Author: Josh

Maly showing daddy how to cook from Josh Janicek on Vimeo.

I’m a geek. I’ll listen to The Tech Guy Podcast before the newest Metallica album. Ninety percent of the RSS feeds that I read are tech-related. Since college I’ve always worked in the tech industry. My house is tech. My friends are tech. Tech is life.

Unfortunately (or maybe not), instead of being a Web 2.x guy, I’m still sort of hanging on to being a Web 1.5.x guy. And I’m fine with that. I am my father’s son — a simple kind of man. I’m obviously a member of a completely different generation than that of my dad, one where email is a standard form of communication, plagiarism is as easy as copy and paste and, if I need to know what Britney Spears is doing right this moment, I could easily find out.

On separate occasions I remember having conversations with my mom and Mr. Wilson, my parents’ next door neighbor (where next door is three quarters of a mile a way) about my dad. Dad expressed that he would have liked to have lived in much simpler days. If I had to guess, I’d say he was referencing the days when cowboys rode the plains on their horses to neighboring cities where they would exchange Atari games, sit around the campfire and drink Tab cola.

My dad actually wrote me an email once. And I’m proud to say that in that email I learned that a propane tank is cross-threaded:

“Josh, if you were trying to take the regulator off…….it has a reverse
thread, turn your wrench as if you are tighten it and it will come off.
We’ll see you this afternoon.
Mom wants to know if you have flour and eggs so she can fry squash?

Love, Dad”

I’m pretty sure in the three hours that it took my dad to compose that email, he probably said many, many times, “damnit, Janice, I’m just going to pick up the phone and call the boy.” And I can just hear my mom yelling from the kitchen, “NO!!! YOU’RE GOING TO DO THE EMAIL!!!”

And I’m certain there was confusion as to where to put the stamp after that.

Today everything is Facebook and Twitter. Two web anomalies that I just can’t get into. I’ve half-assed tried at both and have finally resolved to the fact that they’re both just mind clutter.

I read this recent paraphrased article from The New York Times. My thoughts on the paraphrasing are:

In essence, Facebook users didn’t think they wanted constant, up-to-the-minute updates on what other people are doing. Yet when they experienced this sort of omnipresent knowledge, they found it intriguing and addictive. Why?

Social scientists have a name for this sort of incessant online contact. They call it “ambient awareness.” It is, they say, very much like being physically near someone and picking up on his mood through the little things he does – body language, sighs, stray comments – out of the corner of your eye.

Ambient awareness? “It is, they say, very much like being physically near someone”. Yes, very much like. Except only very much different.

Haley discovered that he was beginning to sense the rhythms of his friends’ lives in a way he never had before. When one friend got sick with a virulent fever, he could tell by her Twitter updates when she was getting worse and the instant she finally turned the corner. He could see when friends were heading into hellish days at work or when they’d scored a big success. Even the daily catalog of sandwiches became oddly mesmerizing, a sort of metronomic click that he grew accustomed to seeing pop up in the middle of each day.

I don’t give a rat’s ass what kind of sandwich you had for lunch. If it was that earth-shatteringly good of a sandwich, pick up the damn phone and call the boy. If you have a virulent fever, eat a sandwich and drink lots of water. I don’t need to know about it though.

This was never before possible, because in the real world, no friend would bother to call you up and detail the sandwiches she was eating. The ambient information becomes like “a type of E.S.P.,” as Haley described it to me, an invisible dimension floating over everyday life.

See, even the professionals agree that no friend would bother to call you up to talk about sandwiches. And that floating invisible dimension? That’s probably what gave you the fever in the first place.

This is the ultimate effect of the new awareness: It brings back the dynamics of small-town life, where everybody knows your business…

“It’s just like living in a village, where it’s actually hard to lie because everybody knows the truth already,” Tufekci said. “The current generation is never unconnected. They’re never losing touch with their friends. So we’re going back to a more normal place, historically. If you look at human history, the idea that you would drift through life, going from new relation to new relation, that’s very new. It’s just the 20th century.”…

That’s right, “where everybody knows your business”. Some coworkers and I were walking to lunch last week and Twitter became the topic of conversation. I told my entourage that I’d recently decided to declutter and stop “tweeting”, which lead to a very profound Web 2.#2 conclusion:

“If people really want to know what I’m doing at every waking moment, I’m just going to post every time I drop a deuce.” That’s Web 2.0 talk for “tending to paperwork”, or playing “Frogger” as they would say in my dad’s desired days.

And someone already did the Web 2.0 “grunt” work (see what I did there?) by developing a website that allows people to document their, um, Froggers, so all of their friends, family, coworkers, future employers and ex-girlfriends can keep up-to-date on the progress of that noteworthy sandwich you had for lunch while maintaining thorough “ambient awareness”.

If you’re ever made aware of any changes have been made in propane tank threading technology, please send me an email or a telegraph as I like to keep up-to-date on these kinds of things. If you have a sandwich for lunch that changes your life, you’re one of the lucky ones. The rest of the world will have to live vicariously through you. I’ll be out in the plains, keeping watch on the simpler things.

Elise and I are taking yet another parenting class at her church. We took a class called “Common Sense Parenting” earlier this past Spring and I think it helped us a lot. Elise and I were both luckily predisposed with laid-back personalities, and I think that trait has carried over into our parenting styles; not that we’re non-involved or we let our child get away with everything, but being laid-back means not fretting the little things and we always calmly take the hand we’re dealt. Our daughter, despite her current two-and-a-half year old personality, is pretty easy going as well. All-in-all, I think we lucked out and have an awesome child.

However, that doesn’t go without saying that there are “issues”. We’ve both been very frustrated as parents of a toddler and often questions our decisions and parenting tactics. We generally go with our gut on most decisions and child-rearing plans but we’re only human, and often question our guts (albeit both guts have gotten bigger, so you’d assume they’d become wiser).

The new class we’re taking is called “Without Spanking or Spoiling”. We had our first class last Wednesday and honestly, I don’t recall anything noteworthy from that class. Our next class is tomorrow night and Elise and I completed our required reading and homework separately tonight.

Tonight’s lessons were: 1) Recognizing your values 2) clarifying behavioral expectations (of your child) and 3) beating the first two lessons into your offspring with a blunt object, preferably with a comfort-grip handle. Really I think the 3rd was something about self acceptance.

Without dwelling too much on the above mentioned, I will skip to the homework that I just finished: Exercise 2.5 – Review a Problem.

A problem that I’ve had of late with Maly is that she just doesn’t seem to like me. That’s the problem, but I’m supposed to “define the problem behaviorally”. So I jotted down that “Maly doesn’t like to do things with me. She prefers that I not help her, play with her or engage her”. I noted “data gathering” exercise that this occurs in the mornings before I leave for work, and immediately when I get home from work in the evenings. I specified that I own the problem (versus a problem that Maly would own, for example: if I didn’t want to have anything to do with her).

So the alternative that I chose is to engage in play that Maly would otherwise enjoy alone, such as playing in her kitchen in the backyard or swinging in her swing in the front yard. These are the alternatives to what I might find myself wanting to do, like playing “chase”, “fun with metric conversion charts” or my favorite: “checkbook balancing!”

“Facebook is smart.”

“…”

“It think it knows that our anniversary is coming up.”

“We’re not doing anything for our anniversary, are we?”

“Well now I’m thinking about buying this ring from this ad I’m looking at.”

“I don’t want a fancy ring. And besides, all I’m getting for you is a car[d]”

“A car?!?! REALLY?!?!?!?!”

“A carrrrrRRR-DUHHHHH.”

“…”

“…”

“There was a time when I used to love you, you know.”

I’m enduring a love/hate relationship with my daughter as of late. I try my best to love her unconditionally and yet she seems to hate me. Everything these days is, “NO, LET MOMMY DO IT!” I had to suffer through a screaming fit last night just because I wasn’t good enough to change a wet diaper. This is true for the bath, preparing food, getting a glass of milk, turning on a light, picking my nose and picking a presidential candidate to vote for.

Come to think of it, this predicament might be in my favor. I might just sleep in tomorrow morning and when Elise finally comes in to the bedroom and asks, “aren’t you going to work?”, I can reply, “well, I’m fairly certain your daughter would prefer it if you do it!”

I’ve consulted a few other dads and they’ve all been quick to recount, “yeah, I remember when my kid didn’t like me for a year or so.” Well, that’s good to know. So a year or so will go by and then I’ll be faced with a teenager who will more than likely disavow my entire existence and need things like money and food.

I’m reminded of something I read recently: put your spouse in the trunk of a car and drive around for an hour. Put your dog in the trunk of a car and drive around for an hour. Which one will be happy to see you when you open the trunk?

I think I need to get a dog.

It’s so hard to believe that this weekend, one a year ago Maly and I watched our first UT football game on TV together. I wonder if she’ll be at all interested in watching football with her daddy this year, or at any point going forward considering how girly she is nowadays. At least I know we can still have our farting contests because I know, after 2+ years of extensive testing and experience that girls, in fact, do fart.

We’re watching Texas play UTEP in HD right now; it’s a late game and Maly has been in bed for the night for over two hours. It’s tempting to go get her out of her bad and let her sleep on my chest while I watch the game. :-(

…Metallica’s 9th studio album “Death Magnetic”, which hit’s the shelves on September 12th, I found this entertaining clip:

…which should prove to be more entertaining than Metallica’s previous 3 albums.

Even hanging out with a friend is next to impossible when kids are involved…

Josh: want to go see The Dark Knight tonight @ the IMAX?
Josh: 8 p.m.?
Rob: I do….but let me check with Julie first
Rob: kid’s sick and I don’t want to leave her in case she needs a rest
Josh: I figure a Tuesday night on a school night will render a small audience
Rob: she just told me we have dinner plans tonight, unbeknownst to me
Rob: but I can do it tomorrow or Friday and beyond
Josh: cool
Josh: was just informed that I can’t do tomorrow night. We’re starting our “How to raise a toddler without beating the crap out of it” class at Elise’s church
Rob: awesome….sounds like a class I need
Josh: want to try for Thursday?
Rob: got a parent/teacher meeting at Luke’s school
Rob: Friday is good for me
Josh: maybe we’re both just too wishy-washy to try to date each other
Rob: maybe….but we should work on trying to work things out
Rob: we could just be friends

Elise is photographing a wedding with Marc tonight at the Barr Mansion (the same spot where we had our wedding reception seven years ago). She left around 4:30 this afternoon which left Maly and me to fend for ourselves.

First we hit Bed Bath & Beyond for a much-needed countertop compost bin (our makeshift tupperware container and plastic wrap is probably what’s drawing the recent roaches in our living room). We found the compost bin really quickly. Since I already had the kid out of the car, I decided to browse a bit. We quickly found ourselves in the candle aisle. We had to smell ALL of the Yankee candles. I’d pull each one from the shelf, remove the glass lid and let Maly smell.

“Hey, Maly! Smell this one. It’s mango salsa scented.”

“Hmmmmmm… yogurt!”

“Oh, and this one, it’s vanilla bean!”

“Hmmmmmm… yogurt!”

“Oooh. I like this one. It’s called ‘beach and sand'”

“Hmmmmmm… yogurt!”

“Awe, you’re going to really like this one. It’s called ‘cupcake’. It’s smells like happy birthday, doesn’t it?!”

“Heh. Yeah. Hmmmmmm. Yogurt!”

“Maly, they’re called C A N D L E S”

“No, daddy. It’s yogurt.”

“CANDLES”

“YOGURT!”

“Hmmm. This one smells like donkey scrotum!”

“How the hell do you know what donkey scrotum smells like?”

“Shut up and eat your yogurt.”

Maly starts her Parent’s Morning Out tomorrow morning. For me, it’s somewhat of a reality check…

“Okay, Mr. Janicek. We’ve given you and your wife two years and four months to instill morals, values, respect, common courtesy and long division in your daughter. You can leave the rest up to us now. We’re the Public Professionals.”

“Aye aye! Wait, did you say ‘long division’?”

“That’s correct.”

“But she skips the number four when she counts.”

“We’ll fix that.”

I’m really kind of nervous. While a heart string is being pulled, another string is being severed as this is one of many times where I’m just going to have to let go a little bit.

One of the getting-ready-for-school milestones occurred last week when I decided it was time for Maly to graduate to a big girl bed. This meant converting her crib into a day bed. I’ll admit it: there were a few tears shed. What 2-year-old girl wouldn’t cry when her dad bursts into her room at 3 a.m. with a roaring chainsaw after deciding it was baby bed reconstruction time! Oh boy, that was fun!

I’m kidding. The chainsaw will wait until she’s at least in junior high and has 6 of her friends over for a sleepover.

The big girl bed has allowed for more freedom. She no longer has to scale the 4-foot barrier to get in and out of her crib. She can now roam about freely. She’s an all-out free-range toddler. This makes bedtime a little tedious as of late. As I type this, I can hear her in her room playing. She should have been asleep half an hour ago. This means that while she’s at school tomorrow, she’ll probably groggy, forget that her shape is a green circle, the other kids will laugh at her and she’ll come home with a meth addiction and want to immerse herself “emo” music.

So tomorrow is my baby’s first day of school. The scene that stands out most in my mind is from that old, old story that my great grandfather told me, which was passed down to him from his great, great grandfather. The one of the fabled clownfish, Nemo. It’s Nemo’s first day of school and, excitedly, he wakes up extra early, rushes in to the anemone where his dad is sleeping soundly and wakes him abruptly by announcing, “FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL!! FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL!!!!” Fish could speak back then, so I’m told. Nemo was so excited to go to school so he could learn about the world around him and make new friends. Nemo’s dad, Marlin, was reluctant and wanted his son to stay back so Nemo could be safe and protected. Nemo eventually proved to his dad that he could handle things on his own. Marlin always regretted not pulling the old chainsaw during a slumber party gag.

Part of me wants to keep my daughter in the anemone so she’ll be safe. The other part is confident that we’ve done well as parents and she’ll do fine in school from this point forward. The other part of me realizes that I’m going to have to brush up on my long division because going forward, I’m nervously awaiting the questions that are going to be asked of me.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, Sugar.”

“How do you determine the square root of a number?”

“Well, now, you see, honey, when two numbers love each other very, very much, and have committed to a lifetime of togetherness…”

“Dad.”

“Yes?!”

“…”

Ahh. Yes, well, you see, there’s this very rare tree in the jungles of Aboriginioniumium that the indigenous tribespeople call the Equidistantsided Box Bush. This plant has a very complex root system that essentially mirrors its above ground counterpart. The root system is shaped kind of like a square, if you will. And you see, this “square root” is harvested in the late Spring when the Abluetoothoniumsmum people celebrate the togetherness and the lifetime commitment of the two numbers that have taken a vow before the…”

“MOMMMMMMMMM!!!”

This weekend has lead me to realize that my short-lived life as an adult is over. We were obligated to attend not one, but TWO birthday parties. And these aren’t the birthday parties from the days of lore when you had to wake your friends up the next morning from their cozy resting spot on top of the entertainment center, a dirty washcloth as a blanket and Red Hot Chili Pepper CD case as a pillow. And these aren’t the birthday parties that start at 10 p.m. These are the parties that start at 10 a.m. so everyone in attendance can get home in time for lunch and naps (parents included).

Maly’s first party was at 10 a.m. yesterday. And it’s not like we woke up crusty-eyed and attempted to slather deodorant somewhere near our armpits so we could be presentable at the party. We’d already been up with the sun because whenever there is a human that’s of 30-inch stature in your house, you’re up early — even if said 30-inch person fell asleep the night before with a Red Hot Chili Peppers CD case as a pillow.

By 9 a.m. we were at The Store, scurrying about to find a suitable birthday present, balloons, and styrofoam cups and creamer for coffee with kid-in-tow who’s singing, “Partay! Happy bird-day to yoooouuu!” and stopping at every consumer item that looks anything remotely like a Princess. I did not know this but the Jolly Green Giant is, in fact, a “beautiful princess” as can be clearly seen on a can of green beans.

The first party was at a municipal park. The playscapes, slides and rocks kept most of the kids busy for roughly 19 seconds. Once my child saw the cake, she sat at the picnic table and stared at it. It wasn’t even a princess cake. It was a Transformers cake and I was anxiously waiting for my daughter to tell me that they were beautiful princesses. I was mentally preparing myself to explain to Maly the history of Optimus Prime and his voyage from Cybertron to protect Earth and its inhabitants from the evils of the Decepticons. Instead she sat there and stared at the frosting that had started to glisten in the 95-degree humid outside weather.

Thankfully she didn’t manage to poke a finger or her entire face into the cake. She respectfully sat there, anxiously, until candles were extinguished and she got her own piece of cake.

After a long ride home and a severe sugar crash, our daughter went down for a peaceful nap.

We had roughly three hours until the next birthday party. During that time, Elise made dinner for a family who belongs to her church who recently brought into this world a person who will one day reach 30-inches in height and possess a penchant for icing.

In an effort to be supportive, I rested my weary head on the couch and watched women’s Olympic volleyball where the U.S.A. amassed more points in order to beat another team who wore brightly colored jerseys and very tight, short shorts.

4 o’clock showed up fast and it was off to the next party! We loaded up the dinner Elise had been slaving over, very careful to set each pot and dish evenly so they would not spill or splatter in transit. We were off quickly because we were already late for the party and had yet to deliver dinner.

20 minutes later, dinner had been delivered, we’d made just enough small talk to accommodate hospitable conversation and it was time to get to the party. Party party party! During all of the rush of loading and delivering and chatting, we realized we needed to go home and get the kid so she could go to her next party. Ha! I’m kidding. We didn’t make sure to set all of the pots and dishes evenly. We just kind of threw them into the back of the Jeep and hauled off kind of like that scene in Heat. You know, the part right after when they broke into the bank and made their getaway; but not without a really awesome gun fight scene that lasted somewhere around three hours. And then there’s that scene where they’re talking to Ton Loc in the bar and Al Pacino’s all like, “YOU GET KILLED WALKIN’ YA DOGGY!!!” Man, that’s a great movie.

So we get to the second birthday party 45 minutes late. This is a party for a 2-year-old boy who we don’t even know. The only reason we’re invited to this party is because this boy and Maly will be starting Parent’s Morning Out together next Tuesday. Parent’s Morning Out is “school” at church on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 9 a.m. to noon. These eight hours a week will teach Maly how to say “MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!!!” louder than any other human being on earth. It will also allow Elise to have some quiet time so she can relax on the couch and empty every bottle of vodka in the house.

Elise had met the mother once briefly at church. I’d met the mother in passing after we had attended Maly’s Parent’s Morning Out open house. We don’t know this family from Adam. Or Mike for that matter. We get to the house and there’s the awkward, overly-lengthy introductions and hellos in the doorway. We met the entire family, not a name to be remembered. I think I called everyone “Bob” for the rest of the afternoon.

“Oh, so this must be your youngest daughter Bob?”

“No. Her name is Sophie.”

“That’s right, Bob, you’d already told me that while we were standing in the doorway.”

“My name’s Diane.”

“Exactly. Can we have cupcakes now?”

While standing in the doorway, we noticed a lot of shoes were on the tile just inside the house. Elise politely asked if we should take our shoes off. “Oh, it doesn’t really matter. If you want, you can take your shoes off.” Which we interpreted as, “yes, take off your shoes. We don’t want you strange feet tracking dirt all over our carpet.” So we obliged and took off our shoes. I’m accustomed to removing my shoes given studies in Eastern culture. However, this family was full-blooded American. A family who would definitely understand another team who wears brightly colored jerseys and very tight, short shorts.

I did find out later from Bob that the family is from Chicago. That explains the Eastern culture.