To P or not to P, that is her question.

Originally this was going to be a reply to mozaic_rubie, but due to reply limitations with Live Journal, it has become its own entry since I’ve obviously violated the 9,620 character limit. Here’s a point by point answer to all your questions MR. Make sure you’ve read this entry before continuing.

Oh why not let all the secrets out…> From our perspective, it is rather strange to see contraptions
> on the wall on one side and then on the other, the stalls.

You’d think the answer is efficiency, that one has to do #1 more than #2 (which is still way more often than #3). The answer, however, is cost — it is cheaper to put in a urinal than a stall. The TOC (total cost of ownership) is lower too, if you don’t provide toilet paper, people can’t use it, no one using it means no demand, which means the cost for supplies is zero.

> When I was a mere child, it confused me to no end as to why
> the boys had to stand up to take care of business.

And little boys wondered why women wanted to lie down to have sex. Things are a different elevations apparently.

> Why shake and not use TP?
Because, for the most part, there is no splatter. There’s no mess. Given that the shut off valve is located more toward the base than the front, any extra that’s still in the pipes can be coaxed out and you’re done. It’s rarely more than a single drop.

On an amusing note, I worked with a guy who would go into the rest room, wash his hands, take a whiz and leave. I asked him about this, and instead of getting the “In the Marines, they teach us not to piss on our hands” response, I got something entirely different: “Look, I know where my d_ck has been all day, it’s my hands that I have no idea what they’ve touched.”

That made me think (though not adopt his behavior), if one takes a shower, puts on clean underwear, and keeps things packaged all day, just how unsanitary is it really? Anyhow, I digress.

> And then there is the whole rearranging thing that takes place too.
Either something sensitive is being pinched, squished, or a hair is being pulled from it’s root. There’s the downside of being external.

> I had one boy friend that had little body movement when putting
> the lil guy back.
This may be some kind of retraction back through the underwear, while attempting to avoid shredding it on the teeth of the zipper. And oh yes, it happens. Rarely. You usually get one or two good ones in childhood before your brian says, “ah ah ah… never again.”

> How does a young boy learn the do’s and don’ts of the
> sandbox?

Sadly by trial and error. Often taught to pee by their moms, the goal is to not miss the target.

Moms, if you’re out there, stop trying to teach little boys to go like little girls. We can’t [easily] just sit and go — the sheer biological mechanics required are such that there’s an out then down, which creates a crimp, and therefore prevents the physical action from taking place. That’s why you’ll see little boys who are trying to pee from a sitting position bending over. Otherwise, they’ll be spraying the towel rack. And we know that’s wrong — even though everyone knows they’re not for the “guests” but decoration.

> Dad teaches the routine and then the kids in kindergarten or
> pre-school?

Dads want nothing to do with this. It isn’t sports, television, or beer related.

> In our stalls , no one really knows what the other person
> is doing, but in a mens stall…well that can only mean
> one thing. Bad beef burrito.

Pretty much. Well, there is one other thing, but the social ridicule of getting caught is enough to discourage that.

> In a womans bathroom, there is a kindship of sorts.
This never happens. Even distasteful bragging jokes are prohibited.

> Women talk to each other from one stall to the other.
Remember, men like to do one task at a time — multitasking in this capacity is beyond our capabilities and desire. Recall that when men talk, it isn’t to shoot the breeze, it’s because there is a necessary communication. We don’t have “just listen to my problem but don’t fix it” moments, we’re solid hard core fix it people. For a man to say anything in the bathroom implies that he’s in dire need of assistance and has only done so at the expense of his last shred of dignity. Even if it’s fallen off, we’ve fallen in, and shattered our hip, we’d much rather wait for everyone else to go home from work and crawl out by our fingernails with our soiled underwear down at our knees than ask for assistance. Hell, even Elvis died sitting on the John. There was a man of honor to The Code.

> Sharing TP is also a known thing to happen from time to time.
Men are assholes. It’s a dog eat dog world out there, and if you were dumb enough to enter into a stall without checking supplies first, well, you deserve. Improvise. That’s why they had McGuiver on television. It’s like leaving the toilet seat up — who in their right mind sits down bare bottomed without checking first?

> No walls, just side by side johns where we could see each other.
Oh, it gets better. Often in areas of higher security, they remove the doors. While you don’t have lateral viewers, you DO have front on viewers. Ever notice why men take the news paper with them? We’re not reading, it’s a visibility shield from onlookers — of course we can’t *say* that, so we’re “using time efficiently.”

> One thing I still don’t understand it when someone goes into
> the stall, the first thing they do is flush it once maybe
> twice before they pull the paper covering to use. What the
> hell is that about?
Remember, men are engineers and that provides us with valuable insight. Also remember, men do not want to ask for help or admit their own stupidity. Consequently, this is a dual purpose defense mechanism under the guise of sanitation.

As men, we know that on a cost savings toilet, you get 1.6 gallons per flush. While this is enough to wash away liquid, it doesn’t cause enough vacuum to always remove all solid matter. Thus even though the water MAY look clear, we’re aware that if we were to sit, plop, and get splashed on the toosh, we could be picking up someone else’s doo doo.

Given that the guy next to us only hears one or two flushes before we start, he’s left to assume the prior occupant either didn’t flush, or the toilet didn’t get it all. He’s happy because HIS toilet didn’t have this problem, and he gets an instant ego boost for making the right decision of which stall to choose.

Meanwhile, what’s really going on is a systems check. I’m aware that if the toilet starts to backup with clean water on a flush, I should move to another stall. The next person to use the stall will see the high water level and implicitly not use it.

If a toilet survives two flushes, this is about 3 gallons of water, which is enough to dislodge any solid materials from the pipes. That way we know that when WE flush our solid matter, we will not be greeted with over flowing pooh, and then have to go tell building maintenance of our stupidity. Plunger Bubba would come up, make a snide comment about the size of the load, the smell, what we had for lunch, or why we used so much paper — ensuring the toilet won’t overflow not only is a matter of public convenience, but insures that we won’t be publicly humiliated by someone’s job it is to carry a brush.

It’s liberal water conservationist thoughts like this that cause home toilets to overflow only during parties. Hold the plunger down until the tank is dry and gasping for air for Pete’s sake! As an American, whose God Given Right it is to be wasteful and thumb the world, I ask you which costs less — the extra 1.6 gallons of waste at 2 cents per flush -or- the $175/hr plumber with a 2 hour minimum charing overtime and has no spare parts in his truck with the added cost of getting shag carpets dry cleaned of human feces?

One final observation is made before putting that paper down — how far the back splash is. Some toilets actually flush so violently they spurt on the seat, floor, or on the departing occupant. This way we know if the puddle on the floor is piss or H2O, same for the seat. We know to stand to the side, flush with our foot, and how quickly to depart after triggering a flush.

This is why men HATE auto-flushing toilets. When you lean forward to pee (see above), it thinks you’ve left, and when you lean back it thinks there’s someone new, it goes to give them a fresh bowl, and in the process created a horrific vacuum sucking your ass into the void.

> We think things when we see others in the bathroom even
> though we don’t say them.

Like what?!?

> And you men never think anything about the other men……
> hmmmmm if you guys did I’m sure you wouldn’t admit it.

Okay. Let me be real clear about this. I don’t want there to be any misconceptions, errors in communication, or mistaken messages read between the lines.

HELL NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NADA. WE DO NOT THINK ABOUT MEN. WE DO NOT LOOK AT OTHER MEN. WE DON’T ACKNOWLEDGE OUR OWN REFLECTION. NOTHING. NO WAY. NEVER. NO HOW. PERIOD. NADA.

… EVER.

> I wonder what it is like in a mens room in a bar, where for
> example, all the men in there were looking to get a little
> something something to go home with and it is the survival
> of the fittest persay…intersting thought.

The code is universally the same, whether you are in a bar, dorm, at work, a concert, Wolf Trap, or stuck without facilities in the middle of nowhere on a nature hike with Danny.

Keep this in mind — drunk men can’t aim. And that means a mess. Now you know that men won’t say anything, not that they made the mess, nor that they observed one. As such, it is rank in there.

Men are too cool to use mulch and dead flowers to cover the smell.

Want to know why public restrooms are so horrific? Because anyone with any sense of non-emergency condition waits until they can get home. It’s all the people with troublesome bowels who’ve waited until the last possible minute who use those places. From that image alone, you can imagine what happens behind closed doors… assuming you have any.

You might think that the news papers in front of urinals are informational. No. Their secondary purpose is to keep your gaze focused away from another man’s weiner. But their real purpose is in the “in case of emergency, break glass” variety — you may need access.

> But if they were to do that all the time out…..then I guess
> they would be considered a wussy or something?

You got it. Anytime a guy consistently runs for the stall, you gotta wonder what his diet is, or why he’s such a momma’s boy.

Against the Wall

Ever notice in the battle for equality of the sexes how one gender comes out more equal than the other? When it’s your gender, it’s alright because it’s a needed exception, when it’s not, the difference is dramatic.

Take for instance the time my wife and I visited a church, and we both had to use the restroom. She was not just motioned to the doorway a mere 15 feet away, but they offered her free transportation, and if that wasn’t good enough, they’d call out for a construction crew to move the entrance closer if she’d like. Meanwhile, my own directions involved several hallways, climbing through a broken window, descending a rickety staircase, traversing a labyrinth, and fighting a dragon only to find the “Sorry, Out of Order” sign had been vandalized.

My wife describes her experience as two doormen holding the door for her, in which a red carpet guided her into the gilded waiting room. There were rocking chairs, benches, cable television, and 5.1 Dolby Surround Sound for the church service. Beyond the oak laden walls which were filled with shelves of hand crafted reading material, was the actual bathroom decored in fine marble and tapestries depicting the Ascension of Christ woven by John himself while on Patmos. Soft music was piped in, along with the aroma of rose petals. Each seat was made out of china and was prewarmed by infrared laps suspended from the ceiling above. Instead of toilet paper, an array of silk worms spun the softest cloth. A waitstaff was there to wipe one’s bum, and if constipated, will even go for you. When my wife returned, she had made several new friends, explaining that they had met over the intercom system that granted total privacy, if desired, but was quite useful for party lines — each stall had it’s own extension.

I, on the other hand, had a communal trough in the center of the room with rancid water slowly swirling around. A hole existed in the floor at the far side of the room. There was no sink, paper towels, or toilet paper. Suffice it to say, socks can serve a number of useful purposes when one is pressed.

But women don’t get it — it’s like group urination is a social event that can’t be missed.

Men, on the other hand, have to abide by: The Protocol.

Women, here’s your chance to get a good look at what goes on inside the mind — and bathrooms — of men. Pay attention; should you ever decide to get a sex change, you’ll need to know these things, because rarely will someone ever explain them.

Inside a men’s bathroom are usually three urinals, and if you’re lucky, there are dividers — often not. This poses the technical problem of trying to obtain privacy while surrounded partially naked strangers. Each person can’t go because of the anxiety caused by the presence of the person next to them — now you see why we return so quickly.

The presence of another person invokes the proximity rule. You need to be close enough to not allow a good view of the thing sticking out, but you don’t want to be so close that you get back spray. Years of training allows one to control the rate of speed, based upon the distance from the urinal and the curvature of the drain. This is why men don’t let toilet lids slam — even a slight startle causes a contraction that ricochets the wrong way and wets your knees.

There’s a sense of empathy for the older men who don’t even try anymore. Some will go right up to the urinal, hug it, almost crawling in. Others go into a police-frisk stance. Some hang on for dear life, making that wheezing sound like all they’re getting is dust and air coming out. It’s the men that like to repeatedly flush while jiggling themselves that whig me out; it’s like they’re trying to teach their member by example. Arrogant pee-ers have no place; these are the ones that stand proudly like Superman, one fist on each hip, and pretend they are putting out a Colorado forest fire. All in all, the exceptions are few, but when you see one of these tale tell signs, that’s when you Break the Protocol and use a stall instead of a urinal.

Of the three stalls, the one at the end is usually the handicap one — instead of being crotch high, it’s small and a foot or two off the ground. I guess people got tired of holding up midgets.

The first person who enters has totally free selection, but part of The Protocol says that you are to always avoid eye contact, conversation, and proximity. Thus, one usually takes the end urinal.

The second person to join though is faced with a dilemma: wet socks from the tiny toilet or encroach on the other occupants’ territory?

If you guessed wet socks, you’d be right. The Protocol stipulates that two men voluntarily peeing next to each other is a threat to both’s manhood. Wet socks can easily be covered up by turning on the sink faucet too quickly, adding additional overspray, which one then blames on building maintenance.

Only upon the entrance of a third person is it permissible to be elbow to elbow, yet under no circumstances what so ever are first names ever used. In a bathroom, especially a public one, even long lost dearly reunited brothers will deny knowing one another. Discussion is forbidden.

The Secondary Clause to The Protocol is based on the fact that not all people finish at the same time. In fact, the two end guys may high tail it outta there, leaving one person in the dead center when you enter the room. Waiting is not an option, as men first of all don’t like to be in the restroom more than absolutely necessary, and secondly, one doesn’t want to get accused of watching another guy go, even if from the back.

At this point, it is the direction of the sinks that matter, believe it or not. Whichever direction they are in dictates the direction the current user is going to rotate. This lets you know which side to go on, and thus adhere to the primary rule of avoiding eye contact.

At this point, the cycle resets itself to a predictable state, and thus it is this that accounts for men being able to get in and out so fast.

There’s another aspect of sociology that plays an important role. Ventilation systems seem to be an unnecessary perk for men’s bathrooms; the expense saved is used on the lavishments within the women’s prime real estate.

We’ve all seen the woman’s line extend to the vanishing point. The problem is, the accommodations are so lush, that after having stood in line for so long, women actually slow down once inside, take their time, as if staking out their claim. Sure, it takes the same amount of time for both genders to go, but there’s a self-fulfilling prophecy going on: it takes so long to get in, that the female visitor is reluctant to give it up so quickly.

In fact, you can observe this phenomenon yourself, no matter what your gender. Wait for a lady to leave a grocery store, get in her car, and start her engine. As she is walking to her car, turn on your blinker signal as if waiting to take the parking space she’s about to vacate. Watch. Her pace will slow, and once in the car, a rigorous primping ceremony will begin. Anything that delays the departure. For, as you see, she earned that parking space — and it will be up to her to decide when she’s done with it, regardless of public demand. And so it is with the lines to the restroom, only compounded.

Could someone pass me a Q-Tip?

Last night I had the pleasure of spending the evening with some friends that I don’t normally get a chance to hang out with. We’re busy. They’re busy. And, it just so happened that our calendars fell in sync for the moment, so we thought we’d get together. One of the most treasured parts of these get togethers is hearing what will come out of their two daughter’s mouths — both are relatively young, but quite articulate.

The evening started out with a special service at their church. Both of their daughters, who as I’ve just pointed out, hadn’t seen me in a while, were quite insistent about sitting with me, not their mom. And when I say me, I don’t mean on either side. No, I mean like each one crawling into my lap. One on each leg. So, when the service starts, there are empty seats all around, and this pile of girls sitting on an guys lap — don’t think it didn’t go unnoticed. I saw how the speakers looking at me.

Were you aware that if you put two happy siblings next to one another, they can always find something to fight about? NOt an all out brawl, but more of the subtle goading and edging that escalates into mom going “shh” from the row in front. It’s the kind of thing that you feel you should have been able to control, or at least seen coming.

Each girl had new shoes, but one pair of shoes was shinier, so that made them better, and so the subtle kicking started. It may have been a game, but my shin was absorbing the full recoil of the return swing. With each girl sitting on a knee, the only way to get them to stop kicking each other was to move them out of leg distance from one another. Turns out I didn’t have the flexibility and range of motion required for that, given their leg length. It also turns out when you do the horizontal splits in church while balancing to young girls on your knees this can cause some speakers to lose track where they are. Who knew? Both girls thought this was part of some game or bouncing pony-ride and to show their approval took turns repeatedly giving me butterfly kisses on the cheek. One’s precious, two’s cute, but a deacon actually left the room and came back with a very threatening looking baseball bat.

As a quick distraction, I gave them programs to look at. The youngest one starting flipping through the program and made a brilliant connection. “It matches!” she announced loud enough for all to hear. The cover of the program was identical to a picture hanging on the wall across the room.

The elder one leaned forward and asked her mom, “When are we going to sing?” “In a bit,” was the reply. She leaned back against me to tell me her secret, “I like it when we sing, cause I’m gonna do this…” to which she wildly starts flailing her arm around, mimicking a choir director with a bad hangover conducting Flight of the Bubble Bee. This was enough to get more looks passed my way.

The youngest one, wanting to prove she trusted me even more, confessed her deepest darkest secret to me: “I just poo’d my diaper, don’t tell.” And sure enough, I noticed there was a familiar smell growing stronger.

In the Bible, the High Priest, upon entering the Holiest of Holies, would have a rope tied around his leg. If he was struck down while entering that part of the temple, at least the others could drag the corpse out, without incurring the same fate. I looked down at my unbound leg. Perhaps there was a secondary purpose, for situations like mine.

Don’t get me wrong, it was a wonderful service, and the kids were really quite well behaved. I just happened to be sitting at ground zero. My wife, who was sitting right next to me, claims she didn’t notice all this was going on. Right. That’s why she’s my wife — she knows how to turn a blind eye when needed.

The service ended, and afterward refreshments were served. Pretty much every kind of cookie known to man kind was there. There must have been some bake-off rivalry between the wifes.

The little girls ran off to get a cookie, and then another, and in the act of child like sweetness, brought me one, unprompted. I wasn’t aware that one should discuss limits at the first act of generosity. The children were thrilled to obtain acknowledgment, approval, and affection by simply fetching cookies one at a time. They seemed to have an infinite supply, which is more than I can usually eat.

Like a good family friend, instead of saying that’s enough, thank you, I did what you’d expect… I directed them to mom, just to see what would happen. I got distracted by something, because by the time I got over to mom to engage in conversation, she had four cookies in each hand, wedged between her fingers like a ninja with throwing stars on the defensive.

Now it was catch-up time, and the littlest one told me about what had happened to her since I last saw her. “I dressed up like Minnie Mouse, got randy, and my butt kicked.” It’s those kind of sentences that make you take pause.

“What?” “I got dressed up like Minnie Mouse, got candy, ‘n my but’ kick’.”

It was at this point, I wanted her to point out the kid that hurt her, and good old Uncle Walt would turn them into a smear on the pavement. Then I pondered why she might be dressing up in an outfit that would get her butt kicked. “Was this for Halloween?” “Yes!!!” she replied. -Now- we were communicating. “Did you get candy in your BUCKET?” “Yes!” she explained excitedly, “in my buttkicked.” “Buck-et.” “Ohh… bucket.” Somewhere an imaginary bully’s life just got saved.

The evening ended with going out to dinner. Since it was a big night, we were going to Red Lobster. Lobster was going to be the big meal. Problem was, when you ask for a non-smoking table of 12 at 7:PM on a Saturday night, it comes with a two and a half to three hour wait time. No wonder it was called the Last Supper, no one wanted to go out again.

So, we changed plans on the fly and went to Long Horn. They at least have lobster tails. Party of 12. Two hours.

Chinese it is.

On the drive over, I heard the older little girl lamenting. “This is the worst day of my life… I don’t get to a lobster.”

In the parking lot, I shared that amusing detail with her dad. It’s hard not to chuckle, because I remember what it was like back at that age, these kinds of things are important. Quite often, it’s not the act itself, but following through and living up to expectations.

“Tell you what,” her dad said providing comfort. “I’ll get you a lobster, and we’ll cook it at home.” The little girl’s eyes widened! “Cooooool!” Dad smiled. “You like that idea?” At this moment she decided to stake her claim: “Can -I- *K*I*L*L* it?” I can’t find the text decorations to even emphasize the delivery and emotional sense of power and satisfaction the words were said with; think of Ming the Merciless on a day where everything was going to plan. Her dad didn’t beat an eyelash, “sure.”

Dinner was wonderful, and we caught up on old times. The kids didn’t eat as much as expected; we thought at first it was because they’d stuffed themselves with cookies. Nope. We learned why as we were leaving. At the end of the table, the kids had discovered sugar packets. They thought it was pixie stick candy — that’s what they’d been eating while we were having dinner, hiding the wrappers.

This must have made for an interesting bedtime later that evening.

What’s it take to get a drink around here?

Today I went to Red Robin and started a complex chain of events by speaking merely two words: Coke please.

Now, you see, I know it had to be a complicated set of events, because I got there around 11:15am when the place was nearly empty, and our waiter had no one else to deal with. It took about 10 minutes to get the initial drink. Somewhere between my request and the delivery had to be a drive up to the Coca-A-Cola plant to have that glass brewed just for me.

I’m not exactly an impatient man. But I thought that soda dispensing technology had advanced through the last few decades.

Let’s recap. First you had glass bottles with pop off tops. These replaced the out dated gold chalices used during the Last Supper when Peter ordered a Diet Coke, much to the horror of James. The pop off tops became screw off, which coined a new phrase in the English vocabulary. When Intel discovered that it was more cost effective to turn sand into computer chips than glass Coke bottles, canned soda became the rage with pull off tabs. Unfortunately, influenceable kids, watching the episode of CHiPs where a man pulled off his tab, stuck it back in the can, and drunk, only to have it lodge in his throat, were dying all over. Not good for the Coke image, so they went to these rivet pull-forward-push-back thingies. When people couldn’t tell Coke from the ending of Dr. Doolittle, with it’s Push-Me-Pull-You, they opted for plastic bottles with twistable caps. Only not to be accused of reusing old ideas, there’s now give aways under the cap, such as the Win-A-Date-With-Jessica-Simpson. But since any kid with a black sharpie could write “You Win!” on the inside of his cap, they switched to codes, meaning in order to enjoy a Coke, you need to have Internet access.

Hmm… maybe the waiter was waiting on his AOL connection. Anyhow, I thought they used those bartender spray things — you know, so you can shampoo your head with soda over a sink and not make a mess.

I’d really like to know what goes on in a waiter’s mind. Is this really that complicated of a scenario? And, if so, is it not worth writing down?

My tiny logical mind would think that there is a small, finite number of drinks, and that anything with a popular brand name is most likely going to ordered on a frequent basis. I’d say that there’s better than an 80% chance that if someone orders a soda, they’re going to say Coke. Even if the place only serves Pepsi, has a glowing neon Pepsi sign, and writes Pepsi all over the menu, I’m going to say Coke, just in spite. It’s a given fact. Besides, they should serve Coke.

Coke is American as baseball and apple pie. Pepsi is just as American, only it’s more pinball and popsicles. Invented here, but just more artificial. Pepsi is the wonder bra of sodas. Once you set it free from its container and press it to your mouth, you’re wondering what the hell happened, but you’re too polite to say anything.

Don’t even get me started on the consistency of restaurant soda fountains. One glass is perfect, the next has no flavor, and the glass after that the waiter has decided bubbles are optional. I’m pretty sure he’s had a Coke before, and he ought to know what one looks like. If my Coke looks like diluted ice tea, don’t serve it to me — fix the machine. I’m not going to believe half the ice melted on the way back to the table, though given this guy’s speed, that may be a plausible story.

A sign of a good waiter is one that can watch from a distance when you’re about to have an empty glass and do a preemptive strike on your thirst. You’re thirst should be saying to itself, “That bastard! This is worse than that time I tried to reach the bottom of a glass of ice water in that Chinese restaurant and I had to pee out the window on the drive home, but those meddling child locks….”

As it was, I had plenty of time to make annoying sounds sucking air through my straw, though I had to stop because a group of well dressed, lisping guys with matching socks thought I was coming on to them. How can this sound get me undressed with someone’s eyes, but not attract the attention of the guy who’s paycheck I’m affecting?

Around the 20 minute mark the waiter returned with another glass, and while it looked okay, it certainly didn’t taste okay. It left this nasty after taste and plastic texture on the roof of my mouth. The bastard slipped me diet.

Here’s a tip. Most bad waiters are lazy, so what you want to do is ask them a question in the hidden negative. Point being, you do NOT ask “is this regular?” No, no, no… you ask “Is this diet?” If it -is- diet, the waiter will say yes, and you say, “I asked for leaded.” If the waiter is lazy and wants to just placate you, he’ll say “yes”, to which you say, “go get me what I asked for.” If the waiter is an honest sort, he’ll say, “I’m sorry sir, I thought you wanted regular, I’ll switch that right out for you, remove it from your bill, and wash your car with my tongue.” Depending on how dirty your car is, one usually says, “you’re right, I did want regular” He feels good and spends the rest of the night being extra attentive.

I asked my waiter this, and for the first time ever in my whole eating out expereince: he lied to my face. Big time. “Oh, it’s regular.” At that point, I had a horrible drink I couldn’t dispose of — why do they have plastic plants?!? – and no way to get a refill. It’s when you have nothing to drink that all your food conspires to become extra dry.

Meanwhile, I turned to my friend and asked how his Dr. Pepper was. He smiled and looked at me, replying “my root beer is fine”, which explained how he managed to get such a foamy head on his Dr. Pepper.

I’ve come to the conclusion there’s only one way to tell a truly outstanding waiter from all the rest: he’s quit and found a better job.

The Evils of Over Generalization

I’ve had a number of people over the last few days ask me “How’s it going?” Only it’s not the greeting, it’s the polite way of saying “you look like crap — what’s bugging you?” (And you thought Santa’s “Naughty” list was long!)

I suspect the answer is process. You take a bunch of smart guys, throw them in a room, and the build something great. You ask them how they did it, and they tell all the “best practices” they used to get there. Formalize those steps, and now you got a process. Find a publisher, and now you got a book. And, just because it’s in a book, people think it’s fact. Remember when if it came out of a dot matrix computer, with rip-off-holes along the sides, it had to be true, because a computer said so?

Here’s the problem with process. It takes group functionality and lowers it to the lowest common denominator. It is predicated on the assumption that while people vary in skill, performance, and motivation, if you give them the same set of instructions, they can all produce masterpieces. What makes a monkey into a brain surgeon in corporate eyes? Process.

I view process as a laundry list of things you want to do, usually in a certain order, to make sure that nothing got overlooked or omitted. It is a wonderful sanity check, but it isn’t a substitute for talent, skill, education, and experience. When one abstracts away the details of a problem, process looks like the magic wand that makes it all come together. Of course things look better when you ignore the details; gheez — this is the only way some friendships can survive.

Instead, I argue that it’s knowing how to deal with unforeseen circumstances and getting through them in an elegant way that is where the real magic is made. You can bet that the Apollo 13 emergency return trip’s oxygen scrubber, built in just one hour out of plastic bags, three thumbtacks, cardboard from an instruction manual, the head of a used sock-puppet, a lunar suit, ten rolls of duct tape, and a discarded AOL marketing CD (1000 free hours) wasn’t conceived by some Ph.D. laced MIT process.

It’s over generalizations about what other’s do that get corporations into trouble. Here’s the latest in terms you’ll easily get.

    My Boss: Walt, do you understand spoken Spanish?
    Me: Proficiently.My Boss to the Client: We have a translator on staff.

    Client to Me: Write me a legal document in Chinese.
    Me: I don’t speak Chinese.
    Client: I thought you said you were a translator.
    Me: I only speak some Spanish.
    Client: Spanish is a language?
    Me: Yes!
    Client: Well, so is Chinese – do your job and translate.

    Me: What’s the document supposed to say?
    Client: Legal stuff.
    Me: I’m gonna need details.
    Client: I gave them to you: I want a legal document in Chinese.
    Me: You do know I’m not a lawyer, nor a mind reader.

    Client to My Boss: Your translator isn’t very good.
    My Boss: Odd, he comes highly recommended. What’s wrong?
    Client: Your translator says he can’t get me what I want by this Friday.
    My Boss, looking at his watch: You do know today is Thursday, and he just got this assignment an hour ago?
    Client: So you concur?

    My Boss: Just for curiosity’s sake, when did you get this assignment from your superiors?
    Client: Hmm, maybe four months ago.
    My Boss: And you didn’t come to us sooner?
    Client: It wasn’t a problem back then, we had plenty of time.

Change spoken language to programming language, broaden the time span, and remove the personified talking cartoon animals to do the conversion. But you see the essence of the problem — when you take someone who’s very specific and generalize their job, you cannot instantly assume they are a master of every derived subject area. Nor, might I add, does their knowledge suddenly expand to other fields of domain knowledge. Also, hiring an expert doesn’t give you time compression.

Do any of you non-programmers face similar challenges, and by challenges I of course mean friggin’ idiocy, in your jobs based on the sole criteria that what you do is over generalized?

13921

It’s 2005, and you know what that means. That’s right. Another two months of accidentally writing 2004 when I’ll mean to write 2005. You have no idea how many checks I used to run by unintentionally backdating them a year.

Already I’ve been asked, “How’s the New Year?” Like I’m supposed to have an answer or something? It’s only been one day, and technically, since I didn’t get up until noon, I’ve been asleep for half the year.

In some respects, that last statement summarizes the latter half of 2004: I’ve been asleep for half of it. Of course, it was a self-inflicted state of narcolepsy. Perhaps a knee-jerk response to all the dysfunctional insanity that I felt better to ignore than admonish.

I just looked at my Live Journal, the last entry I posted was in …April? I’ve just now noticed that my wife has been quite the prolific writer online. And I’ve noticed that the entire social circle I hang out with has drastically changed. It’s larger.

I’ve noticed the following equation holds true: GROUP SIZE / WALT = INDIVIDUAL TIME. Consequently, the more people I hang with, the less time I get to spend with individuals. And, in exploring where I’ve put my time in the past, I’m thinking there are a lot of people that I really enjoy, but haven’t been able to spend time with in the past. For instance, there are quite a number of college friends I’d like to spend more time with.

To date, I’ve buried my nose in my work, turned up my relationship with my wife a notch (okay, two notches — but you get no more details from me), and taken on a whole new set of hobbies. There’s nothing that can clean you out of time and disposable cash like a new hobby.

Also life has gotten far more spontaneous, and not in the “Ah! It’s everywhere! It’s in my raccoon wounds!” kinda way, either. I’m talking about planning. I’ve managed to keep myself busy by just doing more. More projects. More work. More consulting. More fun.

The secret to my success? Give up sleep. Or, at least that was the intent until Jan 1 rolled around, screwing the whole plan up.

I think I like this new plan, though; at least it’s working out fairly well so far. Life’s far less complicated, and I have more time to do the things that provide enjoyment. Some people have pointed out that perhaps this great decomplication has nothing to do with my stellar planning abilities, but the fact that I’ve turn the “If It’s Not Scottish” filter up to high.

2004 was the year of my being invisible. 2005 is shaping up to be the year of being far more visible. Though, now that I think about it, the one-way-mirror may only have been just flipped around.

Lacking Good Cents

About half a year ago a coworker and I discovered Bungalow Billiards in Chantilly, VA and decided to try it for lunch. It had reasonable prices, decent food, and the perk that one could play pool while eating. As our experience with the place increased, so did the number in our party. We jumped from two to as high as seven at any given lunching, with the average being three to four. We looked forward to our one a week outing with fondness.

To our surprise, Bungalow Billiards opened a non-smoking section at the end of the week. So, we shifted our weekly lunch activity to that date. Unsurprisingly, the non-smoking section grew in popularity. To accommodate their cancer-free patrons, Bungalow Billiards opened the non-smoking section for all days of the week.

We made the conscious decision at that point to support our favorite hangout. We would attend three times a week when possible. Yes, you read that right, three times a week.

Needless to say, we got to know the wait staff pretty well. From what we can tell, blonde waitresses are more friendly, more attentive, and far more speedy. These are all traits that I tip *very* well for.

Let’s do a little math. On average, for three people our meal comes to $35.22. (I’m looking at my receipts right now, so these are real numbers). My personal rating is that a waitperson starts off with a 15% tip, if they screw up my experience, they get closer to 10%, and if they make it a positive experience, they get 20%. On a $35 ticket, it is not uncommon for us to hand out $7 tips.

As frequent visiting, well tipping customers, we tend to attract attention. Here’s what a typical experience is like for us: we walk in when the section opens, go to our favorite table, before we have our coats off the waitress has already started coming over with our favorite drinks in hand. Yes, she pre-poured them upon seeing us arrive and without us having to ask. She places them at our regular seating arrangements, and knows exactly what my favorite items are on the menu as well as the other members of the gang. We simply indicate which things we want, and she performs the appropriate substitutions (someone wants hot sauce instead of honey mustard, another person has no veggies, another person wants a special side order). By this time we usually have selected our queue sticks.

As our drinks diminish, from afar she checks on us and brings us refills. Since water in a glass jar is hard to gauge numerous yards away, we’ve developed a code. When I remove the lemon from the rim, it’s time for a refill. Our food comes out hot and fast, which makes it easy to return to work on time. If there’s a problem with the food, they fix it.

Our two favorite waitresses see well beyond 20% in tips, sometimes as much as 40%, and once crossing that mark, this gives you a good measure of our degree of satisfaction and the further supports the six months or so we’ve been going to this place.

Bungalow Billiards of Chantilly has one dark cloud in their otherwise fantastic establishment. It’s whom we refer to as “The Silver Haired Lady.” It’s the waitress you may get by chance who’s rude, inattentive, and uncooperative. Avoid her at all costs.

We’ve dealt with her in the past and she was unwilling to bring us “special orders” (such as toast), see that our food came out on time, or was even able to split a bill when necessary. Each time we’ve had her, or have talked with other that had her, it’s a clear sign your lunch experience is going to be a bad one. She’s very pushy, and it’s obvious that she’s a rule stickler who can’t operate within the parameters of good business sense. She makes me feel that a 10% tip is a tremendous overpayment.

Since opening the non-smoking section, we’ve been pleased to have totally avoided her. But today there were ‘reserved’ signs on the pool tables in the non-smoking section. Someone was having a party, and that meant going to the smoking section where “The Silver Haired Lady” had a plausible chance of showing up.

“The Silver Haired Lady” gets off on telling you that you only have an hour to play pool. This is clearly a policy designed to provide equitable rotation to all patrons so that one set of people can’t monopolize a table. Realistically, some of our games do run long; one time we almost hit two hours. Also realistically, some of our games run short, sometimes lasting as terse as 20 minutes. On the average, we’re about at the hour mark. She likes enforcing it when the place is empty. It’s her domain of power. It’s why we order very little when she serves us.

Recognizing why management has that policy is something that our blonde waitresses gets that “The Silvered Haired Lady” does not. If there are additional pool tables open and unused, we stick around, and will on occasion order additional food, drinks, deserts, and appetizers. This increases the size of the tip further. If the pool tables are all occupied, or it is clear there are people waiting for a table, then when the game ends we hand over the table. In short, we don’t need to be told — we simply treat others as we’d like to be treated. We’ve often waved incoming groups over to our table because our game was almost over; we’d hand over our sticks and finish eating.

On the whole, Bungalow Billiards has easily made over a $100 a week on our party (often far more with $160 being closer), and this pans out to rougly $400 a month, or about $2,400 over the six-month course we’ve been doing this activity. Recently they’ve been having a “buy 9 meals, get your 10th free.” I sometimes forget to get my card checked off, but since learning about the card, I’ve been through three of them. We buy a lot of food from this place. Mind you, this doesn’t count tips. Am I eating out too much? Absolutely, but my waitress has tuned the menu to be Adkins friendly and steers me away from sodas.

As luck would have it, we were served by “The Silvered Hair Lady” today and she went to take our drink orders. I ordered water, and got a pissy look from her. While she had been getting the drinks, we had set up the pool table and started a three-person game of cut-throat.

Knowing this would not go well, when she returned and asked me what I was ordering, I declined food (it’s not enjoyable in a smoking section, and it’s really not enjoyable when it comes out cold, late, and wrong). I’d catch lunch later, while my two pool-mates would munch away. What should really drill in this point about how disenchanted with her I am is that I was holding a “get your tenth free” card in my pocket — I could have gotten a drink and meal at no cost. Instead I got water. This wasn’t about the food; it was about not wanting to have my free lunch screwed up and being rushed out the door when tables weren’t in use.

She was quick to blurt out that we only had the table for an hour -and- that she would have to charge me for playing pool. With that, I announced, “I’m done, you guys play.” And I returned my pool stick to the wall. She stormed off. And my co-workers were trying to sort out what had just happened, and whether or not it warranted leaving.

Mind you, this is the same lady who on holiday, when the restaurant was dead and there were over 8 tables open and unused was kicking her customers off when the clock struck.

One of my co-workers was willing to get slightly more confrontational about the matter and went to ask for the manager. The manager came out and defended that point that they charged for pool, while we argued that this didn’t make sense. The table, whether I played or not, was being occupied. The more people that played, the shorter the game. But still she wouldn’t budge, holding fast to policy. So we elected to leave.

No sooner that we got to the door, it became clear that it was the policy at fault, and that we at least ought to let the regional director know it was causing them to lose business. Perhaps we could get the policy changed. With that, we returned to the front desk and asked the cashier for the regional manager’s name as well as the store number. She wanted to know why we wanted it. We said we wanted to write a letter, and she wanted to know about what and started to give us the run around about there being so many people in charge. Did we want the store manager or did we want someone in charge of the whole district? Deciding this should be a revamp of the whole policy universally; we wanted the top guy for the area. And, she wasn’t quite thrilled to hear that, because we happened to be there during a management meeting, and the director of operations was around the corner in the back. We asked her to get him.

And so we got to speak to Kevin. It was also clear why he was the director of operations. He was more concerned about business than he was about having people play pool. This is good, because our argument was based on revenue dollars. We presented our case that we were long standing patrons who came usually three times a week. We explained the degree of service, and our standard tip ratio. Then we went into how it was blind enforcement of policies like this that made us not want to come back, share the story with our officemates, and produce reviews on the Internet.

We were not contesting the pay-to-play, but that if a table was already occupied, then what did it matter if another person joined in. It was being paid for and food was being ordered. We’d like Bungalow Billiards to rethink that policy.

Kevin explained that the one-hour policy was to prevent people who came in at 11AM and stayed until 3PM. To us that made sense, but it should only be applied when tables aren’t available. Otherwise, you’re removing customers and making them feel bad about returning. The goal is to enforce resource sharing, not time quotas — for if a customer who wants to play pool comes in and can’t, they might leave. I would. A customer who plays longer, orders more. I do.

Then we broached the topic of how pool is purchased. Their policy had been per person, while we were under the impression it was by table. Our error, but never noticed because we always came in when pool was free during lunch — the sole attribute that draws us in. Had we had to pay for pool during lunch, we wouldn’t be going. With unleveled tables and bent sticks, it wouldn’t be worth it.

So, we asked if the actual reason for the policy was to keep tables open, opposed to generating revenue, then if the table was already in use, what’s the harm in adding an additional player, reducing the duration of play? Doing so costs them nothing and opens the table sooner.

Kevin had a very good response. He wanted to know where you drew the line and if it sounded fair if one person came in, ordered an entree, and let two or three people play, would that be fair? Good counter. He must have been on the debate team.

From our perspective as customers, it really didn’t bother us whether or not other people were paying for the table or not, as long as when we came in, one was available without being monopolized. Free pool draws us in, that entices us to buy food. As we were having this conversation, only one table in the whole place was in use. But, I must give super kudos to my co-worker who proposed this next line of reason.

If the concern is not one of using the resource efficiently, then was there any problem in his eyes if one of us returned tomorrow, alone, ordered lunch, and just played alone. To which Kevin thought for a moment and said, no, that was perfectly fine. To which my co-worker then raised the point that a table would then be in use and unavailable for a larger group. Kevin conceded that would be a true statement.

I jumped in stating that the policy, which in theory is in enforcement to maximize their profits and create an equitable environment, was flawed. The childish response would be for us to return in the future, each grabbing a single table, and ordering lunch. Thus consuming three tables, not one. And at this, I think Kevin started to see where we were leading.

If we adhered to the policy as written, not as intended, it was possible to abuse the system. Since we were going out of our way all these months not trying to abuse the system, did the policy really have merit especially in the face of loss and gain?

I asked him how much it was to play an hour of pool per person. The answer was four dollars.

This price seemed high to me, given that I could have my own table for a full hour for that amount, opposed to sharing a table with two people much better than I am at the game, and I’d only get several hits before being knocked out of the game.

Real scenario: We went to dinner at Bungalow Billiards once. Once. The sticker shock our group had to pay for an hour of pool was astounding. Think about that. Food aside, you get smacked $4 per person at the table, not a fixed fee for use of a table.

We had six people. If everyone had the same amount of play time, that’s only 10 minutes per person. Thus, you’re really paying $4/10min per person — or $24/hr to play. The more people you have, the more expensive pool becomes and the less time you have to per person. The system is flawed.

Each player plays less, but pays more per hour, and only one pool table is used. Things should get cheaper, not more expensive, as you use them less. I have, and never will, return to Bungalow Billiards when one has to pay for pool by the person and not the table. But, I return from my digression….

Reminding him about our frequency of visits and the quantity of cash dropped here on a regular basis and the generous tipping as well: obviously, we’re not happy, we are taking our business today elsewhere, it’s unlikely we’ll be returning soon, and we’re going to be sharing this experience and line of reason with a lot of people. I wanted to know, is the policy that has a current face value of $4 right now worth the cost of negative word of mouth and loss of a good hunk of money? Point being, the policy is flawed.

Kevin lowered his voice and indicated in not so many words that it was who was serving us that was the problem. Policies, like many corporate rules, are guidelines you bring out when you need them. But, being a good leader, he wasn’t going to stir troubles in the ranks by going against his people in front of them. He could easily have let us play, but I had to admire the stance of supporting one’s people — they had to have the impression he was looking out for them, even if the customer is always right and he disagreed with them over the bigger picture.

Kevin did invite us back to Bungalow Billiards, and he did give us his card and ask us to call him when we decided to return. He’d said he’d pick up lunch. Again, food wasn’t the issue — it was the policy. We left, unhappy, and unsure as to whether or not we were heard or not. Time will tell.

Hopefully he’ll remember, because the treatment we received by “The Silver Haired Lady” has really put us off. Bungalow Billiards won’t be getting our business for quite a while. We most certainly won’t be going back on a tri-weekly basis anymore. We’ll no longer suggest that establishment anymore for office gatherings. We won’t take our out of town guests there.

And the sad part? Our favorite servers won’t be getting their insanely high tips.

To top it all off, Bungalow Billiards didn’t get their $4 for pool either. So, once again the corporate world has another example of killing the Golden Goose. Prior to this we’d been encouraging new people to join us. Now it makes sense to discourage people from going.

By the way, have I mentioned that Ruby Tuesdays, mere walking distance from Bungalow Billiards, has fantastic food and very nice servers? One of them got a very nice tip today. I suspect we’ll be seeing him more often.

Win Me A Pooh

So I’m at work, and just coming out of a Dilbert-like meeting, I call home to see how the wife is, see if my sister made it, and perhaps get a chance to talk to my 4-year old niece. Apparently my niece was in time-out because she tried to lift the baby out of the crib by his suspenders to “give him a kiss.” Her mom saw through the ruse, but was willing to fore go the rest of her punishment and let her speak to me on the phone.

In short, the conversation was brief. I asked what she had been doing all day. “Nothing.” While I can relate how this response must have driven my own parents nuts, I figured she wasn’t dating boys yet so I didn’t press the matter. “Are you hungry?” “Yes.” “Do you want to go out to eat, or stay in?” “Go out.” “That sounds nice; I’ve had a bad day, can you give me a reason to be happy?” There was a thoughtful pause on the other end of the line. She replied “I love you?”

And so it was, I finished up work and headed home to join the family for a quiet dinner out. Obviously that didn’t happen, because if it did, I’d have no reason to share my date with you on Live Journal.

I say date because that’s exactly what it was. The moment I got home, I didn’t even have time to get my jacket off as my wife and sister announced they were ordering out and intended to stay home. I however, was about to have dinner with a 4 year old. And, I had to be back by the 7:30pm curfew, and no funny business. Honestly, they could have left that last part out; it gave me the creeps.

By the time we established that chicken wasn’t desired, we ended up with burgers. Not just any burgers, my wife sends me off to Red Robin.

Now between McDonald’s and Red Robin, I’d rather have real beef. Explain this to a 4 year old. Turns out, I didn’t have to when I said there were balloons there and when you walked in the door you could “stand on a TV” which was embedded in the floor. Red Robin won.

We got there and she stomped and spun on the television while I tried to get us a table. Then before we ate she was sweet-talking the manager into giving her a balloon. She was trying to work out a deal for the second one when our table was ready.

I have a word of advice to parents everywhere: don’t let the kids order. They’ll outsmart you.

I ordered a typical burger, and asked her what she wanted. She didn’t address me, she addressed the waitress: “I’d like chocolate milk, a salad with white ranch dressing please, a burger with no cheese, ketchup, and pickles.”

Impressive. My niece was coloring her place mat and didn’t even take the time to make eye contact during the order. The waitress and I exchanged looks. “That come in kid sizes?” I asked. The waitress nodded and took off.

Now let me also explain that when Red Robin looked up the definition of ‘kid’ they must have gotten the definition for ‘small goat’ because I tell you I couldn’t have finished that salad if I had tried. I think it cost more than my burger.

Moments later the meal arrived. After dunking two 2″ square size pieces of green lettuce in the white ranch dressing, my niece pushed aside the salad, moved the dressing to her fry tray, and started dipping them. Yes, that was an expensive ounce of salad dressing, so I was intent on letting her eat as much of that as she wanted.

Until she decided to stop using the fries altogether and started dipping her fingers in one by one.

Apparently when you stop one fun activity, it gets replaced with another. Little did I know.

“Uncle Walt?”
“Yes?” I sputtered as I was just now trying to get the first bite of my burger that was rapidly cooling.
“I have to pee.”

I now found myself in a position that, with no mom, was awkward to say the least. Our food was rapidly cooling. I didn’t trust to send her into the women’s bathroom all alone for fear she might take just as long as a grown one and not be coaxed out easily. So, I resorted to taking her to the men’s room… where, when I cracked the door, was the gnarliest guy you ever saw using the urinal.

Not wanting to expose her to him, or worse, him to her, I told her to close her eyes and I led her into the stall blind-man-bluff style.

Bet you didn’t know that they don’t make toilet seats kid-level. Bet you also didn’t know that when men miss the seat in a public place, they don’t clean up after themselves. (Laugh if you want, but I hear women are worse at this offense.)

So, I’m now cleaning up some strangers urine in a small sealed stall that barely has room for one person. I grab the paper protector and put it on the seat — my niece inquires if that was to “make it warm for her baby bum.” This is NOT the kind of play-by-play out-of-context you want overheard by biker-dude one urinal over. I’m sure we made someone’s dinner conversation topic.

Luckily washing our hands wasn’t as big of a production as it could have been. We made it back in time for the food to be tepid.

At that point my niece decides to thrust her WHOLE HAND in the salad dressing making a five-pronged udder of ranch flavor.

Enough.

I broke down and did what any nerve-wracked adult would do. I resorted to bribery.

“If you be good -and- finish your hamburger, we’ll get a cookie on the way home.”

It worked. Instantly the angel in her came out. She finished her whole burger without fuss, she sat up straight, she paid attention, we talked.

As we were leaving, she informed me I owed her a cookie.

Since the best cookies in town are baked by Michele who works at the local hotel, we swung in to say hi …only to find Michele wasn’t on duty. I explained we had to go home, and my niece said she didn’t want to — she then sweet talked the manager into a cookie with pleases and thank yous.

Cookie in hand we got back in the car, where she made the announcement that I would have to brush her teeth tonight. “Why?” I asked. “Because mommy does it. She’ll look in my mouth and see the cookie in my tummy. You _have_ to so she won’t see.”

It was supposed to be our little secret, but mommy insisted on brushing her teeth the moment we got home. To my niece’s surprise, mommy did not see the cookie. Only that left us with another problem.

Before going to bed, mom sent her into the bathroom to do #2. She called for me through the door. “What?” I asked. “Come here, I have to talk to you.” So, I listened at the door. You see, she had _promised_ that I could brush her teeth, and now that wasn’t going to happen. So, instead, I would get to wipe her bottom.

Ironic. That perfectly sums up the meeting I had just had at work.

So, I sat with her, and finally decided to bail when she had sunken in the toilet so deep it was forming a red-ring around her behind. She reached over, folded up some toilet paper into a nice square and proudly handed it to me.

At this point, I’m standing over her waiting for her to get up. She’s stuck and is working her way out. The only problem is that at that exact moment I felt a sneeze coming on. A strong one.

Quickly looking in desperation, I didn’t see any tissues on the shelf above her. The sink was void. I couldn’t get to the tissue roll and pull off a handful in time to make the sneeze.

And then, that’s when the sneeze decided to arrive. I was out of time. Aaahhhh Choooo!!! And the nastiest, wettest sneeze came out right in the middle of the toilet paper she had just handed me, the only source of tissue substitute I had.

My niece looked up at me with the most horrific shock. You know exactly what she was thinking: “You are NOT going to apply THAT to my ass! What the hell are we going to do NOW?”

The look on her face as she was wondering why I was lubing up her tissue and reconsidering whether or not I was the right candidate for this job, I started laughing.

I couldn’t help it. I had no where to put the tissue. She was still stuck, and in moving closer to the trash can, she must of thought I was coming closer to her to finish her request. “Nooo!!! We need another one!”

By this time my own tears had subsided and I just decided to go along with it. “Are you sure? This one’s so soft.”

“No! I want a new one.”

“I don’t know if I can sneeze again.”

“No. I mean we need a CLEAN one.”

“Why? You’re just going to make it dirty again.” That comment actually caused pause for consideration, but she quickly recovered.

Eventually we got things straightened out through communication; something that would have been nice to have happen at work.

A Child’s Game

This weekend held a special treat, as I took my four year old niece to the Maryland Ren Fest.

The drive was a little longer than an hour, and I decided to pass the time with some silly made up games.

It got to be my turn.

I’d cover my eyes, and my niece would make an animal sound, and I’d have to uncover my eyes and guess, just as she had done before.

“Moooo….” went my niece.

“A cow?”

“Yup!” as she burst into giggles. She took my hands and covered my eyes.

“Oink! Oink!” squeaked out.

“A pig?”

Again, more giggles interspersed with vigorous nodding. I covered my eyes again.

“Vrrmm. Vrmmm.”

I uncovered my eyes. Was that a car?

She grinned. “Uh-huh!”

“That’s kinda tricky since it’s not an animal.” I closed my eyes, for what now would be the last one.

“Vrrmm. Vrmmm.”

I opened my eyes again, sure she didn’t get the point of the game, where every animal was supposed to be different.

“Was that a car again?”

She nodded, quite seriously, adding: “yes, a red one.”

Make This Quick

This weekend my niece came to visit. As part of her nightly ritual, she embarks on a stall technique where she has to use the potty, ask for water, be read to, be tucked in, be sung to, be rocked, and so forth and so on. The biggest winner she’s discovered is the ritual of “hugs and kisses” where, dressed in her pajamas, she gets to visit one last time with each person in the house and give them a hug and a kiss.

It’s eight o’clock, I’m working on the computer, and in comes this little girl who surprises me by wrapping her arms around me and gives my side a big kiss.

Just as she’s about to wander off, I say, “hold on there, don’t *I* get to give you a hug and kiss too?”

She looks at me, says yes and takes a step forward. Apparently I wasn’t fast enough, because she doubles over in exaggerated desperation palms up stating, “We have to hurry!!! My mom’s counting!”

Sure enough, I later learned that mommy had imposed a 60 second limit on her dishing out of affections, but none the less the comment made me feel kinda cheap. Funny. Usually guys dig that.