Since I've been working from home for over a decade, I've built up a lot of experience with instant messaging, the Cadillac of communication systems. On a typical day I'll IM with anywhere from 5 to 15 people, ranging from friends to coworkers to family. I have become the Michael Jordan of IMing, or at the very least, the Michael Jackson of IMing (Insert Mark Foley joke here).
During my cyber travels I have encountered many people who are not the Michael Anything of instant messaging, and, in fact, really suck at it. It is for these people (none of whom read this blog) that I officially present....
Mike's Etiquette Guide to Instant Messaging With Mike
Instant messaging is one of society's newer forms of communication. Consequently, many people believe that the rules of etiquette are not fully formed. For example, if you and I were talking face to face, it would probably be inappropriate for me to start masturbating during the conversation. Would the same be true for an IM conversation? Let's review the rules and find out!
Rule #1 - Don't Leave Me Hanging
One of my ex-coworkers had the annoying habit of asking me a question in IM and then not sticking around for my reply. A typical exchange with him would go like this:
Ex: How's the project coming along?
Me: Which one?
* Me staring at computer screen*
Me: Nice chatting with you.
This happened all the time. He treated IM like a telegraph machine. He'd fire off a message, and then check back hours/days later for the reply. Dear Ex. Stop. Project is going well. Stop. Please send food and water. Stop.
Don't get me wrong. Sometimes things in the non-virtual world take precedence over an IM conversation, but these types of exchanges were the norm with this guy. It was never clear to me exactly what he went to go do after typing a message. I generally assumed he was either wandering away from his computer, or having a bong hit, or maybe dying a little bit. Regardless, it was super annoying.
If you're going to start an IM conversation with me, then, for god sakes, finish it in a timely manner. If you can't finish it, then give me some sort of indication that you're going to go do bong hits. That's ok, I just need a heads-up.
Rule #2 - Essays Are For English Class
Let's review the name of the technology here. Is it called Lengthy Messenger? Nope. Carefully Considered Composition messenger? Uh uh. How about Dissertation Messenger? No, that's not right either. It's called Instant Messenger.
Some of my IM friends like to compose vast epics. Since my IM program indicates when my IM buddies are typing to me, I can sit there and imagine their wondrous prose before I even get to view it.
"Ok, 5 minutes have gone by. They've probably wrapped up the exposition by now.... Alright 10 minutes. Man, I'm feeling famished, but it can't be long now. Surely he's getting to the climax of his post..... Oh, I knew I should have plugged in my catheter today. Come on, denouement!"
Long typers are the worst. Break up those IM posts, folks! One sentence at a time would be perfect. If you're using more than one period in most posts, you may be a long typer. I'd also appreciate no more than 2 commas or one semi-colon per post.
The worst kind of long typers are the ones that start their missives by first firing off a short attention grabber.
You: Hey Mike
Me: Yo!
You: Four score and seven years ago I started typing this message blah blah blah....
Quit it! If you're going to spend the next five minutes typing, why did you grab my attention first? So I could sit here in anticipation of the Gettysburg Message? That really cuts into my internet porn time.
Rule #3 - Context Is King
I get a lot of IMs that say something like this: "problem fix"
Then we have a 5 minute conversation like this:
Me: "Problem fix"? Is there a verb in that sentence? Is it "fix"?
You: Yeah
Me: So, you need a problem fixed or you fixed a problem or you're some sort of problem junkie and you need a fix?
You: Ha ha
Me: Which one? Dammit! Do you need a problem fixed?
You: No. I fixed it.
Me: Super! Which problem would that be? One of the 30 work issues we've discussed today? My remorseless eating problem? Global warming? HOW ABOUT A LITTLE CONTEXT?!?!
I can't see your facial expression, or the post-its on your monitor, or any other piece of data that might give me the slightest clue what you're talking about. All I can see are the characters that you type, so imbue them with meaning, please. I'm going to need nouns and verbs in every sentence. Easy on the pronouns, please.
Rule #4 - Learn To Type
I know lots of people can't type. Some of those people are still pretty quick at the hunt-n-peck method. I'm willing to cut them some slack. However, the keyboard is the most important communication invention since the mouth. If you're not going to IM with all your fingers, then maybe I'll decide to start talking without my tongue. How would that be? Annoying, right?
Let's learn to use our tools. It's what separates us from the lower animals.
That's all for now. As for the question of whether or not it's ok to masturbate while IMing, well that depends entirely on how well you type with one hand.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Sunday, October 29, 2006
It's hard to tell whether you're a good parent or a bad parent.
If my kid is happy today, does that mean that I've been a good dad today? What if I snapped at her and she cried? That's probably bad parenting.
Every once in a while you get some really good evidence though. Sometimes your kid literally draws a picture letting you know what kind of impact you're making. Although Daisy won't win any awards for penmanship or artistry, I think her work here speaks volumes. Here's the first piece of paper I found Friday in a pile of her school stuff:
(With spelling and punctuation corrections, here's what it says: My family is great. My mom likes to cook. My dad likes to eat. I like to sing! That is my family.)
Super.
Out of all the things she could have said about her dad, she chose, "My dad likes to eat." The fact that that sentence comes right AFTER "My mom likes to cook" is particularly damning. You can almost hear Daisy's school teacher clucking disapprovingly as she reads about our unenlightened family. I'd pay big money to insert a sentence in there saying, "AND MY DAD ALSO DOES ALL OF THE DAMN DISHES EVERY NIGHT, SO DON'T BE SO QUICK TO JUDGE HIM, HARPY."
I flipped over the paper and found this:
(With spelling and punctuation corrections, here's what it says: Some other things my family likes to do is me dance, my mom hug me, my dad run. My family is great!)
0 for 2.
At this point images of our idyllic home life begin to crystallize in your mind. You can visualize Daisy singing and dancing through the hallways, with Hank closely following behind her, dispensing both hugs and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. It's Julia Child meets The Sound of Music....but where's Mike? Oh, he's out jogging.
Just to drive the point home, here's the picture that accompanied these tiny damning essays:
On the top left you can see Daisy singing her sweet heart out. Look, notes! And on the bottom right, there's dear Hank, long torso and all, deftly cooking up a variety of Daisy's favorite foods.
Then, on the top right you can see Daisy and Hank hugging! All that's missing is the little hearts surrounding their embrace. Oh, but there I am too! Look, I'm running by! Those little circles all over me? Those, apparently, are giant sweat puddles.
And there I am again on the lower left! I'm a remorseless eating machine! I'm a disembodied, five-fingered, opposable-thumb-less hand, desperately substituting food for love. I think I'm holding a fork, but maybe I'm just eating a scrawny chicken foot. That would be just like me.
There's a lot that could be learned from this series of words and pictures. (I said "could", right? Ok, good)., Instead I chose to have this conversation.
Me: "My dad likes to eat"? Eating? That's my sentence? You get to sing, and mom gets to be helpful, but all I'm good for is eating?
Daisy: No, that's not ALL you're good for.
Me: Why is that my sentence then? How about "My dad is funny"?
Daisy: Well, do you like to eat?
Me: Yes, but EVERYONE in the family likes to eat.
Daisy. I didn't say that's the ONLY thing you like. But you agree that you do like to eat?
Me: Yes.
Daisy: Ok, then.
Doh!
If my kid is happy today, does that mean that I've been a good dad today? What if I snapped at her and she cried? That's probably bad parenting.
Every once in a while you get some really good evidence though. Sometimes your kid literally draws a picture letting you know what kind of impact you're making. Although Daisy won't win any awards for penmanship or artistry, I think her work here speaks volumes. Here's the first piece of paper I found Friday in a pile of her school stuff:
(With spelling and punctuation corrections, here's what it says: My family is great. My mom likes to cook. My dad likes to eat. I like to sing! That is my family.)
Super.
Out of all the things she could have said about her dad, she chose, "My dad likes to eat." The fact that that sentence comes right AFTER "My mom likes to cook" is particularly damning. You can almost hear Daisy's school teacher clucking disapprovingly as she reads about our unenlightened family. I'd pay big money to insert a sentence in there saying, "AND MY DAD ALSO DOES ALL OF THE DAMN DISHES EVERY NIGHT, SO DON'T BE SO QUICK TO JUDGE HIM, HARPY."
I flipped over the paper and found this:
(With spelling and punctuation corrections, here's what it says: Some other things my family likes to do is me dance, my mom hug me, my dad run. My family is great!)
0 for 2.
At this point images of our idyllic home life begin to crystallize in your mind. You can visualize Daisy singing and dancing through the hallways, with Hank closely following behind her, dispensing both hugs and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. It's Julia Child meets The Sound of Music....but where's Mike? Oh, he's out jogging.
Just to drive the point home, here's the picture that accompanied these tiny damning essays:
On the top left you can see Daisy singing her sweet heart out. Look, notes! And on the bottom right, there's dear Hank, long torso and all, deftly cooking up a variety of Daisy's favorite foods.
Then, on the top right you can see Daisy and Hank hugging! All that's missing is the little hearts surrounding their embrace. Oh, but there I am too! Look, I'm running by! Those little circles all over me? Those, apparently, are giant sweat puddles.
And there I am again on the lower left! I'm a remorseless eating machine! I'm a disembodied, five-fingered, opposable-thumb-less hand, desperately substituting food for love. I think I'm holding a fork, but maybe I'm just eating a scrawny chicken foot. That would be just like me.
There's a lot that could be learned from this series of words and pictures. (I said "could", right? Ok, good)., Instead I chose to have this conversation.
Me: "My dad likes to eat"? Eating? That's my sentence? You get to sing, and mom gets to be helpful, but all I'm good for is eating?
Daisy: No, that's not ALL you're good for.
Me: Why is that my sentence then? How about "My dad is funny"?
Daisy: Well, do you like to eat?
Me: Yes, but EVERYONE in the family likes to eat.
Daisy. I didn't say that's the ONLY thing you like. But you agree that you do like to eat?
Me: Yes.
Daisy: Ok, then.
Doh!
Thursday, October 26, 2006
A lot of people like logic puzzles. I hear many of these puzzles from friends who are either interviewees or interviewers for computer programmer jobs. Good examples are the Let's Make a Deal puzzle and the Pirate Game. Also, some readers may recall the classic Where's The Toilet Paper puzzle. These are all very worthy brainteasers.
Recently, however, I've discovered a few logic puzzles of my own. I won't present the answers because the joy is in solving them yourself. Both puzzles start with the same scenario:
Due to a recent garbage can attack, you have a wound on the side of your left hip (at belly button level) which has been dressed with Steri Strips. The doctor has informed you that you must keep the Steri Strips dry for 6 days. You are under doctor's orders NOT to shower for those 6 days.
Puzzle 1: You stink. You decide to shower despite the doctor's orders, but you seek to keep the wound dry during the shower. You have the following supplies to utilize before stepping into the shower:
Puzzle 2: You stink. You have to leave for a meeting in 5 minutes. There's no time to shower. You have the following supplies:
Anyone who has spent time with me in the last several days can weigh in here to indicate if I successfully solved the puzzles? If I reeked, I failed.
Recently, however, I've discovered a few logic puzzles of my own. I won't present the answers because the joy is in solving them yourself. Both puzzles start with the same scenario:
Due to a recent garbage can attack, you have a wound on the side of your left hip (at belly button level) which has been dressed with Steri Strips. The doctor has informed you that you must keep the Steri Strips dry for 6 days. You are under doctor's orders NOT to shower for those 6 days.
Puzzle 1: You stink. You decide to shower despite the doctor's orders, but you seek to keep the wound dry during the shower. You have the following supplies to utilize before stepping into the shower:
- Non-waterproof band aids
- Saran wrap
- Masking tape
- Duct tape
- A wheel barrow
Puzzle 2: You stink. You have to leave for a meeting in 5 minutes. There's no time to shower. You have the following supplies:
- A sink
- One bar of soap
- One washcloth
Anyone who has spent time with me in the last several days can weigh in here to indicate if I successfully solved the puzzles? If I reeked, I failed.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Yesterday afternoon a kid came over to our house for a playdate with Daisy. The two kids played together pretty well, and Hank hung out nearby to keep an eye on them.
At one point Hank went to the bathroom shortly after the kid (a six year old boy) had emerged from it. She found that he had failed to flush the toilet (not alarming) and she was greeted with a nice turd floating in the bowl (also, not alarming).
What WAS somewhat alarming was that the turd was the only thing in the bowl. There was no toilet paper.
UPDATE: Hank has corrected my description of the contents of the toilet. She says, "I think you should know that it wasn't a single turd, floating harmlessly in the bowl, but a huge pile of poop down at the bottom. It looked like a moist, stinky experience."
At one point Hank went to the bathroom shortly after the kid (a six year old boy) had emerged from it. She found that he had failed to flush the toilet (not alarming) and she was greeted with a nice turd floating in the bowl (also, not alarming).
What WAS somewhat alarming was that the turd was the only thing in the bowl. There was no toilet paper.
UPDATE: Hank has corrected my description of the contents of the toilet. She says, "I think you should know that it wasn't a single turd, floating harmlessly in the bowl, but a huge pile of poop down at the bottom. It looked like a moist, stinky experience."
Monday, October 23, 2006
I don't skydive, or bungee jump, or mountain climb, or deep sea dive, or do any sport where you die if you screw up.
Really, running is the most dangerous sport I do. It's a pretty tame activity, but sometimes people do get hit by cars, or sprain their ankles, and every once in a while someone has a heart attack in the middle of a race. I've been pretty lucky in the injury department. Until this weekend.
On Sunday morning I left the house to meet up with Jay for a run. I was going to run the 4+ miles to his place, then join him for a run along the Embacadero. We had agreed to meet in front of his building at 9:30am, but I had never run to his house before, so I mis-timed how long it was going to take.
I was running pretty hard when I was a couple blocks away from his building, doing my best to arrive on time, WHICH IS VERY IMPORTANT TO ME, when I encountered a little bit of sidewalk construction. Being a nimble and gazelle-like runner, I deftly maneuvered through the detour. Then, and this is where things maybe get a little hazy in my mind, a concrete garbage can leapt into my path, clipping my hip as I sprinted by at speeds in excess of 8 MPH. You wouldn't think that a garbage can like the one pictured here would be such an adept tackler, but apparently those babies move pretty quickly when they have to. The one that attacked me had the same rough, pebbley, concrete exterior, but its contents weren't as technically impressive as the VIC 20 seen on the right.
Anyway, the pain was pretty bad, but I was in danger of being late, so I soldiered on, and the hurty went away in about 30 seconds. Huzzah!
About 90 minutes later, after I had rewarded myself with a coffee and chocolate croissant (one of my very favorite foods in the world), I was walking a couple of blocks home when I noticed that my hip still hurt. I peered down at it and found that I had bled through my shorts. Ewwww.
I got home, cleaned up (after gardening for an hour), and discovered that my collision with the garbage can had taken a small chunk of flesh out of my hip. The wound was less than a centimeter in diameter, but almost as deep as it was wide. I examined my bloody running shorts and found that they had been punctured. Meanwhile, the wound bled very slowly.
After trying every possible realization to avoid going to the doctor, I was eventually convinced that there's pretty much nothing dirtier than an urban garbage can, and that inserting one deep into your flesh is like inviting tetanus over to dinner. My last tetanus shot was probaby 15 years ago. Hank dropped me off at the hospital, and I sheepishly wandered into the emergency room, 2 hours before Daisy's piano recital, with the world's stupidest injury.
If there had been a Tetanus R Us, I would have gone there. If I had a primary care physician, maybe I could have gone there, but I never get sick. I've never seen the same doctor twice. So, off I went to the emergency room for just a stupid shot.
I discovered that list of forms that have to be filled out in order to be seen by a doctor at an ER is simply mind boggling. I don't even think their primary business is health care. I think they're just a revenue generator for the paper business. Follow the money, people. And they asked me all sorts of questions that I was unable to answer:
Nurse: What's your religion:
Me: Uh....none?
Nurse: What's your employer's address?
Me: I have no idea.
Nurse: What's the address of your wife's employer?
Me: Beats me.
Nurse: What's your wife's work phone number?
Me: Wow, these are hard questions.
I think I only got one right.
Nurse: On a scale from 0 to 10, how much pain are you in?
Me: Pain? Um... 1? 0? .5? You know, I'm really just here for a shot.
I met with a couple different nurses and a doctor in the emergency room. Each time I explained my injury they laughed at me. You'd think that I was the first person to ever get attacked by a garbage can. Astonishingly, there wasn't even a checkbox on their form for this type of ailment.
After the doctor heard my tale of woe, she brought in a hospital gown and told me to put it on.
"I'm sorry. Maybe I didn't explain this well. All I want is a tetanus shot. Does that really require getting naked?" I asked
"We have to clean the wound before we can put a bandage on it. We're going to irrigate it with some water. Unless you want to get your clothes wet, put on the gown." she explained.
"Even my underpants?" I whined.
"Do you want them wet?" she replied, exasperated.
So, I stripped down, got washed, got bandaged, got shot, and finished up. Before I left the doctor gave me some instructions on how to care for the wound. She had put some steri-strips on there, to help close the wound and speed healing, and then she covered it in a clear plastic patch. She carefully instructed me NOT to remove that stuff for 5-7 days and NOT to take a bath or shower during that time because it was imperative that the bandages stay on and stay dry. DO NOT TAKE OFF THE BANDAGES, she reiterated. I assured her that I was very skilled at not showering.
I kept the bandage on for nearly 30 hours. I figure that's pretty good.
Oh, and the take home lesson here is that if you tell the people in an emergency room that your daugher has a piano recital in two hours, they really do hustle to get you out of there. I walked out of the hospital about 75 minutes after I entered. That's got to be a record.
And the recital went very well.
Really, running is the most dangerous sport I do. It's a pretty tame activity, but sometimes people do get hit by cars, or sprain their ankles, and every once in a while someone has a heart attack in the middle of a race. I've been pretty lucky in the injury department. Until this weekend.
On Sunday morning I left the house to meet up with Jay for a run. I was going to run the 4+ miles to his place, then join him for a run along the Embacadero. We had agreed to meet in front of his building at 9:30am, but I had never run to his house before, so I mis-timed how long it was going to take.
I was running pretty hard when I was a couple blocks away from his building, doing my best to arrive on time, WHICH IS VERY IMPORTANT TO ME, when I encountered a little bit of sidewalk construction. Being a nimble and gazelle-like runner, I deftly maneuvered through the detour. Then, and this is where things maybe get a little hazy in my mind, a concrete garbage can leapt into my path, clipping my hip as I sprinted by at speeds in excess of 8 MPH. You wouldn't think that a garbage can like the one pictured here would be such an adept tackler, but apparently those babies move pretty quickly when they have to. The one that attacked me had the same rough, pebbley, concrete exterior, but its contents weren't as technically impressive as the VIC 20 seen on the right.Anyway, the pain was pretty bad, but I was in danger of being late, so I soldiered on, and the hurty went away in about 30 seconds. Huzzah!
About 90 minutes later, after I had rewarded myself with a coffee and chocolate croissant (one of my very favorite foods in the world), I was walking a couple of blocks home when I noticed that my hip still hurt. I peered down at it and found that I had bled through my shorts. Ewwww.
I got home, cleaned up (after gardening for an hour), and discovered that my collision with the garbage can had taken a small chunk of flesh out of my hip. The wound was less than a centimeter in diameter, but almost as deep as it was wide. I examined my bloody running shorts and found that they had been punctured. Meanwhile, the wound bled very slowly.
After trying every possible realization to avoid going to the doctor, I was eventually convinced that there's pretty much nothing dirtier than an urban garbage can, and that inserting one deep into your flesh is like inviting tetanus over to dinner. My last tetanus shot was probaby 15 years ago. Hank dropped me off at the hospital, and I sheepishly wandered into the emergency room, 2 hours before Daisy's piano recital, with the world's stupidest injury.
If there had been a Tetanus R Us, I would have gone there. If I had a primary care physician, maybe I could have gone there, but I never get sick. I've never seen the same doctor twice. So, off I went to the emergency room for just a stupid shot.
I discovered that list of forms that have to be filled out in order to be seen by a doctor at an ER is simply mind boggling. I don't even think their primary business is health care. I think they're just a revenue generator for the paper business. Follow the money, people. And they asked me all sorts of questions that I was unable to answer:
Nurse: What's your religion:
Me: Uh....none?
Nurse: What's your employer's address?
Me: I have no idea.
Nurse: What's the address of your wife's employer?
Me: Beats me.
Nurse: What's your wife's work phone number?
Me: Wow, these are hard questions.
I think I only got one right.
Nurse: On a scale from 0 to 10, how much pain are you in?
Me: Pain? Um... 1? 0? .5? You know, I'm really just here for a shot.
I met with a couple different nurses and a doctor in the emergency room. Each time I explained my injury they laughed at me. You'd think that I was the first person to ever get attacked by a garbage can. Astonishingly, there wasn't even a checkbox on their form for this type of ailment.
After the doctor heard my tale of woe, she brought in a hospital gown and told me to put it on.
"I'm sorry. Maybe I didn't explain this well. All I want is a tetanus shot. Does that really require getting naked?" I asked
"We have to clean the wound before we can put a bandage on it. We're going to irrigate it with some water. Unless you want to get your clothes wet, put on the gown." she explained.
"Even my underpants?" I whined.
"Do you want them wet?" she replied, exasperated.
So, I stripped down, got washed, got bandaged, got shot, and finished up. Before I left the doctor gave me some instructions on how to care for the wound. She had put some steri-strips on there, to help close the wound and speed healing, and then she covered it in a clear plastic patch. She carefully instructed me NOT to remove that stuff for 5-7 days and NOT to take a bath or shower during that time because it was imperative that the bandages stay on and stay dry. DO NOT TAKE OFF THE BANDAGES, she reiterated. I assured her that I was very skilled at not showering.
I kept the bandage on for nearly 30 hours. I figure that's pretty good.
Oh, and the take home lesson here is that if you tell the people in an emergency room that your daugher has a piano recital in two hours, they really do hustle to get you out of there. I walked out of the hospital about 75 minutes after I entered. That's got to be a record.
And the recital went very well.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
As it turns out, I'm still figuring out this whole PTA Secretary thing.
I had a lunch meeting today with a couple women from the PTA, including the PTA President, so that we could discuss the creation of a monthly newsletter. The idea is that we'd put minutes from the PTA meetings, and other meeting announcements into this letter, which would be handed to each child once a month so that they could bring it home to their parents. The school already takes a similar approach with their weekly bulletin.
"I have an idea!" I offered, double checking the date on my watch. "It's 2006. How about we dispense with the printed copies and just email the newsletter?"
They chuckled at my date humor. 2006, ho, ho ho. Then they assured me that email would be a bad way to reach the parents. Some parents, they explained, don't have email.
No email? No email?!?!? Anyone who can get to the Internet can get email. So, what percentage of people in this part of the world don't have Internet access? Let's take an informal poll right now. If you can't get to the Internet, please post a comment on this blog.
Later I lamented that the PTA minutes that I've been writing don't get saved anywhere that people can see them. Perhaps, I suggested, after we send out the minutes on dead trees via Pony Express, maybe I could post them to a school blog. It was then explained to me that someone was already working on a school website and we should wait for that. This is something that I've been hearing for many months now.
"Oh, websites are so 2003. I could post these babies to a blog TONIGHT!" I exclaimed.
2003. Ho ho ho. We moved on.
After we were done discussing the merits of the Gutenberg printing press, the PTA Prez changed the topic.
"Would you guys be interested in attending an adult motel party?" she asked very matter of factly.
This question threw me for a loop. I've heard of adult motels and their parties, but I've never been invited to one. I pondered the notion.
"You mean like a sex party?" I asked?
Her eyes bugged out of her head a bit.
"What?? NO! Not a sex party. A dancing party! With Motown music!" she replied, aghast.
"Ohhhh! MoTOWN. I thought you said moTEL. I thought you were referring to an adult moTEL party. Sorry," I apologized.
"Well, I guess we learned something about our PTA Secretary today," she retorted.
"Hey! I didn't say I'd go to your sex party. I just misheard you."
"Well, would you be interested in attending a MoTOWN party for school parents?" she re-asked.
"MoTOWN? No."
I'll get the hang of this.
I had a lunch meeting today with a couple women from the PTA, including the PTA President, so that we could discuss the creation of a monthly newsletter. The idea is that we'd put minutes from the PTA meetings, and other meeting announcements into this letter, which would be handed to each child once a month so that they could bring it home to their parents. The school already takes a similar approach with their weekly bulletin.
"I have an idea!" I offered, double checking the date on my watch. "It's 2006. How about we dispense with the printed copies and just email the newsletter?"
They chuckled at my date humor. 2006, ho, ho ho. Then they assured me that email would be a bad way to reach the parents. Some parents, they explained, don't have email.
No email? No email?!?!? Anyone who can get to the Internet can get email. So, what percentage of people in this part of the world don't have Internet access? Let's take an informal poll right now. If you can't get to the Internet, please post a comment on this blog.
Later I lamented that the PTA minutes that I've been writing don't get saved anywhere that people can see them. Perhaps, I suggested, after we send out the minutes on dead trees via Pony Express, maybe I could post them to a school blog. It was then explained to me that someone was already working on a school website and we should wait for that. This is something that I've been hearing for many months now.
"Oh, websites are so 2003. I could post these babies to a blog TONIGHT!" I exclaimed.
2003. Ho ho ho. We moved on.
After we were done discussing the merits of the Gutenberg printing press, the PTA Prez changed the topic.
"Would you guys be interested in attending an adult motel party?" she asked very matter of factly.
This question threw me for a loop. I've heard of adult motels and their parties, but I've never been invited to one. I pondered the notion.
"You mean like a sex party?" I asked?
Her eyes bugged out of her head a bit.
"What?? NO! Not a sex party. A dancing party! With Motown music!" she replied, aghast.
"Ohhhh! MoTOWN. I thought you said moTEL. I thought you were referring to an adult moTEL party. Sorry," I apologized.
"Well, I guess we learned something about our PTA Secretary today," she retorted.
"Hey! I didn't say I'd go to your sex party. I just misheard you."
"Well, would you be interested in attending a MoTOWN party for school parents?" she re-asked.
"MoTOWN? No."
I'll get the hang of this.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
I've mentioned before (many times) that my daughter, Daisy, has a variety of food allergies, including eggs, nuts, and dairy. From an early age we taught her about these allergies, and consequently she's always been cautious around new foods or any food that wasn't given to her by her parents. In the last month, however, she's gone from cautious to phobic.
Last week, for example, I offered her some corn nuts when she was due for a snack.
Me: Mmmm, corn nuts. Want some? They're not really a nut, just crunchy corn.
Daisy: No.
Me: Why not? They're crunchy and yummy. Heck, they're not even healthy. Dig in!
Daisy: I just don't want any.
Me: Is it because of the word "nut" in the name?
Daisy: *nodding*
Me: These aren't nuts. I understand the word "nut" is scary, but sometimes it's just a name. You eat coconut, and that's ok, because that's not a real nut. Same for these.
Daisy: No thanks.
Me: You don't have to eat these, but you should trust that I'm not going to intentionally feed you nuts. I PROMISE you that you are not allergic to these. It's just corn. Want some?
Daisy: No.
We went around in that circle for a couple of minutes, with me getting increasingly frustrated that my daughter was more scared than trustful, until I finally had her read the ingredient list (which was just corn, corn oil, and salt). At that point, she finally nibbled delicately on a corn nut, paused, and then consumed the rest of the bag.
I don't really have a problem with her wanting to read the ingredients, but I do have a problem that my assurances weren't enough. Things got more disturbing a few days later when she didn't eat the lunch that Hank had packed for her. Apparently Daisy got paranoid that Hank might have used regular mayonnaise (which has eggs) on her sandwich rather than the vegan mayonnaise that we always give her. Daisy acknowledged this was a completely irrational fear, but just wasn't able to bring herself to eat the sandwich at school.
That just drove me nuts. I can't argue with irrational fears. By definition, they're outside of the bounds of logic. That "ir" gets me every time.
This is the problem with kids. Weird problems pop up and blindside you. Now I suddently have a child with food phobias. I didn't have one a month ago, but now I do. It's like once a month you shake up the Magic 8 Ball of parenting and see what you get.
"Oh! I got Attention Disorder Deficit kid! What did you get?"
"Lemme see.... Whoop! Serial Killer kid. Bummer. I'm going to ask again later."
It feels like these conditions just manifest themselves out of thin air. No one is trying to raise a serial killer, but some kids turn into them anyway.
I chatted with one of my friends who is a therapist and she had two bits of advice. She suggested that since irrational fears are completely illogical, there's nothing to be gained by talking through them. We should reassure Daisy that we love her, smile, and then not validate the fear by making it a continuing topic of discussion. If Daisy wants to make her own lunch, she should feel free, but that's all the attention we should pay to it.
As for the long term approach, the therapist instructed us that these fears don't just manifest themselves out of thin air. More likely than not, Daisy has noticed all the attention we pay to her allergies when we order food in a restaurant, or when we shop at the market, or pretty much any time we discuss food. The therapist theorized that Daisy absorbed all this, seeing how much attention we pay to her allergies, and logically concluded that this is something that requires her concern as well. Given that she's seven years old, that concern happened to take the unfortunate form of a phobia. So, the therapist suggested that we limit how much Daisy sees of our food manipulations, downplaying the seriousness with which we treat her allergies. The idea is that if she sees us treating the allergies with the same level of calm that we treat oil changes for our car, then she'll realize that it's just something to take care of and not something to freak out about.
I'm not entirely convinced this is the right approach, because I don't feel like Hank and I were ever particularly panicked about Daisy's allergies in front of her, but I suppose it's possible. Anyway, these ideas are better than any that I have.
Am I perplexed though?
Signs point to yes.
Last week, for example, I offered her some corn nuts when she was due for a snack.
Me: Mmmm, corn nuts. Want some? They're not really a nut, just crunchy corn.
Daisy: No.
Me: Why not? They're crunchy and yummy. Heck, they're not even healthy. Dig in!
Daisy: I just don't want any.
Me: Is it because of the word "nut" in the name?
Daisy: *nodding*
Me: These aren't nuts. I understand the word "nut" is scary, but sometimes it's just a name. You eat coconut, and that's ok, because that's not a real nut. Same for these.
Daisy: No thanks.
Me: You don't have to eat these, but you should trust that I'm not going to intentionally feed you nuts. I PROMISE you that you are not allergic to these. It's just corn. Want some?
Daisy: No.
We went around in that circle for a couple of minutes, with me getting increasingly frustrated that my daughter was more scared than trustful, until I finally had her read the ingredient list (which was just corn, corn oil, and salt). At that point, she finally nibbled delicately on a corn nut, paused, and then consumed the rest of the bag.
I don't really have a problem with her wanting to read the ingredients, but I do have a problem that my assurances weren't enough. Things got more disturbing a few days later when she didn't eat the lunch that Hank had packed for her. Apparently Daisy got paranoid that Hank might have used regular mayonnaise (which has eggs) on her sandwich rather than the vegan mayonnaise that we always give her. Daisy acknowledged this was a completely irrational fear, but just wasn't able to bring herself to eat the sandwich at school.
That just drove me nuts. I can't argue with irrational fears. By definition, they're outside of the bounds of logic. That "ir" gets me every time.
This is the problem with kids. Weird problems pop up and blindside you. Now I suddently have a child with food phobias. I didn't have one a month ago, but now I do. It's like once a month you shake up the Magic 8 Ball of parenting and see what you get.
"Oh! I got Attention Disorder Deficit kid! What did you get?"
"Lemme see.... Whoop! Serial Killer kid. Bummer. I'm going to ask again later."
It feels like these conditions just manifest themselves out of thin air. No one is trying to raise a serial killer, but some kids turn into them anyway.
I chatted with one of my friends who is a therapist and she had two bits of advice. She suggested that since irrational fears are completely illogical, there's nothing to be gained by talking through them. We should reassure Daisy that we love her, smile, and then not validate the fear by making it a continuing topic of discussion. If Daisy wants to make her own lunch, she should feel free, but that's all the attention we should pay to it.
As for the long term approach, the therapist instructed us that these fears don't just manifest themselves out of thin air. More likely than not, Daisy has noticed all the attention we pay to her allergies when we order food in a restaurant, or when we shop at the market, or pretty much any time we discuss food. The therapist theorized that Daisy absorbed all this, seeing how much attention we pay to her allergies, and logically concluded that this is something that requires her concern as well. Given that she's seven years old, that concern happened to take the unfortunate form of a phobia. So, the therapist suggested that we limit how much Daisy sees of our food manipulations, downplaying the seriousness with which we treat her allergies. The idea is that if she sees us treating the allergies with the same level of calm that we treat oil changes for our car, then she'll realize that it's just something to take care of and not something to freak out about.
I'm not entirely convinced this is the right approach, because I don't feel like Hank and I were ever particularly panicked about Daisy's allergies in front of her, but I suppose it's possible. Anyway, these ideas are better than any that I have.
Am I perplexed though?
Signs point to yes.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Some days are sunny and warm. Mmmmmm, sunshine.
Other days are busy and productive. Phew! Efficiency!
Today, however, was car crashy.
Hank called me about an hour after leaving the house this morning. The roads were wet and slick from the first rain in a couple weeks, but she dropped Daisy off at school without incident. Then, as Hank was driving to work, a van was speeding down a hill towards her, and the driver apparently was overly optimistic about his ability to avoid smashing into our car.
Whoopsie! Really, it's a mistake anyone could have made. Who would have thought that a van might need to drop down from warp speed when executing turns on slick and hilly San Francisco roads?
Thankfully, Hank is doing ok. She's a bit headachy, which means that she probably got whiplashed, but all my favorite parts seem to be intact, so things are going to be alright.
Then, tonight, as I was taking the garbage out, I noticed all sorts of activity on our street, like neighbors gossiping in their slippers, and police lights flashing. As it turns out, the cops were chasing some guy in a beat-up Camaro (if I were a bad guy, I'd TOTALLY drive a Camaro), and the guy decided to drive down my curvy and very narrow street. Unfortunately for him, one of his tires blew before he got very far, and consequently he was unable to negotiate the turns while driving on 3 tires and a rim. He crashed into my neighbor's minivan and was promptly apprehended by the cops.
I know I live in San Francisco, which is a city with real crime, but I live on a pretty quiet street in a fairly residential neighborhood. This is the very first car chase I can remember happening here.
Anyway, there are only about 3.5 hours left in the day. I'm hoping we're all car-crashed out.
Other days are busy and productive. Phew! Efficiency!
Today, however, was car crashy.
Hank called me about an hour after leaving the house this morning. The roads were wet and slick from the first rain in a couple weeks, but she dropped Daisy off at school without incident. Then, as Hank was driving to work, a van was speeding down a hill towards her, and the driver apparently was overly optimistic about his ability to avoid smashing into our car.
Whoopsie! Really, it's a mistake anyone could have made. Who would have thought that a van might need to drop down from warp speed when executing turns on slick and hilly San Francisco roads?
Thankfully, Hank is doing ok. She's a bit headachy, which means that she probably got whiplashed, but all my favorite parts seem to be intact, so things are going to be alright.
Then, tonight, as I was taking the garbage out, I noticed all sorts of activity on our street, like neighbors gossiping in their slippers, and police lights flashing. As it turns out, the cops were chasing some guy in a beat-up Camaro (if I were a bad guy, I'd TOTALLY drive a Camaro), and the guy decided to drive down my curvy and very narrow street. Unfortunately for him, one of his tires blew before he got very far, and consequently he was unable to negotiate the turns while driving on 3 tires and a rim. He crashed into my neighbor's minivan and was promptly apprehended by the cops.
I know I live in San Francisco, which is a city with real crime, but I live on a pretty quiet street in a fairly residential neighborhood. This is the very first car chase I can remember happening here.
Anyway, there are only about 3.5 hours left in the day. I'm hoping we're all car-crashed out.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Compared to last weekend's orgy of blog material (thankyouverymuch high school reunion and half marathon), this weekend was more like an outing to a monastery. There were still things to do, but I kept my bodily fluids to myself.
Actually, that's not entirely true. Ever since last weekend, I've been a little under the weather and have been producing copious amounts of snot. Because I am self-obsessed and borderline sub-human, each time I blow my nose, I like to peek into the kleenex, to... you know, see what I made. This week my snot has been surprisingly gooey, the caliber of gooeyness that makes you say, "hmmmm, I'll bet this would be useful for something!", but I haven't been able to figure out what that something is.
I'll keep you posted.
Aside from that, it was business as usual in our household.
I'm still doing the PTA Secretary thing. Boy howdy, has that been a snotload of fun. Today, at a school function, I finally got some feedback on my work.
Parent X: Hey, Mike, I've been enjoying reading your meeting minutes
Me: Enjoying? Ok. Cool.
Parent X: Yeah. It's nice how I can actually tell when you get confused in the meeting.
Me: You need to end your compliments one sentence earlier.*
Super. I'm glad my summaries are so evocative, conveying both important meeting details as well as my mental fog. Bonus.
And finally, here's my very first YouTube video upload. If it's good enough for Google, it's good enough for me. Please to be enjoying footage of Daisy sparring with her best friend. As always, Daisy is the little one.
* Not actually said
Actually, that's not entirely true. Ever since last weekend, I've been a little under the weather and have been producing copious amounts of snot. Because I am self-obsessed and borderline sub-human, each time I blow my nose, I like to peek into the kleenex, to... you know, see what I made. This week my snot has been surprisingly gooey, the caliber of gooeyness that makes you say, "hmmmm, I'll bet this would be useful for something!", but I haven't been able to figure out what that something is.
I'll keep you posted.
Aside from that, it was business as usual in our household.
I'm still doing the PTA Secretary thing. Boy howdy, has that been a snotload of fun. Today, at a school function, I finally got some feedback on my work.
Parent X: Hey, Mike, I've been enjoying reading your meeting minutes
Me: Enjoying? Ok. Cool.
Parent X: Yeah. It's nice how I can actually tell when you get confused in the meeting.
Me: You need to end your compliments one sentence earlier.*
Super. I'm glad my summaries are so evocative, conveying both important meeting details as well as my mental fog. Bonus.
And finally, here's my very first YouTube video upload. If it's good enough for Google, it's good enough for me. Please to be enjoying footage of Daisy sparring with her best friend. As always, Daisy is the little one.
* Not actually said
Thursday, October 12, 2006
I went to bed on Saturday night about 4.5 hours before I'd need to wake up and get ready to be a pacer for the half marathon race. That's not a ton of sleep, but I was consoled by the memory of the time that I only slept for 2 hours and then got up and ran for 2.5 hours. I figured that as long as I slept for longer than I needed to run, I'd be ok. I laid in bed with my brain flipping between replaying moments from the reunion, and thinking about the half marathon. Every few minutes I'd look at the clock and think something like, "Ok, I'll get 4 hours of sleep if I fall asleep NOW!" and then, predictably, "Ok, 3 hours is good. Just sleep....NOW!"
I've played this game before. Everybody loses. Especially me.
The alarm clock went off at 5:00am. I had slept for somewhere between 1 and 2 hours. I slid out of bed and immediately began cramming coffee, water, and cereal into my most awake orifice(s). Meanwhile, I was starting to feel under the weather. I don't get sick often, but my body was right in that borderline state, where I could either get some rest or get sick.
So, I packed my running bag, and headed out the door.
By 8:00am I was standing at the starting line amidst thousands of other runners, holding a sign that said "1:30".
As I've mentioned a few times, my goal in this race wasn't to run it as quickly as possible, but rather to be a pacer. I had promised to run the race in 1 hour and 30 minutes*. That meant that I needed to average 6 minutes and 52 seconds per mile. It wouldn't be reasonable to think that I could come in at exactly 1:30 but I'd be damn close. On my last training run I had practiced this pace around a track, but was never able to nail it exactly. Regardless, the woman who had organized the pace team told us that we should exude confidence and be supportive of the runners around us. Some runners would be counting on us to correctly pace them and our job was to help as many of them as possible reach their goals.
Of course each of us internalizes instructions in our own way. As far as I was concerned, those runners who wanted to pace with me were essentially signing themselves up to be my own personal audience, held captive by The Mike Show for 13.1 miles. I spun around at the starting line and introduced myself to the crowd.
"Hi runners. My name is Mike and I'll be your pacer for the next 13.1 miles. My intention is to run a very even pace, each mile at exactly 6 minutes and 52 seconds. I've been saving up a lot of banter to entertain you with, and I just left my 20 year high school reunion a few hours ago, so you can all look forward to hearing about that for the next 90 minutes. Have a good run."
The race began about a minute later.
We launched and started running down the street. A few runners gravitated towards me and we chatted about past runs. I checked in with my pacing partner occasionally to get her opinion on our pace. She thought it was a little slow and I thought it was a little fast, so we decided it was probably right on the money. The 1 Mile Marker was up ahead and I readied the lap-timer on my watch. It would be the first bit of feedback for our pace. And we clocked in at...
6 minutes and 52 seconds.
Perfect! In between the 155 beats per minute it was already doing, my heart leapt with joy. I grinned my biggest grin and calmly announced that we were right on pace. "Folks, I'm the metronome of running," I bragged.
Turns out that bragging was a bit premature. Buoyed by the excitement of being the perfect pacer, I ran Mile 2 too fast by 10 seconds. Ditto for Mile 3. Consequently, we ran Mile 4 a bit slower to get back on pace. I was feeling pretty locked in at that pace, so when we hit the Mile 5 marker a few seconds after I expected, I announced to the crowd that the race organizers had misplaced that marker by about 5 or 10 yards. A few people snickered. I was not joking. I'd bet money that I was right.
Meanwhile, I kept up the banter. I interacted with the spectators, I shticked about runners obeying traffic laws, I philosophized about the true halfway point of a half marathon, and I offered up the reunion stories.
"Who wants to hear the most touching story from my reunion?" I asked loudly.
"Do we have to?" one smart ass replied.
"Yes."
And so it went.
We hit the markers for each of the subsequent miles only off by a few seconds. Once the Mile 13 marker was in sight, I made my final announcement.
"Folks, we have about 1/4 mile to go. I'll be crossing that finish line 90 minutes after we started. Everyone who wants to beat that time needs to finish ahead of me and my sign. You have 1/4 of a mile. GO!"
Sure enough, a cluster of people around me suddenly picked up the pace. We hit the 13 Mile Marker and we were about 5 seconds ahead of pace. So, I slowed down a bit and crossed the finish line at....
1 hour and 30 minutes and 0 seconds.
Perfect.
One of my old cowowkers saw me before the race and I told him that I'd doing the 1:30 pacing. He sent me an email the next day saying that he saw that I hit my target to the second and thought to himself, "How Mike...".
It's the nicest compliment I've received in a long time. What's more embarassing? The fact that I derive so much of self esteem from being on time? Or that everyone knows it?
There are some races I'll never forget. I'll always remember my first marathon (3:35), my Boston qualifying marathon (3:14), my 5K with my daughter (0:49), and the Perfectly Paced Half Marathon (1:30).
*For reasons that are uninteresting, all the time measurements in this blog post have been changed. However, the accuracy by which I hit my desired times is unchanged and correct.
I've played this game before. Everybody loses. Especially me.
The alarm clock went off at 5:00am. I had slept for somewhere between 1 and 2 hours. I slid out of bed and immediately began cramming coffee, water, and cereal into my most awake orifice(s). Meanwhile, I was starting to feel under the weather. I don't get sick often, but my body was right in that borderline state, where I could either get some rest or get sick.
So, I packed my running bag, and headed out the door.
By 8:00am I was standing at the starting line amidst thousands of other runners, holding a sign that said "1:30".
As I've mentioned a few times, my goal in this race wasn't to run it as quickly as possible, but rather to be a pacer. I had promised to run the race in 1 hour and 30 minutes*. That meant that I needed to average 6 minutes and 52 seconds per mile. It wouldn't be reasonable to think that I could come in at exactly 1:30 but I'd be damn close. On my last training run I had practiced this pace around a track, but was never able to nail it exactly. Regardless, the woman who had organized the pace team told us that we should exude confidence and be supportive of the runners around us. Some runners would be counting on us to correctly pace them and our job was to help as many of them as possible reach their goals.
Of course each of us internalizes instructions in our own way. As far as I was concerned, those runners who wanted to pace with me were essentially signing themselves up to be my own personal audience, held captive by The Mike Show for 13.1 miles. I spun around at the starting line and introduced myself to the crowd.
"Hi runners. My name is Mike and I'll be your pacer for the next 13.1 miles. My intention is to run a very even pace, each mile at exactly 6 minutes and 52 seconds. I've been saving up a lot of banter to entertain you with, and I just left my 20 year high school reunion a few hours ago, so you can all look forward to hearing about that for the next 90 minutes. Have a good run."
The race began about a minute later.
We launched and started running down the street. A few runners gravitated towards me and we chatted about past runs. I checked in with my pacing partner occasionally to get her opinion on our pace. She thought it was a little slow and I thought it was a little fast, so we decided it was probably right on the money. The 1 Mile Marker was up ahead and I readied the lap-timer on my watch. It would be the first bit of feedback for our pace. And we clocked in at...
6 minutes and 52 seconds.
Perfect! In between the 155 beats per minute it was already doing, my heart leapt with joy. I grinned my biggest grin and calmly announced that we were right on pace. "Folks, I'm the metronome of running," I bragged.
Turns out that bragging was a bit premature. Buoyed by the excitement of being the perfect pacer, I ran Mile 2 too fast by 10 seconds. Ditto for Mile 3. Consequently, we ran Mile 4 a bit slower to get back on pace. I was feeling pretty locked in at that pace, so when we hit the Mile 5 marker a few seconds after I expected, I announced to the crowd that the race organizers had misplaced that marker by about 5 or 10 yards. A few people snickered. I was not joking. I'd bet money that I was right.
Meanwhile, I kept up the banter. I interacted with the spectators, I shticked about runners obeying traffic laws, I philosophized about the true halfway point of a half marathon, and I offered up the reunion stories.
"Who wants to hear the most touching story from my reunion?" I asked loudly.
"Do we have to?" one smart ass replied.
"Yes."
And so it went.
We hit the markers for each of the subsequent miles only off by a few seconds. Once the Mile 13 marker was in sight, I made my final announcement.
"Folks, we have about 1/4 mile to go. I'll be crossing that finish line 90 minutes after we started. Everyone who wants to beat that time needs to finish ahead of me and my sign. You have 1/4 of a mile. GO!"
Sure enough, a cluster of people around me suddenly picked up the pace. We hit the 13 Mile Marker and we were about 5 seconds ahead of pace. So, I slowed down a bit and crossed the finish line at....
1 hour and 30 minutes and 0 seconds.
Perfect.
One of my old cowowkers saw me before the race and I told him that I'd doing the 1:30 pacing. He sent me an email the next day saying that he saw that I hit my target to the second and thought to himself, "How Mike...".
It's the nicest compliment I've received in a long time. What's more embarassing? The fact that I derive so much of self esteem from being on time? Or that everyone knows it?
There are some races I'll never forget. I'll always remember my first marathon (3:35), my Boston qualifying marathon (3:14), my 5K with my daughter (0:49), and the Perfectly Paced Half Marathon (1:30).
*For reasons that are uninteresting, all the time measurements in this blog post have been changed. However, the accuracy by which I hit my desired times is unchanged and correct.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Goodness gracious. That was a busy weekend.
On Saturday night I attended my 20 Year High School Reunion.
In general, I'm not very successful at mingling and making small talk. At parties (at least back when I used to go to parties) my modus operandi is to sit down somewhere and let people come to me. This isn't done out of some innate belief that people are magnetically drawn to my lap, but rather because I detest the process of inserting myself into existing conversations with people I don't know well.
Now that 20 years have passed since high school, the phrase "people I don't know well" pretty much described everyone in the room.
Anyway, to all of those people who assured me that I would be the only non-fat person in the room, and that the cheerleaders would be ugly, and the football players would be football-shaped, you were very very wrong. I'd have to say that in general people looked BETTER than they did in high school. The homecoming king and queen were still vote-worthy.
One of the people who used to hang out with us nerds in Geek Gulch was a small Indian kid. He had been advanced three grades along the way, so he was three years smaller than everyone else, hadn't yet grown into his face, but tried to make up for that with a fuzzy little wisp of a moustache. Additionally, the kid had a 3 syllable Indian name that was hard to pronounce for us whitebread kids, so we just abbreviated it down to the first syllable, which, unfortunately, was "Dip". Although he had a nice group of friends (us!) I can't imagine it was easy going through high school that way.
So, Dip shows up at the reunion and looks like a male model. He's got almost shoulder-length wavy hair, he's well dressed, and he has definitely grown into his face. Dip is a doctor now and was just the most pleasant and well-adjusted guy in the room, a total delight. And he goes by "Bobby" now. Bobby won the prize for best transformation.
So, chatting with people like Bobby was excellent, but that still left dozens of people to whom I had nothing to say. Everyone wore a name tag that had their high school yearbook picture on it, and I had done some prestudy before the reunion to try and dredge up any long lost memories, but I was constantly wary of getting trapped into dead-end conversations.
Early on in the evening I thought I recognized someone I did have something to say to, so I took a sidelong glance at her nametag. She spotted me doing this, but it was not the person I thought. At that point we were forced to converse, given that we were both waiting for drinks at the bar, so we made stilted "So, since I didn't know you in high school, I guess you'll have to catch me up on all 38 years of your damn life. Where did your parents meet?" conversation. This is NOT my forte. From then on, each time I crossed through the room, I did so with my eyes on the floor. People wore shiny shoes.
It was even awkward when people came up to speak to me. In high school I was the valedictorian. I was always aware that this was a completely meaningless honor. I got the award because I had dutifully done all my homework, and I'm a pretty good test taker, but any number of people could have ended up being the valedictorian. I'd bet money that I wasn't the smartest guy, just the most drone-like when it came to doing assignments. Anyway, on Saturday night lots of people walked up to me and said, "Mr. Valedictorian! Whoa! You gotta tell me what you're doing now."
"Oh, well, please stand back, lest the very force of the mention of my accomplishments cause the delicate fabric of the space time continuum to disintegrate in front of me. I'm a computer programmer. I'm a cog in the corporate wheel. My corporate masters produce software that tries to help other corporate masters be 1% more efficient. We are unprofitable."
"Oh. I'm a rocket scientist. And then I fly the rockets, so I guess I'm an astronaut too. Nice chatting with you, Mr. Valedictorian."
Those were the worst conversations. Some of them were much better though. The most touching moment of the evening, soon to be an ABC Afterschool Special, was my chat with Lisa.
Me: Hey Lisa! Hey, I have one very vivid memory of you from middle school. Would you like to hear it?
Lisa: I'm a little frightened, but ok.
Me: I recall going to my first school dance in 8th grade. My friend, Kevin, who had been to one or two others, led me around and identified the girls whom I should dance with. At one point he pulled me aside and said, "Mike, now it's time to learn rejection. Go ask Lisa to dance." I was not at all convinced that you wouldn't dance with me, but I followed his instructions, and sure enough, you politely declined my offer. I went back to Kevin and he pronounced me a School Dance Graduate.
Lisa: *grimacing*
Me: Anyway, I'm not telling you this story to be an asshole, or because I felt somehow wounded by this, but I recall that evening very clearly as a sort of coming-of-age experience, and you were a part of it.
Lisa: Mike, do you know why I didn't dance with you?
Me: Because I was a nerdy little pipsqueak of an eighth grader?
Lisa: No. When I was 8 years, I was dancing in public for the first time and someone made fun of me. I've never danced since.
Me: Never?
Lisa: See that guy in the dance floor looking at me? That's my husband. He's been waiting for me to dance with him for 18 years now.
Me: I guess I won't ask you to dance tonight.
Lisa: I wouldn't do it.
Me: I'll take a hug.
Lisa: *hug*
Crazy.
Anyway, I had a really excellent time at the reunion. The omnipresent awkwardness was a drag, but I had some really good conversations with some delightful people. I may even keep in touch with a few more of them this time around.
I climbed into bed that evening, turned off the light at around 12:30am, and thought, "Only four and a half hours before I have to get up for the half marathon." More on that next time....
On Saturday night I attended my 20 Year High School Reunion.
In general, I'm not very successful at mingling and making small talk. At parties (at least back when I used to go to parties) my modus operandi is to sit down somewhere and let people come to me. This isn't done out of some innate belief that people are magnetically drawn to my lap, but rather because I detest the process of inserting myself into existing conversations with people I don't know well.
Now that 20 years have passed since high school, the phrase "people I don't know well" pretty much described everyone in the room.
Anyway, to all of those people who assured me that I would be the only non-fat person in the room, and that the cheerleaders would be ugly, and the football players would be football-shaped, you were very very wrong. I'd have to say that in general people looked BETTER than they did in high school. The homecoming king and queen were still vote-worthy.
One of the people who used to hang out with us nerds in Geek Gulch was a small Indian kid. He had been advanced three grades along the way, so he was three years smaller than everyone else, hadn't yet grown into his face, but tried to make up for that with a fuzzy little wisp of a moustache. Additionally, the kid had a 3 syllable Indian name that was hard to pronounce for us whitebread kids, so we just abbreviated it down to the first syllable, which, unfortunately, was "Dip". Although he had a nice group of friends (us!) I can't imagine it was easy going through high school that way.
So, Dip shows up at the reunion and looks like a male model. He's got almost shoulder-length wavy hair, he's well dressed, and he has definitely grown into his face. Dip is a doctor now and was just the most pleasant and well-adjusted guy in the room, a total delight. And he goes by "Bobby" now. Bobby won the prize for best transformation.
So, chatting with people like Bobby was excellent, but that still left dozens of people to whom I had nothing to say. Everyone wore a name tag that had their high school yearbook picture on it, and I had done some prestudy before the reunion to try and dredge up any long lost memories, but I was constantly wary of getting trapped into dead-end conversations.
Early on in the evening I thought I recognized someone I did have something to say to, so I took a sidelong glance at her nametag. She spotted me doing this, but it was not the person I thought. At that point we were forced to converse, given that we were both waiting for drinks at the bar, so we made stilted "So, since I didn't know you in high school, I guess you'll have to catch me up on all 38 years of your damn life. Where did your parents meet?" conversation. This is NOT my forte. From then on, each time I crossed through the room, I did so with my eyes on the floor. People wore shiny shoes.
It was even awkward when people came up to speak to me. In high school I was the valedictorian. I was always aware that this was a completely meaningless honor. I got the award because I had dutifully done all my homework, and I'm a pretty good test taker, but any number of people could have ended up being the valedictorian. I'd bet money that I wasn't the smartest guy, just the most drone-like when it came to doing assignments. Anyway, on Saturday night lots of people walked up to me and said, "Mr. Valedictorian! Whoa! You gotta tell me what you're doing now."
"Oh, well, please stand back, lest the very force of the mention of my accomplishments cause the delicate fabric of the space time continuum to disintegrate in front of me. I'm a computer programmer. I'm a cog in the corporate wheel. My corporate masters produce software that tries to help other corporate masters be 1% more efficient. We are unprofitable."
"Oh. I'm a rocket scientist. And then I fly the rockets, so I guess I'm an astronaut too. Nice chatting with you, Mr. Valedictorian."
Those were the worst conversations. Some of them were much better though. The most touching moment of the evening, soon to be an ABC Afterschool Special, was my chat with Lisa.
Me: Hey Lisa! Hey, I have one very vivid memory of you from middle school. Would you like to hear it?
Lisa: I'm a little frightened, but ok.
Me: I recall going to my first school dance in 8th grade. My friend, Kevin, who had been to one or two others, led me around and identified the girls whom I should dance with. At one point he pulled me aside and said, "Mike, now it's time to learn rejection. Go ask Lisa to dance." I was not at all convinced that you wouldn't dance with me, but I followed his instructions, and sure enough, you politely declined my offer. I went back to Kevin and he pronounced me a School Dance Graduate.
Lisa: *grimacing*
Me: Anyway, I'm not telling you this story to be an asshole, or because I felt somehow wounded by this, but I recall that evening very clearly as a sort of coming-of-age experience, and you were a part of it.
Lisa: Mike, do you know why I didn't dance with you?
Me: Because I was a nerdy little pipsqueak of an eighth grader?
Lisa: No. When I was 8 years, I was dancing in public for the first time and someone made fun of me. I've never danced since.
Me: Never?
Lisa: See that guy in the dance floor looking at me? That's my husband. He's been waiting for me to dance with him for 18 years now.
Me: I guess I won't ask you to dance tonight.
Lisa: I wouldn't do it.
Me: I'll take a hug.
Lisa: *hug*
Crazy.
Anyway, I had a really excellent time at the reunion. The omnipresent awkwardness was a drag, but I had some really good conversations with some delightful people. I may even keep in touch with a few more of them this time around.
I climbed into bed that evening, turned off the light at around 12:30am, and thought, "Only four and a half hours before I have to get up for the half marathon." More on that next time....
Friday, October 06, 2006
As I mentioned yesterday, I'm really excited about being a pacer for the half marathon race this weekend. So, I got a little panicky when I saw this headline on CNN.com this morning.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Aside from my 20 Year High School reunion, for which I need to do some pre-study(it'll be hard to try and sleep with the cheerleaders if I can't remember their names) , the other big event I have this weekend is a half marathon race. In this race, however, for the first time ever I won't be trying to run it as fast as I can. Instead, I have volunteered to be an official pacer, and my job will be to run the course at a specified pace. I'll be holding a sign indicating my pace and I'm supposed to try and support those runners around me who need a little help in reaching their running goal.
This is the job I was born to do.
I'm obsessed with time and my running pace. I intend to do a superb job of running each mile at the predicted pace. Who cares more about wayward seconds than me?
Additionally, I'll need to be supportive, but not in the serious "Oh, you have cancer? How can I help?" kind of way, but rather in the more superficial, "Oh, you need distracting? Watch me fart and run at the same time!" kind of way. I'm very good at the latter.
I'm really looking forward to being part of the race and not just a runner. I'm planning on scripting some entertaining banter and shtick. Everyone enjoys shtick. Plus, I'm sure I'll have great material from the high school reunion and all the cheerleaders I slept with there.
This is the job I was born to do.
I'm obsessed with time and my running pace. I intend to do a superb job of running each mile at the predicted pace. Who cares more about wayward seconds than me?
Additionally, I'll need to be supportive, but not in the serious "Oh, you have cancer? How can I help?" kind of way, but rather in the more superficial, "Oh, you need distracting? Watch me fart and run at the same time!" kind of way. I'm very good at the latter.
I'm really looking forward to being part of the race and not just a runner. I'm planning on scripting some entertaining banter and shtick. Everyone enjoys shtick. Plus, I'm sure I'll have great material from the high school reunion and all the cheerleaders I slept with there.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
I heard somewhere that whoever you were in high school, that's who you'll be for the rest of your life.
Stupid sayings like that beg for mockery.
Unlike who I am today, in high school I was a physically awkward, geeky, smart alecky.... Ok, that stuff hasn't changed a lot, but there's more to me than just that. For example, back in high school I enjoyed activities like reading, films, computer programming.... Dang. Ok, all kidding aside, we're just being superficial here. When it came to more thoughtful matters, in high school I was a politically incorrect, left-leaning, agnostic who....
Hmmph.
Ok, so I'm exactly who I was in high school.
Well then, I guess it'll be easy for my classmates to recognize me this weekend at my 20 Year High School Reunion. Yeah, 20 freakin' years.
Our high school had all the usual cliques one would see in a movie. We had the jocks, the stoners, the geeks, the popular people, the drama crowd, the band geeks, the rockers, the 80's rockers, and a few unidentifiable groups. Unsurprisingly, I was a core member of the geeks. The table where we met for lunch each day was christened "Geek Gulch" by people much cooler than us. That moniker was ok with me. Alliteration dulls the pain.
I wasn't necessarily thrilled with my place in life back in high school, but after living in this skin for another 20 years, I've become pretty comfortable with it. There are worse things than being a nerd. I mean, hey, I've got a blog! How many people can say that?
I'm actually looking forward to the reunion. High school wasn't really a bad time for me. I've got no axes to grind. Also, along with my wife, I'll be going with one of my best friends from high school and my high school sweetheart. The three of us have loosely stayed in touch over the years. I've let all the other high school friendships lapse because I am generally a lazy and bad friend. Those two friends are the only ones who didn't write me off for it. Good folk.
Anyway, I've only got a few days left to build up some muscles. See ya.
Stupid sayings like that beg for mockery.
Unlike who I am today, in high school I was a physically awkward, geeky, smart alecky.... Ok, that stuff hasn't changed a lot, but there's more to me than just that. For example, back in high school I enjoyed activities like reading, films, computer programming.... Dang. Ok, all kidding aside, we're just being superficial here. When it came to more thoughtful matters, in high school I was a politically incorrect, left-leaning, agnostic who....
Hmmph.
Ok, so I'm exactly who I was in high school.
Well then, I guess it'll be easy for my classmates to recognize me this weekend at my 20 Year High School Reunion. Yeah, 20 freakin' years.
Our high school had all the usual cliques one would see in a movie. We had the jocks, the stoners, the geeks, the popular people, the drama crowd, the band geeks, the rockers, the 80's rockers, and a few unidentifiable groups. Unsurprisingly, I was a core member of the geeks. The table where we met for lunch each day was christened "Geek Gulch" by people much cooler than us. That moniker was ok with me. Alliteration dulls the pain.
I wasn't necessarily thrilled with my place in life back in high school, but after living in this skin for another 20 years, I've become pretty comfortable with it. There are worse things than being a nerd. I mean, hey, I've got a blog! How many people can say that?
I'm actually looking forward to the reunion. High school wasn't really a bad time for me. I've got no axes to grind. Also, along with my wife, I'll be going with one of my best friends from high school and my high school sweetheart. The three of us have loosely stayed in touch over the years. I've let all the other high school friendships lapse because I am generally a lazy and bad friend. Those two friends are the only ones who didn't write me off for it. Good folk.
Anyway, I've only got a few days left to build up some muscles. See ya.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Daisy has a variety of inconvenient and dangerous food allergies. Eggs, nuts, dairy, and seeds are foods that she must avoid. We've gotten pretty good at figuring out what types of food are safe to order in unfamiliar places and how to navigate through Daisy-unfriendly events like birthday parties (where the cake almost always includes eggs and dairy). Daisy has gotten used to the fact that she's different in this regard, and she eyes any new food suspiciously, constantly wary of rogue allergens. This seems like a heavy load for a 7 year old to bear, but kids are fairly adaptable and many people have suffered through much worse. Besides, there still are lots of tasty foods she likes, and we've found replacements for a lot of traditional kid treats. Soy ice cream, for example, is a staple in our house.
For the last month or so, however, she has complained on a nearly daily basis about stomach aches. Usually these complaints kick in at around bed-time, which is her least favorite time of the day, so we haven't been completely convinced that there's a physical cause to the pain she speaks of. The stomach aches also appear at other times during the day, so it's pretty hard to pin down. Hank finally came up with a theory the other day though.
"Daisy, I think I know why your stomach has been bothering you," Hank offered one evening during dinner. "It bothered you the last two nights after you had soy ice cream for dessert. And it bothered you again the morning after you had soy cream cheese on your bagel. And it bothered you after you drank chocolate soy milk with lunch."
"So... you think I'm allergic to soy?" Daisy asked quietly.
"Yes!" Hank summed up, triumphantly. I smiled at my brilliant wife, who somehow pieced together the pieces of the puzzle that had eluded me.
Daisy paused for a moment and then burst into tears.
Hank and I sat there, stunned, slowly realizing that we had just informed Daisy that the substance, which forms almost all of the treats that she loves, is now off limits. We promptly back pedaled, explaining that an upset tummy is not really the same thing as being allergic, and maybe soy in small doses would be fine, and there are other kinds of ice cream, and dammit, she'll still get to eat tasty food. It was a disheartening chat for all involved.
To be honest, we're still not 100% convinced it's the soy. Seems like some days she has almost no soy and her stomach hurts, and other days she'll have a bit more soy and it'll be fine. The pain MOSTLY correlates with soy intake, but not entirely.
Hank brought Daisy to the pediatrician today, and, of course, the doctor was no help. Unless you have a bacterial infection, or are literally on fire, there's nothing that doctors can do. Pediatricians are the least helpful of all doctors because the quality of diagnostic information that you get out of a 7 year old ranges from misleading to incoherent.
Anyway, this is frustrating.
For the last month or so, however, she has complained on a nearly daily basis about stomach aches. Usually these complaints kick in at around bed-time, which is her least favorite time of the day, so we haven't been completely convinced that there's a physical cause to the pain she speaks of. The stomach aches also appear at other times during the day, so it's pretty hard to pin down. Hank finally came up with a theory the other day though.
"Daisy, I think I know why your stomach has been bothering you," Hank offered one evening during dinner. "It bothered you the last two nights after you had soy ice cream for dessert. And it bothered you again the morning after you had soy cream cheese on your bagel. And it bothered you after you drank chocolate soy milk with lunch."
"So... you think I'm allergic to soy?" Daisy asked quietly.
"Yes!" Hank summed up, triumphantly. I smiled at my brilliant wife, who somehow pieced together the pieces of the puzzle that had eluded me.
Daisy paused for a moment and then burst into tears.
Hank and I sat there, stunned, slowly realizing that we had just informed Daisy that the substance, which forms almost all of the treats that she loves, is now off limits. We promptly back pedaled, explaining that an upset tummy is not really the same thing as being allergic, and maybe soy in small doses would be fine, and there are other kinds of ice cream, and dammit, she'll still get to eat tasty food. It was a disheartening chat for all involved.
To be honest, we're still not 100% convinced it's the soy. Seems like some days she has almost no soy and her stomach hurts, and other days she'll have a bit more soy and it'll be fine. The pain MOSTLY correlates with soy intake, but not entirely.
Hank brought Daisy to the pediatrician today, and, of course, the doctor was no help. Unless you have a bacterial infection, or are literally on fire, there's nothing that doctors can do. Pediatricians are the least helpful of all doctors because the quality of diagnostic information that you get out of a 7 year old ranges from misleading to incoherent.
Anyway, this is frustrating.
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