No, this blog has not been abandoned.

Yes, I am a terrible blogger.

These days it seems as though the things that are worthy of blogging would be inappropriate or unwise to post. Hopefully that will change sometime soon.

Jesus, I suck at this.  Here's all I got.

The day before Thanksgiving break, I chatted with a few co-workers about their Thanksgiving plans.  When they asked about my plans, I shared with them that I'd be taking Wednesday afternoon off from work so that I could clean up after Hank and Daisy's epic pie-making effort, which would undoubtedly cover the entire kitchen with flour.  I phrased it unfortunately.

Me:  Well, I think I'll be spending the afternoon deflouring the countertops.

Confused Coworker:  Deflowering your countertops?  Uhhhhhhh, I don't think you know what that word means.

Me:  What?.... Oh, no!  Jesus, I am NOT going to be having sex with the countertops!

I am not respected at my job.

Not long after the recent tsunami in Japan, which subsequently caused the Fukushima nuclear plant to leak radiation, I was contemplating the practice of renaming city streets after famous people.  Renaming a street causes all sorts of logistical havoc, so I was wondering what other ways we honor accomplished individuals.  This eventually led to a family discussion where we named all the rooms in our house after famous people who are in some way related to the activities in that room.

The kitchen?  The Alton Brown Kitchen

Upstairs bathroom?  The Albert Pujols Bathroom

Master bedroom?  The John Scalzi and Nina Totenberg Room

And because the toilet in the downstairs bathroom has a penchant for overflowing (which caused the great Poonami of 2011), we named that room Fukushima.  Obviously we need a new toilet, which is why I found Hank browsing toilet web pages yesterday, which led to this perfectly normal conversation.


Hank: What makes this difficult is the Americans with Disabilities Act.  The ADA compliant toilets are taller and I've talked to too many people who remodeled their bathroom, put in one of these ADA toilets and then ended up with various bowel issues and hemorrhoids.  It's just not natural for the body to poop while sitting so high up,  right?  So that limits which toilets...

Mike: Wait.  You have discussions with lots of people where they tell you have they hemorrhoids?

Hank: Uh..., sure.  It comes up.  So, the number of toilets which will...

Mike:  Talking about hemorrhoids "comes up"?  I don't think I have EVER discussed hemorrhoids with someone and you've had many people mention it?

Hank:  Yes, well, women talk about more things than men.

Mike:  Like hemorrhoids.

Hank:  Yes.

Mike:  Ok, so these many people who talk about their bowel issues like hemorrhoids, then they all follow up with, "and it's because of those damn ADA toilets"  This is a Thing?

Hank:  Well, they don't say that in so many words, but I piece it together.

Mike:  So, it goes like this.  They say, "Hi, Hank, I have hemorrhoids" and then you say, "Cool.  Hey, totally unrelated, have you recently remodeled part of your home and installed a toilet compliant with the Americans with Disabilities Act?"

Hank:  Sort of, yes.

Mike:  Wow.  I have learned something very unusual about you and your hemorrhoidy friends.

Hank:  Oh, you'd be surprised at the conspiracy theories I have.

It's kind of nice to have a little crazy in the marriage.

After a long run one Saturday morning about two months ago, I noticed that my foot was aching.  I rested it for a few days and then tried to run on it again.  No dice.  I pounded Advil for a few days, and rested for a week and tried to run again.  No dice.   Three more weeks passed and I tried to run again.  Nope, still hurt.

So, after two months of not being able to run across the street without feeling pain, I finally visited a podiatrist.

Before I tell you about that visit, may I first ask why someone would become a podiatrist?  Who wants to spend their whole life looking at damaged and diseased feet?  Podiatry school takes four years, which is the same length as medical school.  So, with three or four years of graduate school one could become a doctor, or a lawyer or.... a podiatrist?  Crikey, if I'm going to spend that long in school I had better come out of it with a degree in astronautology or maybe richguyicine instead of a being a foot doctor.  Is it that podiatrists want to help people but only if it doesn't involve creepy body parts like elbows or ears?  Just bizarre.

Anyway, two things were interesting about my visit.  First was that we chatted about my foot pain for a few minutes and the doc said, "Ok, I think I know what's going on, but let's take a look at how you walk first." Before I hopped out of the chair, I mentioned the fact that my foot hurt quite a bit first thing in the morning.

"Oh, right after you wake up?  That's quite significant!" he said, looking at me and nodding.

Seriously?  This fact that I barely remembered to mention was key to the diagnosis?  Were you about to diagnose foot cancer and recommend amputation when all of a sudden I rocked your world with this morning fact?  Maybe you could have asked?

I often mock the term "computer science" as being completely unscientific, but moments like this make me want to retract the science term from "medical science" too.

The second interesting thing about my visit was what happened after I showed the "doc" how I walked.  He was stunned, flummoxed even.  It was as though the field of podiatry had not yet invented the vocabulary to describe how I walked.

"Wow, your gait is very.... uh.... well... " and then he kind of trailed off, mumbling something about "rotational" and "pronate" but ultimately rallied with a conclusion of, "Your gait is atypical!"

This is not the first time I've heard this.  When I went to a high-end running shoe store a few years ago and showed them how I run, the employee was stumped.  He ultimately concluded that I had several opposing flaws in my gait and that no modern shoe could address them all, so it was best to just buy something comfy.  Similarly, when my running club held a biomechanics clinic, my coach all but forbid me from attending, explaining that it was only for people with fixable problems.

So the phrase "atypical gait" was what the doc kept returning to.  "Well, it was just a matter of time with that atypical gait" and "You're lucky that you didn't suffer more injuries with that atypical gait" were what he kept saying over and over.  At the end, when he was writing out my prescription for an anti-inflammatory (because tendonitis appears to be what was actually causing my pain), he had to pause for a moment, chuckle to himself, and say, "And, of course, there's your atypical gait."  It was as though he was anticipating being the center of attention at the bar that night while describing my walking style to all his podiatrist buddies.   Oh to be a fly on the wall at that gathering.

Well, it appears that the streets of San Francisco are safe from the sight of my unseemly running style for a few more weeks yet.  Enjoy while you can, fellow San Franciscans, for I well terrorize you with my atypical gait soon enough!

Here's what I knew about parenting going in:

1) There would be a period of years where I had to wipe someone else's ass for them.

2) Teenagers suck.

I knew there would be a bunch of stuff in the middle, but I figured that part was unknowable.  I mean, the rearing you do for a kid who ends up being an accountant is probably different than the rearing you'd do for a kid who ends up being Charlie Sheen.  What I've learned, however, is that in between phases 1 and 2 from above, there is a multi-year phase that all binds almost all parents together.

I refer, of course, to the lice years.

Ever since Daisy started school, we've received announcements several times a year warning us of the latest lice outbreak.  It's apparent, at least in big cities, that lice never goes away, it just moves around from one gaggle of children to another.  The cycle takes just long enough to make you think that maybe you're finally past that phase of parenting.  It visits Daisy's school a couple times a year.

We always check in with Daisy when we hear these announcements to see if her scalp is itchy.  Usually it isn't, and we figure we're safe.  This last time, however, she felt itchy.  Very itchy.

"Oh no," said Hank, "I feel itchy too."

This was not what I wanted to hear.  I scratched my head in thought and... Dammit!  I was itchy too!  Argh! I made a mental note to never touch my child again.

I don't know if you've ever checked another human being for lice, but it is a time-consuming, frustrating, and generally ooky-feeling activity.  It makes me feel incompetent and dirty (but not in the same way that sex makes me feel incompetent and dirty).

So, last week we paid to have someone come to our house and check us for lice!  Like we're apes with money instead of a social group!   I'm so proud.

Turns out, we're lice-free!  Daisy's new shampoo probably makes her itchy, while Hank and I probably suffer from psychosomatic itchiness.  Man, even just thinking about that lice makes me itchy RIGHT now.  Don't you feel itchy thinking about your scalp crawling with lice?  Contemplate that for a moment.

Nobody ever thinks about this part of parenting when they're putting their penis in their wife's vagina. Imagine how many fewer children there would be if people had to read this blog post before having sex! My blog is the ultimate birth control.  You are welcome.

Hank and I walked into the movie theater lobby and noticed the enormous line at the ticket window.  Thankfully we had bought our tickets online, so we sashayed over to the ticket machine (because the ladies love it when I sashay), I swiped my credit card, and we grabbed our tickets.

"You guys getting a refund from that machine?" one of the guys in line asked

"Refund?  No, we just bought our tickets.  Is that line for refunds?!?" I replied, a bit confused

"Yeah!  Did you notice the fire alarm going off?" he asked, gesturing to the flashing lights.  "The theaters all got evacuated."

I blinked at him a few times.  I looked down at the tickets I had just received.  I turned to Hank.

"This is the first movie we've made it out to see in forever.  This theater is NOT on fire.  Let's go see our movie."

We strode across the lobby (an evacuation is no time to sashay) and got to the escalator leading to the upper floors where the theaters and concession stands are.  A security guard stood at the top of the escalator.  I turned to Hank again.

"Well, they didn't turn the escalator off.  I guess it's ok to head on up to our movie," I suggested, grabbing Hank's hand and leading us onto the Up escalator.

The security guard's eyes bugged out of his head and he made a u-turn gesture with his hand, implying that we should somehow turn this thing around.  We continued riding up to the top.

"What are you doing?!?!" he asked, "The theater is being evacuated!"

"It doesn't really seem like the building is on fire.  I figured they'd turn off the alarm soon," I stated, willing it to be true.

He sternly suggested that we go back downstairs and leave the building.  So, we rode the Down escalator as he searched for the button to turn off the Up escalator.  We then waited back on the lobby floor, as the security guard made shooing motions towards us.

About 60 seconds later a bunch of firefighters exited the upstairs theaters and came down the escalator.  The security guard rummaged around a bit and turned the Up escalator back on.  Apparently the fire alarm was over.  So, Hank and I rode the escalator back up, followed by a horde of other moviegoers.

We made our way to the concession stand and were first in line.  And we waited.  And we waited.

Whatever employee had been assigned to this stand was no longer around.  All I really wanted was some Junior Mints and a water.  We waited a bit more.

"This is a stupid amount of time to wait for Junior Mints and water," I declared, looking around for a solution to the problem.  The cases holding the bottled water were all locked, but the swinging gate leading to the employee side of the concession counter was open.

So, I went through the gate and magically appeared on the other side of counter.

(Note, when I was telling this story to my rule-following daughter the following morning, when I got to this part, she dropped her head into her hands and muttered, "This did NOT happen".  Apparently she has inherited her desire to make things true by saying them from me.)

"Ok, where are the Junior Mints?" I exclaimed, rubbing my hands together in excitement at my new career.

A woman on the sucker-side of the counter pushed forward to the front of the line.

"Can I PLEASE get a diet coke?" she begged, grabbing a cup from the stack and handing it to me.

I filled up the cup and then belatedly asked if she wanted ice.  Turns out, I was still learning the job.  She didn't want ice, so I handed her the cup, issuing my first comped drink of the day.  I figured as the sole concessionaire, that sort of thing was at my discretion.

Now it was Junior Mint time.  Those buggers cost $4.25, so I slapped down a $5 bill and retrieved the mints from the candy counter.  I was still stymied by the locked cabinets with the bottled water, so I decided to just get some Sprite instead.  I filled up a cup and left another $5.00 on the counter, overpaying for this drink which I didn't really want anyway.

It was right about then that an actual theater employee walked up.

"SIR!  WHAT ARE  YOU DOING?" she asked, somewhat alarmed at finding me serving up snacks.

So, I told her.

"Well, I wanted some Junior Mints and water, but you guys locked up all the water so I had to get a Sprite instead.  I left $10.00 here on the counter," I said, pointing at the money, "but really I'd prefer to get a bottled water.  Would you mind fetching the water and getting my change?"

This was maybe the smartest thing I have ever said in my life.  This is kind of like when a dog starts viciously barking at you, and you stand your ground and yell, "SIT!".  Hearing a command out of context like that will sometimes reset the dog.  It worked the same way with the theater lady.  She promptly fetched the water and gave me my change.

"Thanks!" I said

And, as I exited back through the swinging gate, to the land of customers, several people in line broke out in applause as the theater employee simultaneously called for security to come to the concession stand.

Hank and I quickly snuck into our theater, sashaying all the way.

And Cowboys and Aliens was kind of weak, but I had a great time.

*update*  Here's a pic Hank took me fetching the Junior Mints

There are moments in your life when the ground underneath you shifts a bit.  Maybe one of those moments was when you got your first job and felt a little more grown-up.  Maybe another was the first time you got dumped and discovered a canyon of pain you never knew existed.

One of those moments happened to me last month.  It was shortly after the VP of Marketing at my job sent out an email that said something to the effect of: "Next Wednesday will be our first monthly themed dress-up day.  For the first one, everyone is encouraged to dress up as one of our company founders!"

Eep.  Dress-up day.    When I see "morale boosters" like this, I think of one of two things:

1) When Marge on the Simpsons got a job at the nuclear power plant and suggested that they do a "Funny Hat Day."

2) Flair from the movie "Office Space"

Terrible, just terrible.  Trying to boost morale this way at a tech company is like trying to boost morale at a McDonalds by telling employees that you're doubling the amount of RAM in the cash registers.  It's just the wrong approach for that audience.

The most terrible part of this, however, was the realization that since I'm now a manager, rather than getting to sit in the back of the classroom preparing my spitballs of mock,  I needed to support this bucket of lame.  Oh, how the snarky have fallen.

So, I managered-up and came to work that day festooned with a hastily-grown goatee and the cheapest and least blurrying eyeglasses I could find at the drugstore.   I then spent much of that day explaining to my apparently unobservant co-workers that, no, I don't normally have a goatee, and no, I don't really need glasses.

"Are you sure you don't need glasses?" one woman asked.

"I'm sure," I sighed, launching into my well-worn speech about how the only good sense I have is my sense of vision blah blah blah.

"If you don't need glasses, then why do you hold your iPhone like this whenever you look at it?" she asked, holding her phone at arm's length as though she were an old person looking at a tiny, blurry, and unnecessarily new-fangled gadget.

That question stopped me dead in my tracks.  I didn't hold my phone that way.  Why would I?  My vision is great.  Someone was projecting.

The next morning, as I was making breakfast for Daisy, I stared at the comically teeny print on the sticker on the plum.   Why did they make it so tiny?  The print reminded me of how over the last few years the font on medicine bottles has become ridiculously small.  I shook my head at the idiocy of people who make labels and their battle to out-small each other.

I paused during this hilarious internal monologue and walked over to my backpack where I had thrown my costume from the previous day.  I grabbed the eyeglasses and peered at the plum again.  Crystal clear this time.

Dammit!  I need glasses!  I'm oldening!

Stupid dress up day.  Stupid passage of time.  Stupid 3-point fonts.

Next theme dress-up event?  Dress like a pirate day.  Can't wait to find out that a peg leg works better than my real legs.

Hank:  So, what do you think you'll do for your mid-life crisis?
Me:  I'm not sure.  What am I allowed to do?
Hank:  How about a nice fast sports car?
Me:  Eh, I don't drive much.  Plus, that sounds expensive.  What else you got?
Hank:  Ummm, maybe some inappropriate hugs with your friends?
Me:  Did you say "hugs"?
Hank:  Yes, with your guy friends.
Me:  Uh, no.  How about something with hookers?
Hank:  You are NOT allowed to be alone with hookers.
Me:  How many hookers do I have to surround myself with before we're not "alone"?
Hank:  Let me rephrase.  You may only be in the company of hookers in a public place.
Me:  Like a sex club?

Hank stared at me, calculating.

Hank:  Yes.... like a sex club.
Me:  So, I'm allowed to go to a sex club with hookers?

She snorted.

Hank:  Sure.  Go for it.
Me:  You know that they have sex in sex clubs, right?
Hank:  I know THEY do, but you?  You'd last about five minutes in there before running out the door.

So, I guess that's my mid-life crisis plan, then.  Maybe I should have gone for the sports car.

I've been a professional programmer for over 20 years. The languages have changed, the techniques have changes, the computers have changed, and the buzzwords have changed. The only common thread is that I've always been programming and never doing anything hokey like "managing" (whatever the hell that means).

I've been at my new company for about 8 months now.  After about 2 months there, my boss took me aside:

Boss:  With all the growth we've experienced, we're reorganizing our engineering group.  We'd like for you to be a manager here.  Does that sound like something you'd like to do?

Me:  Oh, good god, no.  That would be a train-wreck.

She skulked away and the status quo remained for a few more months until she quit and her boss came to me.

New Boss: I know that you said previously that you didn't want to manage people, but I want you to know that that option is still available.  I think you'd do a good job at it.  Have you considered it?

Astonishingly, I had been considering it.  I'd spent a good portion of those months interviewing people in their 20s for our open developer positions and was wondering if perhaps programming was a job best suited for people decades younger than me.  I answered her with words I thought would never come out of my mouth.

Me:  Yes, I am seriously considering it.  Maybe I should be a manager.

So, I talked to a few other managers, lost a lot of sleep, watched as my stomach slowly seized up into a tight little knot, and eventually decided to take the plunge.  I chatted with her again after a meeting.

New Boss:  So, have you come to a decision?
Me:  I have, but first I need to confirm something.  This meeting we just had, it's one that you organized but frankly I should have organized it months ago.  It's shameful and embarrassing that I didn't have the planning and organizational skills to do this myself.  Am I really the guy you want managing engineers?
New Boss:  Yes.
Me:  Have you seen my resume?  It's Programmer This and Data Wrangler That.  There is NOTHING in there that would indicate that I should be a manager.  What on earth makes you think I can do this?
New Boss:  Mike, I'm confident that the areas where you might be inexperienced are areas where I can help you and fill in.  The areas where you're strong are the areas that I need the most help.

And so it was done.  I was managing 3 other engineers.  I demonstrated my skills to my new boss with conversations like this:

New Boss: So, how was that status meeting?  Was it useful?
Me:  Yeah, lots of good information.  I wrote down some notes so that I can pass on the info to my engineer, Kevin.
New Boss:  Don't worry about that.  I'll be covering this with Kevin myself.
Me:  But, but, I'm supposed to have weekly check-in meetings with each of my engineers.  This was going to be what I talked about.
New Boss:  These weekly check-in meetings are for you to find out how they're doing.  Just talk to them about how they're feeling.
Me:  Feeling? That's ridiculous.  I can't spend 30 minutes doing that.  I need to filibuster to fill time!

After a few months of that, another manager in the organization left.  New Boss asked me to take on his engineers as well as a few other engineers we had picked up in an acquisition.  That gave me about 10 people to manage.  I plugged away at it with my usual wide-eyed fear and ineptitude.  This week I sat down with New Boss for my first review.

New Boss:  You've done several things very well.  People like working with you and I think you have good instincts about how to treat people.  However, although people appreciate your self-deprecating sense of humor, I think as a manager you need to show a little more confidence.  I need you to be a leader and convey to the people around you that you know what you're doing.  If someone asks you a question you don't know how to answer, it is ok to say, "Let me get back to you on that" but....
Me:  But I shouldn't say, "Oh, I'm a total idiot about that sort of thing!"
New Boss:  Exactly!  Don't say that any more.
Me: So, all you need me to do is change the person that I've been for the last 43 years?
New Boss:  I thought this might be a tricky issue for you.

So, uh, this should be amusing.  Train, meet wreck.

There's a mirror in our dining room right across from the chair I normally sit in. It's been there for years, so it wasn't very unusual that I was able to see myself during lunch yesterday.

I took a bite of chicken and caught a glimpse of myself chewing in the mirror.  I noticed that my jaw wasn't going straight up and down, but made a slight circular motion as I chewed.  I had never seen anything quite like it.  Well, that's not exactly true, it was vaguely reminiscent of a cow chewing its cud.

"Oh my god!"  I blurted out to Hank and Daisy, "Look how weird I'm chewing!"

"Yeah?  So?" asked Hank

"Have I ALWAYS chewed this way?  Like a cow??" I asked incredulously.

"Yes.  That's just the way you chew," she answered very matter-of-factly, as though it was perfectly normal to be married to a ruminant.  Daisy nodded in agreement.

Note that I've been living in this body for more than 43 years now.  Although I'm not the world's most observant guy, I've spent a fair percentage of that time cataloguing my flaws from head to Frankentoe.  It is unfathomable to me that I've never noticed that I chew like a cow.

"And you never thought to mention this to me?!  You never thought to say, 'Hey, Mike, you chew in weird circles' ?"

"Well, really, it's a effective way for the teeth to grind up food," Hank offered helpfully.

"YES, IF YOU'RE A COW CHEWING GRASS!  Let me watch you guys chew!" I demanded.

Hank and Daisy then each demonstrated their chewing technique.  They chewed like humans.

"My god," I moaned, "I can't believe you never mentioned this.  Personally, I cherish each one of your flaws that I notice, knowing that I can lord them over you."

Hank stared at me.

"Also, you walk like a girl and you throw like a sissy," she replied after a moment's hesitation.

"I... walk... like... a... girl.  How exactly do I do that?"

"I don't know.  Something about how your hips swish."

Godddddddaaaaaaammmmmmmn!  Of course the most astonishing thing about this conversation was that it was probably my favorite part of my weekend.

Daisy: I've got to work on a science project this weekend.
Me:  Oh yeah?  What about?
Daisy:  Earthquakes.
Me:  Cool!  What's your project?
Daisy: I'm writing a song and making a music video.
Me:  You're.  Singing.  And.  Dancing.  For..... Science?   Are all the kids doing music videos?
Daisy:  No, some of the other kids are doing essays or worksheet packets.

I was on the verge of launching into a diatribe about the quality of education in Daisy's school when I was struck by a vivid memory from my own high school years.  I recall, after reading the Greek tragedy Antigone, being given the option to either write an essay or perform a musical.  So, a week later I found myself crouching behind an overturned table with two of classmates, performing a sock-puppet lip-synching musical summarizing the plot of Antigone.   It was superficial, insightless, and got an 'A'.

At some point during that year's Advanced Placement English class, my friends and I had learned that if you did something, anything really, that involved turning off the lights to present it, you'd magically get an 'A'.   So, that year, in lieu of doing various essays, I filmed a short movie, made the aforementioned sock puppet musical, performed a satirical interpretive dance, and, yes, made a music video.  We did anything we could to get out of writing essays because as easy as it was to get an 'A' on a bit of fluff during an interpretive dance, it was equally difficult to bluff your way through an actual essay.  That teacher taught me more about writing during the few essays I couldn't avoid than anyone else has, before or since that class.  (Obviously I've forgotten it all now, but just trust me that I knew how to write properly at one point.)

That teacher, Mr. Richard Friss, died last year.  I dearly regret not letting him know what a valuable teacher he was to me.  So, am I ok with Daisy doing a music video for science?  I think I am.

For the record, here are her lyrics, which are to be sung to the tune of "I'm Looking Through You" by the Beatles.  And, yes, Hank did help her a bit.

There is an earthquake.
Where do I go?
I feel the ground shake
And the lights are low.
Liquefaction
Is so my foe.
There is an earthquake.
Where do I go?


The magnitude of
a seven point five
Causes destruction
and the loss of life.
Tectonic plates
Are adrift.
The motion of magma
has caused this rift.


Why tell me why
do I smell gas right now?
I would love to know
just what do do and how.


A fallen plate has
Crashed to the floor.
I hope there are not
too many more.
Duck and cover
Is the way
To keep my head safe
On this bad day.


Why tell me why
do the faults act up?
I see the ripples
bounce around in my cup.


Mercalli Intensity
Is level nine.
The floor and walls are
out of line.
This terrible shaking
Is hurting my brain.
This building will fall
right out it's frame.

Went with the family this afternoon to go see a community theater production of the musical "The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee".

I'm not a huge fan of musicals, but spelling bees are undeniably good theater.  Plus, I still have vivid memories of my one spelling bee effort in 6th grade.  I won our classroom bee (in a rather controversial contest) and was sent to the school-wide bee.  I failed on the word "debrief" in the very first round, forgetting the classic  "i before e" rule.

I'm pretty good about that rule now.

Anyway, we arrived at the theater this afternoon and picked up our tickets.  As I stepped away from Will Call, a woman approached me with a clip board and asked if I would be willing to help out with the production. They needed one more male volunteer to be part of the show as one of the spelling bee participants.  I  agreed and Daisy jumped and and down with excitement.

The woman gave me a short biographical form to fill out and said that they'd call me down from the audience during the first act.  Maybe I'd get asked to spell hard words or maybe easy ones, but all I really need to remember, she explained, was to make sure to ask for the definition of the word and for the judges to use the word in a sentence.  If I could remember that, the rest would work out.

This was it.  Spelling Bee 2.0!  We took our seats and waited for the show to begin.

Sure enough, a few minutes into the show, the spelling bee administrator called down 4 "extra" participants, including yours truly.  I hopped down to the stage and took my assigned position.  I then spent the next few minutes on stage sucking at being an extra.  I sat when I was supposed to stand, I was the only person on stage to clap at the end of each musical number, and I'm pretty sure I was grinning like an idiot.

Soon, however, I was asked to stand up and spell a word that sounded something like.... ottotansoarist

I blinked uncomprehendingly, not quite being able to make sense of the syllables.

"Uh, may I have the definition please?" I asked, mentally patting myself on the back for remembering this part.

"It refers to one who cuts their own hair," the actor playing the vice principal answered.

"Ummm, can you use the word in a sentence?" I queried, not really listening to anything they said.

The vice principal made some joke about how the people who got their hair cut in Sweeney Todd wished that they were ottotansoarists.

"Okayyy...." I said, stalling, "that's ottotansoarist?"

"OttotonsorIAList" he replied, carefully enunciating the syllables.

I began.

"O T T O..."

At this point I heard someone bust up in laughter that sounded suspiciously familiar.  I stole a glance at the audience and saw Hank cracking up.  I instantly realized my idiotic error.

"No!" I yelled, "It's A-U-T-O...T O N ...S O R... I...A....LIST!"

Too late, of course, and they rang the bell, and launched into song to send me back to my audience seat. I was, however, handed a complimentary juicebox.

Turns out, there are roughly zero words in English that begin with "OTTO" (excluding proper nouns).  However, how many words start with "AUTO" and refer to doing something yourself?  Um, that would be hundreds.  Nice work, Mike.

Jesusbeekeepingchrist!  I'm 0 for 2 at spelling bees!  And not much better at musicals!

I don't remember when I started besting my father.  I don't recall when I became a faster runner or when my Scrabble skills eclipsed his.  Sometimes it doesn't come down to one particular moment.

Sometimes it does though.

Larry:  Ok, Daisy, let's hear it.
Daisy:  Ok! 3.14159 26535 8979 3238 46264 33832 7950 2884 1971 693993 7510.... Dad, that's as far as you know it, right?
Me:  Grrrrr.  Yes.
Daisy: .... 5820!

Stupid kids.

Daisy will turn 12 this summer, which means that teenagerhood is right around the corner.

I see foreshadowing of this event all around her.  Daisy's middle school is filled with kids who seem as physically developed as they are emotionally incomprehensible and many of Daisy's friends like to spend time gossiping about boys they have crushes on.  I realize that the near future will be filled with days of sullen withdrawals punctuated by random emotional outbursts.

For now, however, the skies are clear and puberty-free.

Daisy was on spring break this week, so I took her to the office for a day of cheap childcare.   She spent the day politely greeting and charming my co-workers.  She was quiet and friendly and self-entertaining.  I don't think anyone has ever brought their kid into this office before, so Daisy set the bar fairly high.

The best part of the day was when we were at the train station a few minutes early.  I asked Daisy if she wanted to take a little stroll while we waited for the train to arrive.

"No," she answered, "I think I'd rather dance."

So, she asked me to watch her backpack for her, found an open spot on the train platform, and began to dance.

"Are you practicing one of the numbers from your last show?" I asked?

"No, just choreographing some new ones," she answered while listening to the music in her head.

Spin.  Slide step.  Arm extensions.

This kid has earned her right to some sullenness.