Spent today being sick and playing with Max, and watching Jen pack for their trip. Now, I’m printing directions to the airport to combat last-minute mind-losing. Must go to bed now, head is full of snot.
Tomorrow – drive to airport, help corrall the kid while in line for security, drown sorrows in Super Troopers and Vietnamese food. Wallow in my sinus infection in front of Iron Chef.
It’s official…. I’m sick! A temperture of 100.5, flushed and achey, I’m sitting here at work delivering bad news left and right and stamping out fires with my sick feet. Happy Valentine’s Day ::cough, cough::.
A funk has set in. Maybe it’s because Jen and Max are going out of town for two weeks, or the fact that I don’t feel well. Maybe it’s that they’re threatening to switch platforms on me at work, and I’m afraid I’ll have to learn a language I don’t want to (Java – Why the hell would you compile something that’s going to change every other week?).
There’s something to be said for a sinus infection that’s now bad enough that every time I sneeze it looks like a gib exploded in a bad gangster movie. My face is so swollen that my vision’s affected. Yeah, baby, I love it! I’m going to the doctor tomorrow to see what’s up and hopefully we can find a way to kill this thing once and for all.
In other news, I’ll be able to weigh myself on a reliable scale tomorrow and see if this soda reduction is working. I feel like I’ve lost weight, but our scale’s so old and messed up I have no idea where it starts, much less what number I should be reading when I get on it.
I am. And I’ve come up with a list of ways to tell if you are too.
Jen is strongly refuting my charge of infrequent seat-lifting. I think we’ve come to a consensus to blame it either on the supernatural or Max.
And just an update for those of you who may be wondering – I only pee sitting down at home. In public, I’m a stand-up manly urinal guy.
It’s a strange day. I’ve been reading about the demise of a company I once respected, and a love story I’ve watched from afar (so far that I’ve only exchanged e-mails, but wow, it’s been a hell of a story – one I hope they never make into a movie because I don’t think anyone could get it right but the participants).
I’m thinking about moving my site to Hub.org. They provide AOLserver + Postgres hosting at reasonable prices, and well, I’ve realized that I want to start doing more with this site, and my current host just won’t allow me to do it. I’m not sure of the timing of everything, but expect to hear more in the coming weeks (maybe for my birthday).
I will be 27 on March 20th. How do I know this? My globe-trotting sister just turned 17. I don’t know, but that seems a little older than I feel. I still feel 22 and stupid some days. Others, I feel much much older: like I’m the old man at the party looking at everyone with the bemused wink of someone who’s done it all and knows what’s what. It’s an odd feeling considering that I haven’t left the country to go anywhere other than Mexico in almost 20 years (damn, that’s a long time). Now I know how Jen felt last year. Twenty-seven has a ring to it. It sounds like I should know something, something you learn somewhere between twenty-six and twenty-seven. What that something is though, I have no idea: Always cut away from yourself, never leave the oven on overnight, don’t play with matches, sit when you pee, what is it? Maybe I’ll learn it in the next month or so and be all ready to be a mature and with-it grown up.
Oh, now I know what I really wanted to tell you about today. I have a confession to make. I am comfortable enough with my masculinity and any ridicule that this might bring to tell you my deep dark secret. It’s a gigantic admission for a guy to say this: I pee sitting down. Yes, that’s right. I don’t do the stand-up-and-spray like every good man. I don’t leave pee drops on the seat or floor. I sit like a lady, do my business out of sight and then flush it away without so much as a look. I know you’re all horrified, but it gets worse. And why save more pain for later when I can let it all out now and not think of it again. For some reason, my wife sometimes leaves the seat up. I’m not sure what she’s doing that the seat needs to be up, and I’m a little afraid to ask. Nevertheless, I now know why women get so upset when the seat’s left up and they go to sit down. Sometimes, in the dead of night, when I make the trek to the bathroom, so tired I don’t bother to turn on the light, go into sitting mode, and then… there’s something missing. Ass touches porcelain and the relfexes kick in. There is a fumbled leap up, which is not so graceful with pants around ankles and bits flailing. If I’m lucky, I’m able to gather my wits, do my thing and go back to bed. If I’m not, it means sitting for a while, calming down, and taking 5 minutes to do a 30 second job.
I feel so much better now. Thanks for listening, and understanding.
Just a helpful hint to the folks in Intercourse, PA: You need a Cherry Festival.
My son is being brainwashed. He’s a member of the pint-sized Blue Army, and there isn’t much I can do about it. I am weak before its power. I have surrendered him to power greater than my own. He wears his almighty “Teve-schurt” all the time, and waits impatiently when it needs to be washed. He constantly chants his eternal question, “Boo? Boo?” until I relent and let him gaze upon the indoctrination of the sacred “clues” and mystical “paw prints”.
Is Blue’s Clues a gateway drug into the world of harder television? Will he come in some day twitching his remote finger and asking for just another hit of the Fonz? I am powerless to stop it. Not because I can’t, but because I lack the will power to curb my own TV addiction (now powered by TiVo).
What is a geek’s polar opposite? Who makes it impossible to be perfectly geeky? Managers. They’re not all bad. They don’t all make geek lives miserable. But, there are some who seem to thrive on impossible and arbitrary deadlines, insisting that they know how to do something the “right” way even though they’re not the least bit technical, are enamored with constantly changing requirements, and will nitpick until what little hair you have left is laying in a pile on the floor after being yank from your head in frustration.
Managers are a neccessary evil. They provide feedback, and the best of them provide a good shield between bureaucracy and the geek. The worst managers are fickle, uncommunicative and only out to improve their own chances for promotion while never offering praise in public (or private) for the members of their teams. To be a good manager, you’ve got to be able to switch gears between talking to your superiors and talking to the people who work for you. Being a good geek manager takes this to the extreme. You have to know businessSpeak to talk to your boss, but be able to remove all the bullshit when you talk to the geeks. Geeks despise bullshit. If you want to watch a geek explode, start talking about monetization, marketing or paradigms. It just doesn’t work. Geeks like facts and figures, hard requirements and pizza.
Geeks also like food. If you feed a geek, he’ll be your’s for life. Ply your geeks with pizza, donuts and yes, alchohol (not me, though… Dr. Pepper). They’ll work their bony little butts off for you if you feed them.
Geeks like toys. Make sure your geek can order new computers every year or so. Give them the tools they want/need to do their jobs. If they produce quality work, then reward them with new toys (like my shiny new G4). It keeps them happy, and gives them one less thing to whine about as you work them to death.
Geeks do not like Ken dolls. Don’t be a glad-hander. Don’t say something if you know it won’t happen. Geeks have long memories and low self-esteem. They remember being slighted and hold grudges. If you’re not going to throw a happy hour, don’t say you will. If you don’t think you can get Herman Miller chairs for everyone, don’t say you can. Say you don’t think you can, but you’ll try. That’s all geeks want: honesty. For the most part, geeks will be honest with you. It’s part of the Geek Code of Honor… which I think is based on something from Star Trek.