was asking us.
Wife: This guy? What does he know about marriage. He looks like he's 24 years old. You should have seen me at 24. I was skinny. I was beautiful.
Husband: I did see you at 24. That's when we got married.
Wife: I was 22 when we got married.
Husband: No sweetie. You were 24. 24 plus 25 equals...
Wife: I know. I used to be a math teacher dear. Started when we got married. I was 22, beautiful and skinny. Before the kids.

Reporter: Tell me about the kids. How have they contributed to the long and happy marriage?

Husband: Each is a gem. As we've raised them our love for each other has deepened. There isn't a moment with them that I would give back.
Wife: You don't remember the diapers, do you? Oh wait. You never touched the diapers.
Husband: Actually I did. You always conveniently forget that.
Wife: Oh. And you killed the spiders too. Right?
Husband: I never said that.
Wife: (Muttering) Such a weenie.
Husband: How did we get onto this? The reporter was asking about the kids and you turned it into an attack on my arachnophobia.
Wife: A rack of what?

Reporter: The kids. Tell me about them.

Wife: They don't clean their rooms.
Husband: They've moved out. What does it matter if they clean their room? How is that our problem anymore?
Wife: Just the thought of the stuff growing under their beds. Dust rabbits. Mold. Spiders.
Husband: Again with the spiders! And it's dust bunnies.
Wife: You've seen them?
Husband: No. I'm saying, it's 'dust bunnies' not 'dust rabbits'.
Wife: What difference does that make? It's six-and-a-half of one, half-dozen of another. You know. A bird on the arm.
Husband: I did diapers.
Wife: And I'm 36, skinny and beautiful.
Husband: You are to me.
Wife: Aha! You're saying I'm old and fat.
Husband: Next question?

Reporter: I thought one of your kids still lives at home. She's 5 isn't she?

Wife: She's a saint. Finally, one of them who listens to me.
Husband: Yes. Our little one is amazing. I've got pictures and stories. One time...
Wife: He doesn't want to hear about the baby. He wants to talk about us.
Husband: She's not a baby.
Wife: They're all babies. They'll understand when they're grown up.
Husband: Two of them are grown up. They're 19 and 21 for God's sake.
Wife: I agree. They're just babies. I should call them. I haven't heard from either one in days.
Husband: You just hung up with them before the interview started.
Wife: Yes, but they were going out and they haven't called yet to let me know they got there okay.
Husband: You smother them.
Wife: The grass is always greener over the bridge.
Husband: On the other side.
Wife: Whatever. That's water under the bush.

Reporter: Ahem. What attribute do you think each one of you has brought into the marriage that has been most critical in making it work so well?

Wife: He's good at doing what I want.
Husband: She's loving, open, hard-working, beautiful, loyal, ...
Wife: (Interrupting) Beautiful? You still think I'm beautiful?
Husband: Of course.
Wife: I wish I could wear his glasses. When we first got married maybe. But look at me now.
Husband: Still beautiful.
Wife: See? Good at doing what I want.

Reporter: You said your wife is loving. Do tell.

Husband: She loves everybody. Everybody loves her. She can walk into a room full of strangers and walk out 20 minutes later with a room full of friends. It's unbelievable.
Wife: It's because I talk to people. I engage with them. I ask them questions.
Reporter: What kinds of questions?
Wife: Like, "That's a great hat."
Husband: That's not a question.
Wife: No, I mean the hat the reporter is wearing. It's great.
Reporter: Thanks. My wife bought it for me last week.
Wife: Oh. I didn't think you were married. You don't wear a ring.
Reporter: That's only because it's getting cleaned.
Wife: Wow. I like people who keep their things clean.
Reporter: That's nice to hear. Thank you.
Wife: You're welcome...Tom, is it?
Reporter: Yes, Tom. Nobody ever uses my first name. You're sweet.
Husband: Excuse me. We were talking?
Reporter: Right, right...

Reporter: And you said that your husband does what you want. That's it? That's the key attribute in a long marriage?

Wife: And he stays out of my way. And he still thinks I'm beautiful...
Husband: That's because you are.
Wife: Stop interrupting me. He's also kind of funny.
Husband: Kind of funny? I'm hilarious.
Wife: And he's confident. I've learned that from him. Or at least I think I have.

Reporter: Last question. If you were giving advice to a newlywed couple about how to ensure they stay married for 25 years, what would that advice be?

Husband: Marry your best friend.
Wife: What kind of stupid advice is that? Marry the love of your life.
Husband: Play together.
Wife: Work together. Clean together. Struggle.
Husband: Have lots of children.
Wife: Why haven't they called?
Husband: Get old and fat together.
Wife: You're saying I'm old and fat.
Husband: And listen to each other.
Wife: Yes. Respect. That's what I'm saying.

Reporter: If you don't mind me saying. You seem to be very different people. You seem to disagree on everything. I can't believe your marriage has worked so well.

Husband: That's because we agree on one thing.
Wife: Yes. One thing.
Reporter: And that is?
Husband and Wife together: Putting the other person first.
Wife: It's like it says in the bible. Do unto others as you would do to yourself.
Husband: That sounds dirty.
Wife: It's from the bible for God's sake. You make everything dirty. Like the girls' rooms.
Husband: And the dust rabbits under their bed?
Wife: You think they have some? Ew. I can't believe I raised them.
Husband: We raised them.
Wife: I sure know I didn't. With all that goobledyguck under their bed.
Husband: Gobbledygook. And that means gibberish, not dirt.
Wife: Whatever. You say tomato and I say potato...
Husband: First base.
Wife: You're so dirty.

How to Negotiate Like a 5-Year Old

(#17 in the Series: Living Life Like a 5-Year Old)

Nobody negotiates like 5-year old children. Tap into their secrets, and you too can dominate at home, at work, and in a wide variety of public places. It's simple really. Just remember the word

N-E-G-O-T-I-A-T-E

• Noise
• Emotion
• Guilt
• Obstinance
• Tears
• Irrationality
• And
• Threatened
• Estrangement

Before You Begin

Before entering into the negotiation size up your opponent and get a sense of the surroundings. 

• Your opponent is probably much older than you. He or she may be in a good mood or a bad mood, tired or full of vigor, playful or deadly serious. Ignore all this. If the opponent is your parent, you're already halfway to a victory. If the opponent is a teacher, you know better than to try.

• The surroundings will be your battleground and it's important to understand how to take advantage of the terrain. Public places lend themselves to quick and decisive victory. Negotiations in private places occupied by a guest and/or grandparent are successful almost before they start. One-on-one showdowns at home can be tricky, but are almost always winnable.

Now, you're ready to N-E-G-O-T-I-A-T-E.

Noise

Make lots of it. Incoherent, nonsensical, ear-shattering, nerve-grating noises work the best.  Your goal is to subdue your opponent through sheer volume. Keep it up, wear them down - it's psychological warfare in its most primal form and it works to undermine your opponent's size advantage. Noise alone will secure you a quick victory in public and/or when surrounded by onlookers.

Emotion
Let the emotions fly, the faster the better. Anger, sadness, frustration, fear, hurt, ... Don't hold back. Quick emotional flip-flops will unbalance your opponent who is trying as hard as possible to stay calm. If you can't undermine their calmness through your emotions, play on theirs: "I don't like you very much!"; "You are so mean"; "You promised!"; and so on.

Guilt
Your opponent may try to make you feel guilty for behaving as you are or for not backing down. Ignore these feeble tactics. If your opponent is much older than you they have a lifetime of pent-up guilt you can manipulate to your advantage: "Why don't you ever give me anything"; "You're the worst parent ever"; "You're making me sad"; "Grandma lets me stay up as late as I want". (That last one is really a probe - see if your opponent has deep-seated guilt issues associated with his or her relationship with his or her parents. If you see a twitch or a wince, go for the jugular).

Obstinance
The Free Dictionary defines obstinance as: "Resolute adherence to your own ideas or desires." Stubbornness. Mulishness. Pigheadedness. Dig in your heels as deep as you can and don't move at all. Some negotiators believe you should find middle ground and work towards that. Nope. That's for grownups. You can get everything you want on your terms if you don't budge.

Tears
Your one differentiated advantage over your opponent is tears. You can make them happen at will. Your opponent cannot. Tears generate guilt, they demonstrate emotion, they come with noise. Your opponent is not going to cry, so you must! When you must stop the tears in order to hear whether or not your opponent has capitulated yet, make sure to snivel. Sniveling is like kryptonite to your opponent; it will make your opponent deeply regretful ("What am I doing? Look what I've done to this child. Time for a hug...") BOOM! Victory.

Irrationality
Throughout the showdown, it is extremely important that you maintain total and complete irrationality. Past agreements don't matter. Earlier promises and earlier arrangements are irrelevant. There is no such thing as precedent. Every negotiation exists in a vacuum and nothing else matters except what's going on in the moment. You can be rational later, or not, but now is not the time for that kind of weakness.

And...

Threatened Estrangement
It is not always necessary to get to this stage in the negotiation, but it is very effective if you need to snatch victory from impending defeat. Your opponent can't threaten to run away. Your opponent can't tell you they won't love you anymore. Your opponent is legally bound to protect and nourish you for years to come. You, on the other hand, are not bound by any of these things, so fire away.

(Stay tuned for the next installment in LLLA5YO: #18 How to Shop Like a 5-Year Old )

A Picnic! Oh Joy.

Partook in a picnic yesterday with two daughters and a wife (all mine).

Close your eyes for a minute and think about going on a picnic. Nice, right? Sunny sky, warm breeze, wispy clouds slowly drifting overhead against a deep blue backdrop, plaid blanket spread out on a green manicured lawn, a wicker basket with one side carelessly tossed open to reveal a red and white inner lining, some carefully wrapped food, maybe some champagne and two glasses. A lovely family with smiling faces, wind tousled hair, faces flush with the joy of togetherness and outdoors-iness.

Ah, the family picnic.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH (that's the sound of the needle on a record player being ripped across an LP which had, until that moment, been playing easy listening jazzy picnic music).

Now here's the reality:

• Damp ground with bald spots. No way I'm putting my nice clean blanket on that. Let's sit at a picnic table instead.
• Bird shit on the picnic table. Yum.
• Is that the only drink you brought? Where's the mustard? You forgot the bocconcini that was in the fridge that we wanted to get rid of. And the prosciutto. Did you bring any fruit?
• Don't put your sandwich down on the table Micaela. Not clean. NOT clean.
• Oh look at that cute dog that's visiting our table. Aw, he's got a saliva infused rubber ball in his mouth, and he's gently waving it around near our food. How cute! He wants to play with us.
• Wait, there's another dog... a German shepherd! And this one likes to bark ferociously and strain at his leash to kill us. Aw.
• Now the gale force gentle breeze keeps blowing the plastic wrap away from the table. Don't worry, though, because we don't litter and Daddy will keep getting up and running across the park to catch up with it. Why secure the plastic somehow when Daddy's young and can run forever?
• Oh dear, the bugs have found us now! How could that be? Surely they should know better than to be attracted to the food we've left uncovered on the filthy table because the plastic wrap keeps blowing about. But again, don't worry. Daddy loves bugs. He's walking away from the table with his sandwich because he's trying to draw them away from the rest of us...not because he's fleeing.
• I know! Let's play Frisbee. Sure, the 5-year old has never thrown one before. But let's stand way far apart and pretend she'll be able to throw it to us. Oh, the 21-year old likes to throw the Frisbee too. And vertically! Let's also pretend she'll be able to throw it to us and keep dashing about trying to chase it in the many random directions she flings it. One more thought: Let's get Mom - all wrapped up in the picnic blanket to keep warm - into the game as well. Sure, she can't catch with her hands under the blanket, but what could be more fun than throwing things at her?
• Time to do something else. How about a nice walk in the surrounding Hundred Acre Woods? Bye Mommy. We'll see you when we get back to the car. We're not afraid of a few mosquitoes like you are.
• Isn't this nice. Just Daddy and two of his daughters. Walking in the woods. With swarms and swarms of mosquitoes. And poison ivy. "Leaves of three, let them be!" Whee!
• Time to go now. See if you can keep up with Daddy as he flees to the car waving the Frisbee madly in all directions to keep the swarms at bay. Wow, he can run fast. Why is there blood on the Frisbee?
• All together again. Enjoying our fine picnic dessert. So cool and refreshing. No bugs. No dogs. What could be better than this? Thank you Yogurty's!

Note: I exaggerate. We had a fine picnic. Great idea 21-year old. Lots of fun. We missed you 19-year old. (at least you can throw a Frisbee). It would be remiss of me not to mention the Monastery Bakery that provided our picnic food in all of its deliciousness. If you haven't been to Oakville before, you probably don't know about their potatoes. If you live in Oakville, you certainly do. If there is a better potato on the planet, I have yet to meet it.

The Cautious Princess - A Parable

Once upon a time in a faraway land there lived a young princess. Princess Milaeca was a cute little thing, who loved to play, to run, to dance, to sing, and to talk. Her older Princess sisters loved her dearly, as did the King and Queen, her parents. They loved her so much, in fact, that they never wanted to see her get hurt. Whenever she would approach danger of any kind, big or small, they would overreact in order to protect her.

As she grew into childhood, she herself became very fearful of getting hurt, because those around her had always taken such care in attending to her safety.

When she played with other children, she would stand and watch when they did the fun, but potentially dangerous, things that children do. On a trampoline, her feet would barely leave the ground before she had had enough. She feared swings. She wouldn't jump into the fun foam pits that would be set up for children's play during the Kingdom's many festivals. She would always hold hands with a grown-up, and never stray off more than a few metres when they went to the local market.

The people around her began to think of her as cautious, but always acted with her as if she were very, very brave when she would go on a swing and let them push her (just a bit), or stand on a trampoline and carefully lift one leg at a time in a pantomime of jumping, or step gingerly into a foam pit with a look of great accomplishment. So despite being very, very cautious, Princess Milaeca never thought of herself thus.

In fact, in those times when she pushed herself to overcome her fears and get onto the trampoline, the swing, or the edge overlooking the ball pit, she thought of herself as the bravest Princess ever.

And only her father, the King, who was equally cautious as a child understood this. And sure, the King had to live with the memories of having scorn heaped on him by his sisters and his parents and his wicked brothers-in-law (one of whom tried to get him to jump into the pool once for 7 weeks and gave him wedgies), but he nevertheless became a great and accomplished King. (And it never bothered the King that even his mother, his dear, dear mother, the former Queen, who loved him dearly, once called him a 'chicken' to his face. Nor did he remember the incident or refer to it ever again. Even though he sometimes wondered how she could do that to him. How could you? I WAS YOUR SON. YOUR SON...)

Um.

So Princess Milaeca was always safe, always happy, and never ever got hurt. The end.

Learn About 11 Interesting Poetry Forms

In David's continuing quest to enlighten and educate his readership, he today provides information and examples that illustrate eleven fun poetry forms. Information about the poetry forms is from shadowpoetry.com.   

To illustrate the forms, I use the same common and simple verse as an example for each, so that the instructions are as accessible and clear as possible.
 

Acrostic Poem

(where the first letter of each line spells a word)

For Gene, who made the machine, it was a blow
And Joe who made it go, felt some woe
Resulting from Art's part in what came to pass:
The machine's choking end from poison gas.

Ballad

(a short narrative poem with stanzas of two or four lines and usually a refrain)

The Balled of Gene's Machine

Refrain:
Oh Gene, he worked so long
To build his brave machine
And Joe, he made it go
And brought a smile to Gene.

(I)
One day into their town,
Came Art, a steamy lad.
Unbeknownst to Gene and Joe,
His arrival boded bad.

(II) 
A machine's but wires and cogs
And assorted other parts.
It will last for years and years,
Lest exposed to young men's farts. 

(III)
The story's widely known
How Art wrecked Gene's machine.
But what's never been made plain
Is how he also wrecked his jeans.

Cinquain

(a short, usually unrhymed poem consisting of twenty-two syllables distributed as 2, 4, 6, 8, 2, in five lines)

Machine
Young Gene made it
Joe set it in motion
Art passed gas to blow it apart
That stinks

Epitaph

(a brief poem inscribed on a tombstone praising a deceased person, usually with rhyming lines)

Here lies Genes' machine.
Without brain, nor lung, nor heart.
Yet brought to life by Joe,
And destroyed by passing Art.

Haiku

(a Japanese verse consisting of three unrhymed lines of five, seven, and five syllables)

Soul of nuts and bolts
Made to go by Gene and Joe
Blown apart by Art

Lanturne

(a five-line verse shaped like a Japanese lantern with a syllabic pattern of 1-2-3-4-1)

Gene's

machine.

Joe pushed go.

Art's fart made it

stop.

Limerick

(a rhymed humorous or nonsense poem of five lines and a set rhyme scheme and syllable structure)

Gene designed a machine from some parts
His friend Joe was the guy who pushed 'start' 
Art, a sometimes third pal
Wasn't feeling so well
And blew Gene's work apart with his farts.

Monorhyme 

(a poem in which all the lines have the same end rhyme)

A guy named Eugene
Built  himself a machine.
His friend Joe joined the scene,
To hit the 'start' on its screen.
It roared to life nice and clean,
With a glowing proud sheen.

Art, also there, but unseen,
With distress in his spleen,
Caused by one extra bean,
In his Southwest cuisine,
Made a fart most obscene,
That best fit a latrine.

One can't intervene,
Once parts start to careen,
Here, there, and between,
Like a child on caffeine.
So soon naught stood where there'd been
The device so pristine.

(So said the news magazine)

Nonet

(has nine lines. The first line has 9 syllables, the second line 8 syllables, the third line 7 syllables, etc...)

Young Gene made a really nice machine
Friend Joe spent time to make it go
Art flatulated with zest
Thus rendering Gene's work
Out of commission
Until such time
Gene can fix
It all
Up.

Palindrome Poetry

(a poem that reads the same forward or backward)

Art
Is farting
Thus blowing machines
Blowing thus,
Farting is
Art

Tyburn

(a 6 line poem consisting of 2, 2, 2, 2, 9, 9 syllables. The first 4 lines rhyme and are all descriptive words. The last 2 lines rhyme and incorporate the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th lines as the 5th through 8th syllables)

Glowing
Flowing
Knowing
Blowing
Gene devises glowing, flowing part.
Art breaks without knowing, blowing fart.

If Soft Parenting is a Crime, I am Guilty Guilty Guilty

I'll be the first to admit that all three of my daughters have suffered needlessly and silently as a result of
soft parenting.

My wife and I are soft parents. There. I said it. I'll leave it to my better-half to confirm or deny.

My older daughters, now off in University, bear the scars of having been raised by softies. Sure, they're intelligent, confident, hard-working (when they feel like it), kind, fun-loving, generous and all-around good people (not to mention beautiful, but that might be less about the parenting and more about the parentage). But they're also

• a tiny bit - and I do mean just a tiny bit - sensitive, in absolutely the sweetest way possible;
• a smidge competitive (not the kind that makes you compete hard; the kind that makes you dislike not winning even when you didn't compete hard);
• a wee bit fond of being pampered (at least around their parents). 

On that latter point, I will say this in defense of my inclination to pamper the women and girls in my life: I pamper with a purpose. It's part of a very well thought-out strategy. I pamper, I cater, and I indulge - and in return I get to have not let them down. A fair trade indeed.

Once, when my eldest was little, she wanted eggs. She felt like eggs. We had no eggs in the house. Her eyes started to water. She really wanted eggs. I went out and bought eggs from the grocery store. End of story. The hurricane raging outside, as it turns out, did not kill me. The thought of my little daughter, who really really wanted eggs and was close to tears, nearly did.

My second daughter probably got pampered too, although I can't remember any specifics. (Like grains of sand on the beach, who can recall but one of them?)

And I'm fairly sure my five-year old is feeling the effects of soft parenting as well. I don't really have the will (or the space) to list all the examples, so I'll instead share a few symptoms:

• We play ALL the time (thanks to whomever told her that her work is play) and when I don't want to play anymore she explains to me that that's not really an option;
• When she has to go to bed, she's genuinely puzzled and troubled by the fact that I get to stay up later than she does;
• When we do the 1-2-3 thing, while it works, she'd be hard-pressed to explain why;
• When we give her a time limit on something, she's okay with it as long as we don't set a timer (timers follow-through, her parents not so much); 
• When she's at the dinner table and needs something, rather than getting up to fetch it herself, she simply makes her needs known and expects me to go get it for her (no wait...that's her older sisters I'm thinking of...but how could I have attributed something they used to do so long ago to Micaela......no wait...)

Point is, I'm a soft parent. I know it. They know it. The two or three people who read my blog now know it too.

But lest you leave here today thinking that I'm completely spineless I will tell you that there are three times when I am not a soft parent:

• At bed time. That's when Daddy gets stubborn. That's when tears don't work. That's when bargains cannot be struck. Don't bother fighting Daddy at bedtime.
• When something matters to me. Very, very occasionally, something matters and I dig in my heels. I get angry. I get stubborn. Those are the times when all of the women I live with know to just back away. It doesn't happen often - because it usually involves the Leafs and the playoffs - but when it does...
• When there's a spider that can't be ignored. Daddy won't do that for you. Don't even ask.

Just remember, soft parenting may be why today's children feel so entitled and are so ill-prepared for the harshness of life outside the nest, but at least it keeps them coming back to the nest. Soft parents like that.

She Couldn't Resist: A Parable about Will Power

She had no will power whatsoever. She knew it. Her family and friends knew it. Even casual acquaintances like the merchant in the corner store and the tellers at the bank knew it.

She couldn't resist any sort of temptation, she couldn't impose any sort of discipline on herself or her life, and she couldn't stick to any promises she made to improve herself in any way. She had always been that way. In every other respect, she was a wonderful person.

As she grew into adulthood, she understood and basically accepted this weakness in herself. Sure, she'd always be a bit unhealthy because she had so little self-control when it came to food and because she couldn't stick to any kind of fitness regime beyond a day or two. Sure, it would be great to be that person who would just say no to the bad things in life and yes to the good. But she figured she'd be less happy that way if it meant depriving herself of things she loved, and so she made light of it when talking with close friends, stopped trying to change, and went on with her indulgences.

One day, Mr. Wright came into her life (Tony Wright, a very reputable lawyer in town).

While she might have believed that "love at first sight" was a fiction before the moment she saw him, she would forever after know that it was very real. And for whatever reason, he seemed to feel the same way about her.

They dated. They married. And their love for each other grew as they spent their first year together.

One of the things she loved most about him was that he didn't try to change her; in his eyes, she was perfect "as is". She wished (truly wished) that she could be better than she was if only for him, but she didn't have to be, so she wasn't.

On their first anniversary he gave her an ornate box that clearly wasn't new. It was about the size of the box that had contained her engagement ring almost two years ago by then, but this box was locked. He also handed her an envelope containing a card and a key (presumably, the key to the box). The card said:

Now that we've been married for a full year, I feel that it's time to entrust you with an important secret of mine: one that could have a significant impact on our life together. I'm not telling you the secret now, but a time may come when I have to. For now, I ask you to hold on to this box and keep it safe. The secret lies within it. It is locked away and within your power to discover, but I ask you not to open the box until the time comes when I ask you to. Trust me enough to hold onto my secret without knowing what it is. My gift is trust and love and I ask for the same in return. You know I love you as you are. You know I have never asked you to be anyone other than who you are. I know how hard it is for you to resist temptation. For me, I ask you to resist this one.

(He also gave her some flowers, a nice dinner out, and a new sweater.)

He couldn't have done anything worse to her. The box was constantly on her mind. It gnawed at her. Its presence on her dresser was a constant torment. The key that she put into the top dresser drawer became an obsession. Staring at the box at night, she could almost imagine it throbbing in concert with her heartbeat; pounding as she agonized over its presence. What could be in the box? What's this secret that could significantly impact our lives? Is this a trick? Is he testing me? Is there something really bad in there that I need to know about? Did he love someone else before me? Is it a bullet and he's telling me he once killed someone? Could it be something valuable that he stole? HOW COULD HE DO THIS TO ME?????

She held out for as long as she could...until the next morning when they both left for work.

Circling back to the house after pretending to head off to the office, she went straight to their bedroom, grabbed the box off the dresser, pulled the key from the drawer, and unlocked the box. Before opening the lid, she tried one last time to stop herself, but by this time her hands were no longer within her control...

Inside the box she found a red jelly bean.

Now she had a real dilemma on her hands (along with some red dye). She needed to know the significance of the jelly bean. It didn't make any sense. How could a jelly bean have an impact on their life together as the anniversary card suggested? What did it mean?

But she of course couldn't ask him. She had betrayed his trust. He knew she was weak, he never expected her to change that in herself, but he had asked such a small thing of her and she had failed him. Clearly, she couldn't ask him about the jelly bean. She was stuck in a worse position now than she had been before opening the damn box.

Somehow, she found the strength to keep her questions to herself. She mustered every ounce of self-control and kept silent. For hours. For days. For weeks. For months. For years...

All that time, her mind cooked up explanations for the jelly bean. Most were absurd. None made sense. But she suffered such internal turmoil that it began to change her feelings about her husband. She wasn't sure she could trust him anymore. She began to resent him. Not knowing was having a greater impact on their life together than any possible secret related to the jelly bean could have. But still she kept silent.

The worst times for her were when he thanked her for the trust she placed in him by not opening the box. At those times, her will to keep secret what she had done held, but only barely.

In their twelfth year of marriage, he got very sick. It looked like he was going to die. She decided that before that happened, she needed to know about the jelly bean. Just as she started to ask him, though, he beat her to the punch: "All these years, you've held my trust. You've kept my box locked. You've fulfilled my belief in you. You've demonstrated greater self-control than any other person could have by not even asking me about it. And now, the time has come for you to learn my secret: Well before we met, I was diagnosed with an extremely rare disease that my doctor said could lie dormant for years before one day threatening my life. That day has now arrived. In the box lies a little red pill that I spent a small fortune to get my hands on. I need it now to save my life. I knew you would be by my side when this time came. I knew you would keep it safe. Please get it for me now."

She was confused: "Why didn't you just tell me that? Why hide that from me? Your illness wouldn't have changed how I feel about you. Why take the risk that when you needed the pill we'd be able to have this conversation and I'd be able to get you the pill your life depends upon? I don't get it."

He answered: "Simply put, I didn't want you worrying about me for years and years and treating me as frail in all that time. It's also true that I have always believed in you and I wanted to show you that you have an inner strength far beyond what you think. I bet my love and my life that you'd be able to resist the temptation to open the box. And now, not only will you save my life by giving me the pill, but you will also discover that you are a far better person for having passed this test of self-control."

"I opened the box the morning after you gave it to me," she admitted with dawning dread.

He paused, then smiling he said: "Oh well. I suspected you might have. But I married you knowing and loving who you are, and knowing and loving both your strengths and your weaknesses. I suppose that hearing that you opened the box - in a way - makes me love you all the more for having kept silent all these years to preserve my faith in you. Now please get the pill."

With resignation in her voice, she said what would turn out to be her final words to him: "Yeah... but I bet you didn't guess I'd eat the little red jelly bean I found in the box. It just looked so yummy."

His final, defeated words back to her were: "No. That is indeed a most unpleasant surprise."

He took his last breath moments later.

Epilogue

Months later she got an envelope from his Executor. In the envelope, there was a letter that had been written and sealed at the time of their first anniversary. It said:

If you're getting this letter, it means I died of my disease and you couldn't save me. Furthermore, it probably means that you couldn't resist the temptation to not only open the box, but also to eat the little red pill it contained. That's a shame. You probably feel terrible. I forgive you. I hope this has taught you a little bit about self-control. I hope the guilt you feel is enough to make you realize that you must exercise greater will-power from...

She stopped reading the letter before she could finish it. Her shows were coming on and she needed a snack. She opened the bag of jelly beans she had picked up for the office party the next day. She sobbed quietly as she polished off the bag.

David Does Deep

"The caterpillar sheds his skin to find a butterfly within." - Donovan, There is a Mountain

I like this lyric. It's kind of nice. It rhymes. And it seems like a good opening for some possibly pointless meanderings...

I grew up with a Dad who made it okay - nay, expected - to repeat the same jokes over and over again whenever the appropriate situation arose (and even when it didn't): 

• "What's snoo? Nothing much, what's snoo with you?"; 
• "You may think it's funny when you sneeze like that, but it's snot."; 
• "Rectum? Nearly killed him!"; 
• And so on. 

If something was funny once, it surely must be funny again and again and again and again.

Dad taught me other things as well; things that he'd probably characterize as wisdom. He would repeat these lessons again and again and again too, presumably making them more sage with each repetition (I'd make a spice joke here if I had the thyme).

One such lesson was that "You don't really become an adult until you are x" where x, until fairly recently, could be calculated by subtracting about 10 years from his age and/or adding at least 10 to mine. (I might be an adult now because he hasn't said this to me for a while, or maybe I will only become an adult at 50, or maybe the target is still moving...not sure.)

But let's assume I'm an adult now, even by Dad's standards. To use the image from Donovan's lyric above, can it be said that adult David is the butterfly and that before becoming the butterfly, throughout his prolonged childhood, he was the caterpillar? Was the process of growing up all about shedding a childhood skin to find the adult within?

Uh, no.

There was always a child-within and there still is, very much alive and well. There was never an adult just waiting to emerge from the cocoon of childhood. Growing up was/is all about constructing a skin around the child-within so that others would see him as an adult:

• The child who wants to stick out a foot as someone runs past;
• The child who can barely suppress a giggle when someone farts out loud at an inappropriate time (which is to presume that there is an appropriate time I guess);
• The child who gets angry when someone cuts in line, or sad when someone says something mean to him.

As I get to know myself better, I am better able to understand and embrace the child-within: I'm feeding my need to be creative by doing things like writing a blog and cooking; I'm getting a lot of pleasure out of running; I'm LOVING playing with a five-year old, and re-learning how to read with her, how to draw with her, and all the songs and books and stories of childhood; And I'm reconnecting with the people who knew me as a child.

The newly enlightened David sees that he had the image flipped before: It is the child-within that is the butterfly, the imagined-adult is the caterpillar, and the skin that must be shed is probably fear (the fear of child-like vulnerability, for example).

Is that what Dad was waiting for me to realize so that he could declare me an adult? Or was Dad just making one of his jokes (again and again and again)? 

"First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is." - Donovan, There is a Mountain

First you're a child, then you think you're not a child, then you realize that you never stopped being a child. And that makes you an adult.

"Be like boy! Be like boy! We like Roy!" - The Simpsons, Season 5 Episode 7, Bart's Inner Child

Deep, man.

A Note to My Daughter and My Daughter's Future Analyst

Micaela, to make things easier for you if you're ever seeing an Analyst years and years from now, here's why you have trouble dealing with being wrong...

------

About 7 weeks ago, we took out a CD from the Oakville Public Library that has a bunch of songs on it including "All Together Now". We've been listening to all of the songs over and over and over again.

All Together Now starts like this:
One, two, three, four
Can I have a little more?
five, six, seven, eight nine ten I love you.
A, B, C, D
Can I bring my friend _____?
E, F, G, H, I, J, I love you.

The blanks after "Can I bring my friend" are there because they're the source of this incident.

About 3 weeks ago, I heard you singing the words "Can I bring my friend to eat" while singing along to the song. I corrected you: "No, no Micaela. It's 'Can I bring my friend to tea'." (You will later tell me that I said "Can I bring my friend for tea", but that's not where we are in the story yet.)

You, of course, insisted that it's "to eat", but I left it at that.

Until the next time the song was on and you sang "to eat" again. I corrected you again. You disagreed. And we agreed to disagree.

Then Mom was in the car and it happened again. This time, I turned the volume way, way up so Mom could hear it and tell us which it was - without knowing who thought it was what. You cheated and sang your words on top of the loud music. Mom, realizing that she was being put in the middle of a dispute, chose to say she wasn't sure. (Although I believe she knew the truth).

On it went.

Until yesterday. With your second oldest sister and your Mom in the car, we turned the volume way up once again, you played it straight and kept quiet while we all listened to the lyrics. Clear as day, the singer said "to tea" and you refused to acknowledge it, insisting that it was "to eat". Your sister tried to diffuse the tension by saying it was "to bed" (which is a later verse and pretty funny, but not the point).

Finally, in Longo's, I pulled out my iPhone, Googled the lyrics, zoomed in on the words so they were really big, and had you read them. (Bet you didn't know reading could be used against you.)

I watched your face as you read the lyrics to yourself (Later, as an adult, you'll learn to read a few words ahead before saying things out loud and incriminating yourself in situations like this - but you just learned to read, so I had you). I watched as a little bit of innocence-lost washed over your face. I felt a little bad.

Until you looked up at me and said "Well, you said 'Can I bring my friend for tea' so we're both wrong." Only now did I take the high road and accept your admission of wrongness, flawed as it might be.

I should have left it at that. But later Mom asked what you wanted to do today. I answered "Maybe you should have a friend to tea."

Sorry about that.

In my defense, I should get a mulligan because I was right and you were wrong.

Anyways, tell your Analyst about the good times too.

Love, Dad.

I'm Not Writing a Post This Morning

Just wanted to let you know that I'm not going to write a post this morning. That's right. Not doing it.

Why?

I've got a few reasons:

1. I've got absolutely nothing to say. When I get that way, I make stuff up that isn't true and I don't want to betray the trust of my readers (dwindling as they might be, see below). Besides, as my Mom always says, "if you don't have something nice to say, have a sandwich". (She's never said that actually, but that's not the point.) 
2. I don't feel like it. The girls just went back to school after a great Reading Week together and I miss them. The last thing I feel like doing is writing a blog post. Speaking of Reading Week, it seems like a bit of a misnomer. And speaking of the word "misnomer", there sure are a lot of people who misuse that word. Look it up. Then look up the word "ironic".
3. I'm too busy. I simply don't have the time to devote to the creative process. It takes me days - even weeks sometimes - to write these posts. I don't want to cheat all of my readers (dwindling in numbers as they are, mind you) of my usual quality. See my earlier poem about cheese if you doubt what I'm saying.
4. My readership is dwindling. My recent scintillating posts barely attracted any eyeballs. Rather than doing something about it, like writing more scintillating posts, I'd rather just mope and write nothing. So there. (I don't know how to put emoticons into the post, or I can't be bothered, but if I did I'd put an emoticon of a little guy with his arms crossed, slightly perturbed eyes, a frowny face, and a clearly expressed "hmmmmph".) (By the way, the 'm' key stuck when I was typing "hmmph", but I like the way it came out so I left the extra 'm's in.)
5. I'm starting to forget when I've told someone something already, and I don't want to accidentally say something I've said before in an earlier post or Facebook status. For example, I know I've told a lot of you about my wife cancelling our fixed-fee snow shoveling service this winter because over the last couple of winters it hasn't paid. But I can't remember if I've already written a post about it, so I don't want to risk repeating myself by mentioning it again.
6. I'm starting to forget when I've told someone something already, and I don't want to accidentally say something I've said before in an earlier post or Facebook status. For example, if I mention how much my back is hurting this winter, I run the risk that I've already told you that.
7. My 'mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm' key keeps sticking. I could work around it by avoiding that letter, or by using the backspace key, but that key requires a long reach from mmmmy right pinky finger and I'mmmmmm having trouble mmmmmmustering the effort to mmmmmmmmake the reach.
8. I'm struggling to focus on anything for more than a few minutes. Even things that require only a tiny bit of focus, like keeping up my sticking 'm' key gag, are a challenge. If I'm not careful, this could lead to unsighly errors and lost credibility.
9. My dear wife (who cancelled my shoveling service this winter because over the last few winters it hasn't paid) says I'm writing too many posts and she doesn't have time to read all of them. I wouldn't want to do that to her, what with all the shoveling and all.

So there you have it. That's why I'm not writing a post this morning. I just thought I owed all of you devoted readers, both of you that is, an explanation.

David.

These Olympics Feel Different

It's not that long ago that Canada was a sadsack nation when it came to the Olympics - winter or summer. It wasn't that we never won anything; it was that we always seemed to be underachieving in sports where we legitimately should have done better.

When the medals came, they were truly special. They were generally unexpected. We were proud that we had finally managed to penetrate the veil of mediocrity that seemed to lie over the Olympics for us. Our winners were heroes. But so were our losers.

From our perspective, we were the good guys. We tried hard. We were nice. We were happy to be there and just happy to represent our country, even if that meant finishing 26th. And even when we were caught cheating, if felt like we were the only country nice enough to allow ourselves to be caught: The bad guys were getting away with it.

After every Games, we would wring our collective hands with angst that we hadn't done better. More money! Bigger and better sponsors for our athletes! More athletes! More pride! A killer instinct! Stronger support from Corporate Canada! And so on.

Well now we've arrived. We're with the big boys in Sochi. We are expected to dominate. We are expected to win. When we finish 26th, we get passing mention. When we win a Silver but were supposed to win a Gold, we've let the country down. When we come out of nowhere and win a medal we weren't expecting, that's a story; if we were expected to win it, it's just taking what was rightfully ours.

When we don't win something we were supposed to win, our first thought is that someone else must be cheating.

For me, this isn't nearly as fun as the Olympics used to be.

We used to pride ourselves on following all the sports and all the athletes, not just the Canadians. We used to be David and they were Goliath. We used to be sweet and gracious. The Olympics were a time when we proudly put on display our sportsmanship, not our egos. We used to be righteously indignant at how the Americans behaved. Now, we're the Americans.

Before you have to tell me I'm being unfair, I'll readily admit that my opinion has been formed based on a relatively small sample of Olympic viewing. The 9-hour time shift has me watching events after they've happened. Watching all day long, I might be seeing all the stuff I used to love: The events where we have no shot at a medal; the profiles of the athletes who aren't contenders; the sports that aren't on the North American radar at all.

I know there have been beautiful moments; there always are. Athletes who have devoted their lives to attaining world's-best status are amazing people who do amazing things. The problem I have isn't with them. It's with us.

I used the word "we" throughout this post to call out an Olympic (and sporting in general) pet peeve of mine: "We" aren't doing what the athletes are doing; They are. They have put in time, effort, passion, devotion, persistence, ... that we couldn't even imagine (now I do mean "we"). They have made the sacrifices. They have put their lives on hold. They do this every day, and once every four years we pay attention to them.

How ridiculous is it that they feel the need to apologize to us when they don't get the medal we expected of them? Who are we to expect anything?

---

Gotta go...short track luge is coming on.

The Lovely Princess Serena - A Parable

The lovely Princess Serena lived in a beautiful castle, surrounded by a lush countryside with babbling brooks, gently flowing hills, and green forests perfect for walking, picnicking, and playing.

She had everything a Princess could want: Loving parents and siblings; playmates who would happily spend hours with her playing in the fields and woods on the castle grounds; tutors who taught her all about the world and marveled at her attentiveness and desire to learn; a magnificent home with endless rooms to explore; an incredible array of fresh, delicious foods and drinks; and the seemingly unlimited potential to do anything she wanted now, as a child, and throughout her life.

Everyone saw in her the great Queen she would become one day, but what Serena wanted for herself was to be a Knight.

Her parents, siblings, playmates and tutors knew that Serena was an exceptional girl, and always spoke encouraging words to her, praising her for her competitive fire, her willingness to work hard in all endeavours, her sharp mind, her keen sense of humour, and (of course) her overall loveliness. They often marveled at the possibilities for the young lady, and talked with her about all that she could do in her lifetime as a Princess and future Queen. But when she shared with them her dream of one day becoming a Knight instead, they just shook their heads and said she couldn't do that.

At costume balls, all the other girls in the castle dressed up like princesses, fairies, and cute little farm animals. Serena wore chain mail and a helmet.

When she played tag or hide-and-seek with her playmates, Serena always changed the game so that the other children were being chased by dragons or wolves, and she was the brave Knight sent to rescue them.

In her lessons, the tutors taught her how to run a Kingdom, but she just wanted to hear about the daring exploits of the Knights who protected it.

She loved her parents, siblings, playmates and her tutors, but didn't understand how they could praise and encourage her in all things except her most precious dream. This led her to decide one day that if those around her weren't going to support her hope for her future, she needed to find someone who would.

The problem was that almost everybody in the castle was a parent, sibling, play-mate or tutor, or someone who served her family and would never stand with her in defiance of their wishes.

The only other person she could think of was the sullen and unfriendly stable-boy, Myron.

Myron wasn't like the rest of the people in Serena's life. He didn't fawn on her. He didn't seek her approval. He didn't smile. He didn't praise her. He didn't give her attention of any kind. In fact, he usually didn't even say "hi". Myron stood out to her as a potential ally exactly because he was so different from the rest in how he treated her.

Putting aside her usual discomfort with the stable-boy, she approached him one day and asked him to come riding out into the countryside with her so they could talk. He refused. The next day, she asked him to join her for one of her amazing meals in the castle. He declined. The day after that, she all but ordered him to sit with her while he ate his meager lunch during his brief mid-day break. He said no.

Giving up on Myron, she decided instead to enlist her father, the King, as the ally she sought. He, amongst all the others, at least didn't say she "couldn't" be a Knight, just that he'd "rather" she not. With that in mind, she confronted him a few days later as he was mounting up to tour the many villages around the castle.

He, of course, disappointed her as well. Impatiently, he said: "Serena. I don't have time to talk of this right now, but surely you know that this childhood fantasy of yours to be a Knight is something you will outgrow with time. You're a girl. Girls can't be Knights. You will one day be a Queen and that should be more than enough to make you happy." And then he rode off.

As Serena stood there, crestfallen, she heard Myron (off in a corner of the stable sweeping out a stall) mutter: "That's pretty cool that you want to be a Knight instead of a Princess."

Serena, embarrassed and angered by Myron having witnessed the scene with her father, spun on him in a rage: "What do you know about these things? You're just a lowly stable-boy!"

Myron lifted his head and answered her with quiet dignity: "No, Princess Serena, that's not true at all. I'm a Prince who always dreamed of being a stable-boy. I had to leave my own castle to become one, but here I am happily doing what I always wanted."

Serena and Myron never spoke again. They didn't have to.

Serena didn't need an ally or another friend. She had enough friends and family to last a lifetime. What she needed was the courage to do what she really wanted, even if she was the only one who believed she could.

And she did.

Making it Work

Making it work takes a little longer;
Making it work takes a little time;
Making it work takes a little longer;
Making it work takes a little time...

Doug & the Slugs, 1982

--------------

Recently, we switched the cable, internet and phone provider for our house. I am a little embarrassed to say that the process created a surprising amount of stress in my life. (Must be a pretty nice life, right?)

It got me thinking about a few things.

I started my career as a programmer years and years ago. In High School, I first learned about computing using punch cards. In University, it was languages like COBOL and Fortran and JCL. During my co-op work terms, I was programming chips, writing command-line processors, and even tinkering with machine-level techniques (writing Assembly language code, re-routing system interrupts...) to make DOS do crazy tricks.

It took a long time and a lot of effort to make those "early" computers do what you might believe to be laughably simple today. And when one encountered a bug, it could be days and even weeks of digging through bytes and bytes of dumped data to find the problem.

Eventually, it was always possible to find a solution. Sometimes, you didn't know why the solution worked, but it did and you would carefully document what you had done, cross your fingers that the fix (or workaround) would keep working, and move on.

Then all that machine-level stuff - having become relatively stable - would be neatly encased within higher-level languages, function calls, APIs, objects (etc.) so that no-one would ever have to re-write it and things would keep working. The low-level stuff became a construct we could count on.

And of course, that's the legacy inherited by everything that relies on computing today. Including the cable and internet in my house: Constructs within constructs that tend to work.

In the course of switching my house over from one cable/internet/phone provider to the other, some of the stuff that was working stopped working: My television could no longer connect to the internet so that I could use it to watch Netflix; My phone stopped being able to tell me when somebody left a message on it; TV shows would intermittently freeze for no reason; Network passwords changed and kept getting lost; My beloved TV channels were all over the place without any meaningful connection to where they used to be; And so on.

To get on top of it, I had to fix a bunch of micro things that I hadn't had to touch since the original provider had installed their equipment. My constructs were under siege!  

Observation #1: When stuff you count on stops working, even minor stuff, it is very very stressful. And when you change what's working, or change is thrust upon you, it inevitably stops working for a while (or it at least stops working the way it used to). It is far easier not to change, even if the end-state will leave you better than you were. 

Extrapolation #1: When change isn't a choice, the stress is worse.



Now in the case of my provider switch, MAKING IT WORK took a bit longer, took a bit of time...but a few weeks later, everything had pretty much reverted to normalcy...except some TV channels were still occasionally freezing.

We called in the technician.

The technician wasn't an idiot. He seemed like a nice and very intelligent guy. His training told him that when some TV channels freeze, try switching the cable box for another one. If that doesn't work, try switching the modem for another one. If that doesn't work, try switching the cables themselves, and the cable connectors. If that doesn't work, try switching the cable box again. And again. And again.

The technician sat in front of my family room TV for 4.5 hours working his way through 7 cable boxes (the first 3 were refurbished and the next 4 were brand new). He never once opened a cable box to see if something was wrong inside. He didn't tinker with any code. He didn't call another technician. The cable box was a construct for him. It worked or it didn't work. If it didn't work, it was broken.

I remember a few years ago one of the PC manufacturers started "fixing" your laptop's problems by sending you a new one. Presumably, that was a far easier, far less expensive solution than trying to actually find out why something was going wrong. We all lauded the manufacturer for their amazing customer service.

Other technology companies started doing the same thing, and today I'm guessing most of them do. I think, for example, that smart phone manufacturers will give you a new phone when something goes wrong with your old one rather than trying to fix the old one (if it's still under warranty, that is). Clearly, the cable/internet/phone providers have embraced the same service model.

Great when it works. Frustrating and pretty silly when it doesn't.

At around 11:00 pm, I put on my programmer hat and engaged the technician in a brief dialog about what else might be going on (beyond an amazing streak of broken cable boxes). Within 5 minutes we had hypothesized that maybe my TV's Netflix-enabling internet connection was conflicting with the cable box's internet connection. Within 10 minutes we had proven that to be the case and had found a work-around (connect the cable box first, then connect the TV). It may keep working. It may stop working again. The technician and I are both crossing our fingers.

Observation #2: We come to rely on our constructs.  When they stop working, we don't particularly feel like expending the effort to look inside and find out what's wrong. Sometimes, it doesn't even occur to us to do so.

Extrapolation #2: Change sometimes puts our constructs in jeopardy. Making them work again might take a little time and effort, including looking inside, but it is entirely possible.

So now, if you're still with me, I have a few questions for you:

• What change in your life is currently undermining one or more of your carefully protected constructs? Are you recognizing the stress that change is creating for you, understanding where it's coming from, and accepting that the stress is perfectly okay? 
• If you are stressing about a change, are you able to identify what constructs might be under siege? Can you see them for what they are (carefully created layers of solutions upon solutions that you stopped challenging long ago) and somehow muster the energy to look inside them to see what's no longer working?
• Are you willing to invest the time and effort to make it all work again?

Just because the technology companies have adopted a customer service model that says if something is broken just replace it with one that works, doesn't mean we should. To me, that's a dangerous construct that renders things (relationships? careers? people?) disposable once they stop working.

And that, dear friends, is my attempt at a little wisdom on this cold and miserable morning.