Daylight Savings Month

Yes, this is the typical Canadian child. 

So I decided to skip June entirely. I've moved it to just after December when I'll better appreciate its pleasing temperatures. The downside is the move really screws with my new years plans. Also, my apologies for any confusingly dated correspondence you may receive from me in my new future-past.

I'm looking to the skies feverishly these days, eyes peeled for storks, as our baby will be making its Earthly debut any day now. I won't have to announce it to anyone as I anticipate that the stars will align to spell her name the evening of her birth, but I suppose an email or two won't hurt either.

There's a full pot of excitement brewing at our house over the little one and, in an effort to solidify our family even more, Vanessa and I are now happily betrothed. I chose Canada Day to propose in an attempt to mark our time here beyond the baby we've made, plus I thought fireworks would make a nice backdrop to me on bended knee. To even things out however, in case my home country becomes jealous, I'm thinking of a wedding on the day of America's independence. Again, free fireworks for our celebration.

Without benefit of a picture I can only describe Vanessa's engagement ring. It's a simple band with an elegant slope when approaching the diamond. A small family of elves rotate the duties of supporting and maintaining the diamond as well as shooing any objects that begin orbiting it, unable to avoid its gravitational pull. The universe's elected officials are in talks over voting it in as our new sun, but I'd hate for primitive worshipers to start following Vanessa around town, so I hope the mandate fails.

Also, because Canada Day is July 1st and Independence Day is the 4th, I've declared the 2nd through the 3rd from noon to noon as Dual Citizenship Day. It's not easy being this brilliant. I hope generations of Canadian-Americans appreciate what I've done for them. I assume the statue honoring me will straddle our countries' borders.

(Image by connect2canada via Flickr)

Just a Little Something - Bathroom Necessities

Evergreen? Not when I'm through with it.

Part of the whole green movement has to do with conservation, but the bathroom is no place to be stingy. There needs to be plenty of soap, water, "Sunshine Cottage Daffodil" (or whatever alternate name is given to the poo smell cover-up) spray, and above all, real paper products.

This half ply stuff being used in public restrooms that is actually see through doesn't cut it. The idea is to use less but we all just use more. I spin that toilet paper roll like it's the Price is Right wheel and put together the biggest wad of TP I can. My level of cleanliness confidence is only as thick as the barrier between my hand and my bum.

Stop with the hand dryers! They don't work and I'm not going to pretend that they do. That's like giving a child one of those miniature tool belts filled with plastic tools and asking them to build your house. Prepare to be disappointed. The best end result I can expect from a hand dryer is to minimize the amount of water that ends up on my pants when I finally wipe my hands on them. My only wonder in all this is, if they made restroom paper towels big enough would I still instinctually take two?

Just a Little Something - Mystery Purchases

This muffles screams pretty well, right? I mean... Image via Wikipedia

Every time I go to the hardware store I think about all the deadly weapons they sell and if there are certain "red flag" product combinations that cashiers have to watch out for. If I buy a hatchet and bleach, does my name go on a list somewhere? What if I add rope and large plastic bags?

Try this fun scenario:
Go buy some garden shears, a chainsaw, duct tape, bungee chords, trash bags, shop towels and some red paint. Pay in all cash and stare blankly at the cashier. No smile. No conversation.

After you leave the cashier will run through several murderous fantasies in his/her mind, wondering if they should genuinely be concerned. The red paint, however, will confuse them and ultimately diffuse suspicion.

Then later, after he/she has had enough time to forget about you, come back covered in red and purchase a shovel.

I'm a certified "basic rescuer" - choke on that

As penance for my ravenous blood thirst, Vanessa and I attempted to turn a 180 on the circle of life by signing up for a CPR class. It's been over a decade since either of us had been trained in life saving techniques and, surprisingly, they have changed.

We vaguely recall CPR consisting of 10 to 15 chest compressions in a very specific part of the chest, followed by a few lip to lip breaths delivered to the victim. Now it's 30 compressions just about anywhere in the center of the breastbone with 2 breaths using a mask. No mask, no problem. Due to the general fear of cootie contagions by CPR trainees, sprinkled with some scientific studies, our trainers advised that the breathing part of CPR is less important than the chest compressions. In some courses they disregard the whole breath giving exercise.

Part of the reason, much to my disappointment, is that CPR is merely a means to maintain blood flow and is rarely successful in reviving the patient. CPR-only recipients have about a 6% chance of survival. The life saving only comes into play with defibrillation and CPR is only helpful until you can get your hands on a defibrillator. Well that's a bummer. When am I ever going to shout "clear" and legally run electricity through someone's lifeless body?

How about during the most awesomest CPR training class ever!

That's right. Due to the Public Access Defibrillators (PAD) program, you can find these shock boxes (the green thing above) in lots of public spaces. Alright, so they're made for safety and don't allow you to jolt just any punk that tries to give you lip. However, if that street tough were to tell you to drop dead and you literally did, someone could revive you using this machine. It likely wouldn't be that rude spell casting kid but, with the great design of these defibrillators, any brave citizen can effectively become a hero.

The defibrillator gives verbal commands accompanied by easy to follow pictures through the entire emergency situation. It reminds you to call for help, says when to give CPR, including an adjusting metronome sound for aiding you in delivering well timed chest compressions. It analyzes the victim's heartbeat and tells you when to back away and shock them. The only thing it doesn't do is call 911 or make you a ham sandwich. Ask some bystanders for these favors if needed. All in all it's a pretty sweet device. There was disappointment though when there was no visible or audible electrical charge emanating from these things, plus the instructors told us that people don't really leap off the table when you shock them. Lame.

Our main reason for all this safety concern is our upcoming journey in parenting. We wanted to be aware of what to do if baby started choking, or worse. The practice babies were even more unnerving than the limbless adult dummies, perhaps because their heads kept popping off or perhaps because they looked like aliens, all silver skinned and wearing their rubber future people garb.

We're certified now and feel a beginner's level confidence for emergency situations. Hopefully our infant will chew her steak before trying to swallow. The most entertaining part of the day? We learned that the best songs for mentally keeping time when pumping someone's chest are Staying Alive and Another One Bites the Dust. I guess which one you put on your mental turntable depends on which outcome you expect. Just don't sing it aloud.

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I wish they'd given me a more comfortable chair

Image by mtsofan via Flickr

When you leave one job for another it naturally calls a person's loyalty into question, but is there such a thing as loyalty left in the business world?

Not too long ago workers committed themselves to one employer for a lifetime and their employer in return would guarantee job security and attainable rungs of the corporate ladder. This is no longer the case. Business got too big and the people got lost in the growth. Employees are assigned employee numbers, and are identified as such on paperwork, in their logins, and in the barcode on their security badges. Their salaries are now expenses, and when the black line falls these expenses are the first to be cut. The gold watch appreciation days have been retired, an achievement so many aging workers now struggle for, regardless of the hue of their collar. Workers are expendable. We are an exhaustable resource, and most of us have settled into the concept far too easily.

The American worker is made to feel lucky to have a job and, out of fear and a degradation of self-worth, we cling to the mediocre and the menial wages. We're scared and timid and alone. We've given in, content to be nameless and faceless because we are also hopeless, having replaced our dreams with cable TV and goals with late night drive-thrus. Most unfortunate is that the hardest workers are the slowest to learn. Those men and women have yet to discover that there is no reward for quality and no acknowledgment for outstanding diligence. They don't accept that early starts and late stays aren't recorded in their files. They can't grasp that management will no longer be hired from within. And they'll be shocked when they're replaced for half the pay by a pre-conditioned college grad with no experience.

Corporate America asks us to keep personal lives out of the workplace because from the managerial side the concept is already well established. When a loyal employee is fired because of cutbacks or any other term meant to strip humanity or blame from the occurrance, it is still personal. So why is there no rioting? Why aren't the millionaires who initiate these mass layoffs pulled from their mansions and beaten?

Examples should be made. Warnings should be issued. Fires should ignite!

The abandonment of emotion is our biggest problem as people and the reason for this perpetual and accepted atrocity of hollow, heartless industry. A job is still a very personal thing. A career defines you and where you work speaks to your ethics and beliefs. An array of emotion is expressed in the office. We get angry and frustrated. We have pride in our success. When we are forced to leave it hurts.

Years of mistreatment and disloyalty from enterprise giants have created a workforce that is just as expendable and indifferent as they're expected to be, and maybe one day this weakened foundation will cause the tower to fall. Until then or until we awaken from our pacification there can be no notion of selfish behavior. Loyalty can no longer be questioned as anyone who wants to achieve must only do what is best for them. Anyone who wants to stand out and move up has to be a self promoter. If you work hard, make sure everyone knows it and demand compensation. Don't be afraid to quit.

I have been given an opportunity for growth in my particular industry and it means leaving my current employer. The work I've done has not been unrewarding and my employers have not been unkind. None the less, I'm taking my own advice and doing what I think is best for me. I can't possibly know how this decision will turn out, but I'm not afraid.

The Sure Thing

A soldier may suffer one of a thousand different deaths. Whether he goes out cowered in the foxhole or charging the enemy line, his death will likely be considered honorable. Just for voluntarily donning the uniform, anyone in the military at least possesses a modicum of bravery. Not everyone, however, will meet their end with grace or courageousness. There are over 100,000 accidental deaths in America every year. People fall from ladders, forget basic gun safety, or mix the wrong medications. These people die because they're careless or stupid and their lives were really just a delay of the inevitable. But what about the other kind of accidental deaths, like car crashes or hurricanes? Are there no circumstances that are out of our control or is our death predetermined and inescapable?

Nature may be unpredictable to a degree but it also establishes itself quite well in certain areas of the world. Information on natural disaster frequencies is readily available, so God is not to blame when your Florida home is demolished by a hurricane. Where you make a home is a circumstance well in your control. I may be calling karma into question on this one, but when you construct a wooden house next to a tree that eventually falls on you, this is a vengeful justice.

There are

Image via Wikipedia

things we've become accustomed to that are completely unnatural so it's a little odd when we question why someone dies in a car collision. We can jam pack airbags and safety features throughout our vehicles but we're still needlessly traveling at high speeds in boxes of metal, plastic, rubber and glass. What's worse, obtaining and maintaining a license to drive a car is possibly the least restricted and regulated safety measure put into place in this country. We can all agree that there are plenty of stupid drivers out there and we can all agree that motor vehicles are dangerous, yet over 250 million vehicles actively speed down our American streets and highways. There is no dumb luck when someone dies from a car wreck. It's a risk we knowingly enter into every time we climb in the car.

I don't really believe our deaths are fixed from birth but I also don't believe that the dangers of life can be completely avoidable. Part of experiencing the world is accepting the hazards that accompany it. Take the risk if you value the reward and live the life you want. Your death is only as significant as your life has been.

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WriterType

Image by Shiny Things via Flickr

A friend of mine, many moons ago, pegged me as wanting to be the type of writer who would drink too much and spew prose like others would spew their last meal. I knew he was right even then, that I would gladly embrace any excuse for my mediocre storytelling. The only problem is that writing is one of the only things I just can't do when drunk. I can still verbalize a good joke and weave an amusing tale for the crowd while intoxicated. I just can't project a complete thought onto the page.

When I first began to think myself a writer, I romanticized the pains and trappings of the profession. Images of my future self bubbled up through my imagination like freshly poured champagne. I'd naturally be a success, I thought, but I'd avoid the spotlight and shun my fans. I'd be gruff, haggard and unkempt, wear an old torn and stained sports coat, wreaking of gin or whiskey. My publisher would loath me and my editor would dread my idea of a finished product. Though I would fail to know war, like Hemingway I would be brutal, tenacious, stoic and periodically inconsolable. Yes, this is the terribly wonderful man I wanted to be.

No one employs me as a wordsmith and likely never will, but I'm still drawn to the practice and the persona. Perhaps it was my nascent familiarity with these traits that prompted my journalistic desires at all. Maybe I didn't want to be a writer. I was just psychologically suited for it. Of course I have no novels to speak of and no screenplays to promote. I write now because it keeps me grounded and gives me purpose. It keeps me alive.

However, if anyone wants to start paying, I can start shopping for sports coats.

You got cheap thrills

Image via Wikipedia

Of all the wonderful things the Internet has brought us over the years, legal and otherwise, I have to say my favorite thing is the Domino's Pizza Tracker. It's simple, personal, and more entertaining than watching the microwave timer when waiting for my meal. When it first came about I thought it only mildly amusing, dismissing it as merely a representation of a countdown, not an actual pizza play by play.

Then one day we realized we forget to ask for extra sauce. I had glanced at the tracker, taking casual note that "Wayne" had prepared my pizza and chuckling to myself at the software's effort at generically naming virtual employees. Then I called Domino's to correct my blunder and Wayne answered the phone. I was taken aback.

"Wayne? As in THE Wayne who just finished prepping my dinner?"

"Yes sir? How can I help you?"

I stumbled through the conversation like a starstruck fan asking for an autograph, then hung up. Pizzaless nights passed. Sometime later I began to doubt the reality of that occurrence, and slid back into disbelief, marking it all as coincidence or some drunken memory warp. The name Wayne is fairly common I thought. Maybe it's always Wayne.

I was of course proven wrong. The names changed and even began to denote ethnic variety. Shoneka would prep. George would bake. Tiffany would box it up. Michael delivered, just like the tracker promised he would.

The red glow of the pizza progress bar still keeps me coming back to online ordering. The only downside is when it reaches delivered status and it all ends. Sure the pizza is delicious but its journey isn't over quite yet. Why can't the tracking continue?

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