Is anybody out there?

“Are you reading this thing?...”

It was the only sentence I wrote in the very centre of a clean white page. It was an essay I wrote in university for a long forgotten course taught by a barely memorable instructor. I say barely memorable simply because I remember writing that one single sentence. This instructor was infamous for returning papers with no feedback other than the mark. A letter grade written in red pen on the cover page of the paper was all the information you would receive. Idle students being the masters of deductive reasoning that they are, we thought we could easily see the truth of the matter.

He was not reading our papers.

Several theories arose as to the details of how he managed the ruse.

Some thought he was simply grading on a curve, distributing marks randomly according to the classic bell curve distribution.

Others were more creative in their thinking. Perhaps he used the Staircase Method where a professor tosses the entire pile of papers down the stairs. The weightier essays fall farther, and must contain more information. They are awarded a higher grade accordingly.

Still others thought that he assigned each paper a slightly lower mark from the last, based on the reverse order in which they were received. This theory was based on the premise that the best papers were the hardest to write and therefore arrived last. Coincidentally, this model would also reward procrastinators like me, but I always seemed to manage a decent showing regardless of the marking model.

Several attempts were made to prove marking theories based on complex cryptography.

Postulations included the notion that there were encoded messages contained in the letters of an individual's marks, or perhaps the marks of the entire class. This theory was too difficult to work with and was abandoned on the basis that a) it hurt our brains to think about and b) the level of work required for a professor to use this model didn’t fit with the original Theory of Laziness that stated he never read our papers.

Eventually it occurred to me that all of the theories might be incorrect if our original assumption could not be proven. Was he in fact reading our papers, or not?

In the very middle of my essay I inserted a page that contained a single sentence in the very middle. “Are you reading this thing?” And so I became the first student known to receive more feedback than just a letter grade from this instructor.

I don’t remember the instructor’s name; or the course material; or the essay topic or even the letter grade I received for my masterpiece. I do remember one thing though... On that nearly empty page in the middle of my essay, written just under that evocative sentence, in large, red block letters was written the single word “YES”.

Today my curiosity is simalarly piqued and I find myself wanting to know: Is anyone reading this?

Hang on to your red pens, and simply use the comment button at the end of the column. Or, for a more personal touch you can email me at rileypix@hotmail.com .

If you feel inspired to tell me anything more than “YES”, let me know if you think the postings are humorous; the name of your favourite post; how often you check this blog for new posts; and whether you’ve ever forwarded any to a friend.

Thanks for reading.

p.s. -check out my friend Kathryn’s new blog at http://koolkatnip.blogspot.com

Sorry kid, it's a re-run

Evelyn is watching a rerun and she doesn’t even know it.

At the end of this month Bridget turns 3. At the beginning of next month Evelyn turns 1. Evelyn’s first year has been very busy for all of us. Shortly after she was born, Mom found a job on the other side of the country. We had a house hunting trip when Evelyn was 7 weeks old, and we moved when she was nearly 3 months. At 5 months of age her Mom returned to work, and Dad was the full time parent at home with Evelyn and her sister.

Bridget’s first year was a non-maelstrom of inactivity by comparison. She benefited from routine, better cooking, and significantly less divided attention from at least one parent at a time. Her first year was very well documented. It was photographed, scrap-booked, emailed, logged, and video taped. By the time Bridget was 18 months old Daddy’s Workshop had produced a two hour home movie, complete with special effects. Not just once, but three times.

We’ve had slightly less time to document Evelyn’s first year, what with the chaotic upheaval and all.

The videos and photos are all there, just waiting to be edited, compiled, glued and glittered into scrapbooks and movies.

We played one of the old home movies the other day – the second one, where Bridget was the same age as Evelyn is now. Evelyn was amazed. Awestruck, even. There it was, right before her eyes. Video evidence of a life she could not remember living. The TV baby looked like her, sounded like her, and wore many of her clothes – although for some reason they looked a little newer. And that was definitely Mommy and Daddy with her on the TV. Yet, for some reason, she could not recall ever being able to walk; or having a dog; or playing outside with no coat and hat on. Clearly, she thought she was watching herself on TV. And she loved it. She couldn’t get enough of seeing her doppelganger sister on the tube.

It was like a baby’s dream come true – out of the same screen that gives her Elmo and Teletubbies…there she was, right where they had been. And oh! The things she could do on this show, where there was no big sister stealing her toys and yelling at her! She was so enraptured that we let her watch it a few more times during the rest of the week.

Eventually we felt guilty and put it back on the shelf, but we never had the heart to tell her that it was a re-run, or that she had been played by a stand-in body double stunt baby. It’s completely obvious what we have to do next. We have to lie.

Since we may never have enough consecutive hours of REM sleep to be that creative again, we need a ruse. We have to come up with an elaborate web of lies that will “explain” everything to her. The secret will go with us to our graves, unless Google starts providing search capabilities on Blog contents. We need a grand story, one so outrageous that would seem that we couldn’t have made it up. Something like: Aliens abducted the dog and replaced him with a big sister/spy to monitor our activities. We had caught the whole thing on tape, but their anti-paparazzi ray-gun zapped it. That’s why we had to stop making home movies, the camera is completely zapped. That’s why we decided to move to the East Coast where there are far fewer UFO sightings. Coincidentally enough, there are also far fewer people using recreational hallucinogens on the East Coast.

Or perhaps this: it was a Hallmark Movie of the Week. You were the star – a highly paid child actor. Unfortunately we blew all the proceeds on fast cars and fast food, and after you grew out of your “cute when you fall down learning to walk” phase there were no more movie parts coming your way.

We could always fall back on the old stand bys used by our parent’s generation such as “because I said so” or “because you were making too much noise, that’s why”.

We’ll likely just cave and tell her the real truth though – that we moved across country in order to have a nicer home and spend more time together as a family, and the first chance I get, I’ll make more home movies. Right after spring cleaning; garden planting; housework; painting the exterior trim; painting the bedrooms; replacing some old windows; cleaning the basement; and getting used to being back at work full time.

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

To Serve and Protect the parking lot

This fall, during my sister’s visit, we ordered takeout from the Italian place in the nearby strip mall. My sister and I went to pick it up, along with the two oldest kids. We pulled up in front of the restaurant just when the food would be ready. I stayed in the van, idling by the curb while my sister ran in.

It was marked a no parking zone but I knew we would be quick. Besides, the fire lane I was in had been temporarily blocked off for weeks by a construction fence 10 feet in front of me.

Within minutes a police-like vehicle pulled up behind me and a uniformed man approached. I thought “swell, mall security…” It didn’t really sink in yet that he was a police officer. I had just moved here after living for 10 years in Vancouver, and in Vancouver you would have to stab someone to get police to attend at a mall parking lot. ESPECIALLY a strip mall.

I rolled down the window to hear him ask if I was aware that I was in a no parking zone. Then I unintentionally smart-assed him, right to his face. I really just meant to be honest when I said “well, yeah, there’s a No Parking sign right there, but we’re just grabbing takeout”.

He stiffened and stood straight up from his “how are you this evening” slouch to a more official height, and twisted into the power stance police use when they want you to see their hip, where their sidearm is holstered.

Suddenly – at least in my mind -- things were becoming perfectly clear. “Wow!” I thought, “They arm the mall security guards here? What a tough town.”

He then delivered the official chastisational utterance: “Sir, you are PARKed in a NO parking ZO-wun, which, as you can seeee is cuh-LEAR-ly posted there, AND there with the a-PROPE-riate signs designating it as such. I am issuing you… blah blah blah, bubbudy blah foo fah, in the amount of FIFTY dollars which you can reduce to tuh-wenty five by submitting payment early…blah…blah…..any questions?”

I know when I’m beaten. What I did NOT say was: “Sign? Sign… Hmmm… Oh! There it is, just behind that CONSTRUCTION FENCE 10 feet in front of me that completely blocks the fire lane you are protecting! How much are you fining the construction company? And who did you piss off exactly, that you received mall parking lot duty?” I had already heard from friends that the Rothesay Regional Police are not known for their sense of humour. I had just relocated here from Vancouver where the police are definitely not known for their sense of humour. They are known for their sense of accuracy when wielding a baton.

I didn’t know if that ‘no sense of humour’ warning meant the same thing here, but I wasn’t going to test the waters. That question would have to remain unanswered.

No, I know when I’m beaten alright. Other than a polite “Thank you” I kept my mouth closed and paid the fine. Early.

Sometimes I am a Smartass

Those who know me well would agree that sometimes, on occasion, when the timing is right and the mood is appropriate, I can be a bit of a smartass. Other times, when it is slightly less appropriate, I can be a complete smartass. There is an art to being a successful smartass. It doesn’t just happen. You grow into it and refine your craft over the years. Mistakes get made. You learn. Success depends on the right combination of timing, wit and judgement. Miss any of those three and you’ve crossed the blurry line from smartass to jackass. When this happens it hurts. The real hurt you feel way down deep in that special place where you cry just on the inside—like when you horribly misjudge the mood your wife is in. That one can be a catastrophe. Or, so I’ve read.

It nearly happened to me the other night when my wife asked “Where’s the salad dressing”. Apparently “In the Salad Dressing Room” was NOT what she was hoping to hear.

A few months ago I made a large purchase. The bill was significant for a guy on parental leave with no job prospects at the time. The cashier politely asked me how I would be paying. As I handed her my debit card I twisted my face into the most painful, theatrical grimace I could muster and said “Painfully. Sort of like this. And I was thinking of maybe holding my breath too.” Unfortunately, her laughter did not prevent her from processing the transaction.

A few years ago I was starting a new job, filling out the usual “new guy” paper work. Among the various HR forms was an information sheet which asked “Who should we contact in case of Emergency, and where can we reach them?”

I wrote “Ambulance. 9 – 1 - 1”.

The very next question asked if there were any special medical conditions I wanted to make them aware of. I indicated that “If I am ever incapacitated, kindly remove my contact lenses and place a nicotine patch on me. Not necessarily in that order”.

They later changed their forms, and I later quit smoking, now everybody’s happier.

Finally, then, I give you my all time favourite smart ass story…
It was about 8 years ago, in Sault Saint Marie, Ontario. There was a family wedding there that weekend, and my father and I were crossing the border to Sault Michigan for a stag event. It was just the two of us in the Ford Station Wagon. As we rolled up to the long line my Dad said “So, we’re going to a birthday party, right?” It was the up-talking tone he takes that says ‘wink, wink, nudge, nudge, know what I mean?’ Naturally, I pretended I didn’t. “Nope. It’s a stag party, remember?” He repeated himself, but with more emphasis on the final word.

“Rrrrighttttt?”

“Okay Dad, you’re the boss, whatever you say.”

Clearly he was nervous. I’m not sure if was because we were heading to a party, or because he thought I looked like a hydroponic farmer. I had a shaggy beard and hair half way down my back, tied in a pony tail. And I lived in Vancouver.

He pulled out his 3 inch think old-guy wallet to locate his ID. As the car inched closer to the border he got increasingly nervous about the fact that he couldn’t find his Birth Certificate. The wallet flipping continued as he enumerated the cards he did have. Visa, Club Z card, Auto Club, Canadian Tire Card, Driver’s License, but no Birth Certificate.

I should mention at this point that I not only had my Birth Certificate out, but my work ID as well. Something told me it might help. At that time I was a Social Worker for Child Protective Services with the Province of British Columbia. So at least one government felt I was reasonably trustworthy.

Finally, it was our turn. The Border Guard asked our destination and reason for our visit. Dad stated it was to attend a birthday party. The Agent asked who the party was for. Dad provided the name, and was then asked how we knew him. “He’s marrying my daughter” Dad said, as he left out the word “tomorrow”. Next he asked us where we were both born: “Chatham, Ontario” and “Chatham, Ontario”. He asked where we reside now: “Vancouver, BC” and “mweh, eh, Buh. Cheh. Kitchener”

To this day I have no idea why the sound of “Vancouver” left Dad so flustered. But it did. The next sound we heard was the Boarder Guard asking us for ID. I passed him my Birth Certificate. Dad re-engaged his opposable digit in the wallet flip exercise as he half heartedly asked “sure, what do you need?” The guard was looking at my ID but said “proof of Citizenship…. Richard. Have you ever been fingerprinted?”

Ever the co-operator I clearly declared “Yes sir, as a matter of fact I have.”

It was at that instant that the wallet flipping finally ceased. The blood rushed from Dad’s cheeks so quickly, you could almost hear it. He sat looking at me in slack jawed horror. His eyes though, his eyes were the most telling feature. They were wide, and just a little moist. They were the eyes of a man who would swear he had actually just heard the snap of a rubber glove being prepared for a body cavity search.

It should be noted that the men and women of the United States Border Patrol do NOT skimp on quality. They are issued the finest equipment. The snap my father heard was not the tiny elastic snap like that made by the type of rubber bands you steal from the office supply cupboard. No, this had resonance; depth; volume! Like the sound made by those rubber bands around lobster claws and bunches of broccoli. The sound they make echoes off the stainless steel walls of the search chamber. Or, so I’ve read, at least.

The officer asked me why I had been finger printed. As I handed him my work Identification I said “For this”. He took a quick glance and asked “what’s this, your driver’s license?”

“No sir, it’s my work ID. I’m a Child Protective Services Investigator for the Province of British Columbia”.

As he handed me back my identification he stepped back and said “very well, have a nice visit, and drive safely please.”

It took my father another half a second to register the fact that we’d just been waved through. Crisis averted. As we pulled away from the border post I asked him “So Dad, are we still on schedule, or do you think we missed the birthday cake?”

Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to work I go

This is my last week as a Stay Home Dad.

The judges have made their final decision. I am returning to work on Monday…as a Social Worker on a team with some very terrific people who seem eager to have me join them. Good eager, not desperate eager. I think.

It has been an interesting 7 months here at home. Anyone I spoke to before taking over the parental leave knows that I did not – even for one second – believe that this would be easy. What I didn’t expect was that it would really be downright difficult. I love them both, even when they grind Cheerios into the carpet, or scream their lungs out, or spit applesauce at me. But there have been days when I just wish I could get them to take a nap at the same time so I could join them; or at least that it wasn’t -20C outside so we could go for a walk.

Now the girls will go to home care with a family friend. Finally, they will be with someone more responsible. Someone who always remembers that Evelyn needs a bib before you hand her a chopped up banana, or that you have to actually keep track of how many cups of juice a kid has in one day or there may be… some trouble.

Yes it is my last week. And this is my last Wednesday. Wednesdays are a bit special. For a while now the girls have been spending Wednesdays with their Grandparents in town. It works out fairly well. They get to run and play somewhere with no rules at all; my in-laws get to spend time with the kiddies, and I get to take a shower without anyone asking me “hey, what are you doing Daddy? Are you having a shower? Daaaa-deee? Can you hear me?”

I try to keep Wednesdays productive. I vacuum; clean the kitchen; balance the bank accounts; look for a job; shovel the driveway; nap. I hardly ever accomplish the whole list every Wednesday. The day IS only so long.

As we finished loading the kids into the van early this morning my wife hopped into the driver’s seat smiling and said “enjoy your last Leisurely Wednesday!” Then she laughed. No, howled. Actually, it was really more of a cackle. In fact, she cackled like a maniac, and it looked as if she was unable to stop.

I’ve only heard her cackle like that once before. It was just before we moved. We were talking about how I would manage the house as a novice Home Dad. She was...well...we'll, let's say that she was supporting me to set more realistic expectations. I had said something ridiculous about my goal to achieve one perfect day. I defined this perfect day as a day where my tired spouse would arrive home to see a clean house; dishes done; kids happy, clean and dressed and making some affectionate craft for Mommy! The laundry would be done and put away; dinner ready; table set; and a homemade pecan pie waiting in the oven. I’m pretty sure it was the pecan pie that did it, but it could have been the bit about the crafts. She cackled that same maniacal laugh. It was the laugh of The Knowing, before they educate the dim; the laugh of one who foresees impending doom, or at least pending humility.

Plus, also, I think she foresaw quite a few days where the dishes were piled up, the kids were still in their pyjamas and Bridget and Daddy “made” pizza for dinner. We follow a set recipe: I make the phone call, and Bridget waits at the door for the man to bring the pizza.

Yes, that day my supportive wife thusly assisted me to arrive at more realistic expectations of myself and the kids--which can be hard to do mid-cackle.

This morning’s cackle was even heartier though.

I know she couldn’t hear me, but as the van backed out of the drive, and I retreated toward the garbage cans, but my body language definitely said: “THIS is getting blogged…”