But if you’ve read by blog, you know that the jumping castle is no more, and Mike the Balloon Tycoon is no longer a figure at the market. Many things have changed, actually, all of them affecting the market we once knew and loved. It’s definitely not the same market anymore, and rings more of The Forks in Winnipeg, or Granville Island in Vancouver.

I can’t yet say if it’s a step up or down, but it’s definitely a step forward.

Unlike the old site, which was a 1940′s military warehouse, the new market is an expanded end of an industrial complex, conveniently placed next to a shooting range. We’d seen the plans for the new market many times as the Calgary Farmer’s Market executive advertised the new space in hopes of bringing over as many existing clients as possible. It was likely a necessary thing, since the old market was the only decent market on the west side of town, and the West side folk have to be encouraged to drive into the East beyond visiting IKEA (which, conveniently, isn’t too far away from the new market).

Normally, we went to the market on Saturdays to have breakfast, and do a little shopping (and let Monkey burn off steam in the no-longer-present jumping castle). But today being Good Friday, it was a convenient chance for us to visit on a weekday. Apparently, along with half of the rest of the city…

When we got to the light at 71st Ave SE at 8:45 this morning, all we saw were cars. First thought: they didn’t allow for nearly enough parking. That was something the old site had in spades, thanks to the massive gravel parking lots that were likely leftover from previous warehouses. The new market has only side streets, and a limited lot. I will not be surprised to hear this is the single biggest complaint of the new market’s location.

The cars worried us for two reasons: 1) it meant that, in previous experience, getting in and getting a table so we could get breakfast would be hard, even if 2) we could find a place to park.

Thankfully (in a matter of speaking), we soon realised that a significant proportion of the cars were actually going to The Shooting Zone, the shooting range right next door to the market. (Monkey would later ask what the “bangs” were. She has yet to comprehend the concept of a gun.) There was a sale, and the double-whammy effect was a bit more than I think either organisation had expected.

The market was just opening, and not many people had arrived yet. First impressions being the important ones, we were immediately impressed with the appearance. The ceilings were lower (but not claustrophobic), the stalls spaced well enough to get around easily (especially with strollers), and it looked much more polished than the old market (hence my allusions to both The Forks and Granville Island).

We did a slow clockwise circuit, eventually arriving at the Fratello Analog Cafe stand. The lineup was already formed, and since we knew the Colombians (who ran the excellent Tutti Frutti booth at the old market) had opted not to go to the new market, we needed to find a new favourite coffee place. The Fratello stand is massive and exceedingly well-equipped with well-trained staff.

Well, “well-trained” is a bit subjective, and something I have to apply to nearly every booth at the new market. Simple reality, it was the opening week (as I mentioned, the market actually opened yesterday), and everyone was still learning the ropes. Today was the first official “flood” day, and it was readily apparent that the all-important “flow” was still being learned (and re-learned, in some cases). Every booth we visited had the same problem, and it amazed me the level of indignance some people showed at the slower-than-preferred (by everyone, especially the staff) service. Sometimes, I think pissy people need to be ejected to the back of the line every time until they learn some respect and patience.

Anyway, Fratello want to be to coffee what auteurs are to film. There is nothing but stylistic perfection, right down to even wanting a simple drip coffee. The Colombians, I felt, served a fantastic cup of coffee that was dispensed from a large thermos (frequently seen in many otherwise-fine coffee shops). Fratello thinks this is not an ideal way to get a fresh cup, so each “drip” cup is poured with hot water through freshly-ground coffee directly into the cup. (For the record, this is similar to how I make my coffee, but I steep mine before filtering through a Costa Rican coffee-sock.) For showmanship, it’s very nice. For expediency, it’s extremely slow. One guy next to me was nothing but contained rage about the time to get his coffee, and marched off without even getting a lid. One suggestion to Fratello — recognise that people want coffee, and not necessarily artisan coffee. Buy a thermos or two. You’ll sell more, if only by getting returning regulars. Respect the regulars, and you’ll increase business.

The Food Court area is now more segregated from the rest of the market, and tucked into the corner is where Mike would have gone had he stayed. Instead, they’ve erected a jungle gym for the kids to play around it. It’s not very large, so kid collisions rise almost geometrically to the number of minutes the market’s been open that day. The number of screams seemed to double every ten minutes. But it was empty enough when we got there for Monkey to have a run-around and blow off a bit of steam.

A Ladybug Pastries also opted to not make the transition, which surprised me. Given that they had a three-stall layout in the old market (and most certainly one of the nicest), I fully expected them to move over as well. But our favourite crepes, regardless of the high cost, were not to be found. We instead tried a new(er) place run by the same people who operate L’Epicerie on Macleod Trail just south of downtown. Whereas the folks who run A Ladybug are from Belgium, the proprietors of L’Epicerie are from Brittany. The crepes are decidedly more French. Alex was not a big fan, although I do like the ham and cheese and egg.

The food court area has easily twice as many tables, and many of them are more family-sized, eschewing the massive eight-person round tables that made getting a seat at the old market so difficult. (Note to the Market executive: parents would like to see booster seats. Could you not have brought those over from the old market?) The ceiling is high, there’s a massive glass wall at the south end, and even a double gas fireplace in the centre for those really chilly winter days. It’s more mall-like, yes, but not so finished that it looks totally recumbent.

Many of the old favourites did carry over to the market, and have continued with their work as before. I was happy to see Simply Good Eats, Shef’s Fiery Kitchen, Shanghai Fine Food, Margarita’s and 2 Greek Gals continue to sell breakfast. The Cherry Pit, Innisfail Grower’s Co-op, the various colonies, Wayne’s Bagels, Gull Valley, and Saskatoon Berry Farm also came. TotaliTea and the awesome Silk Road Spices also have continued to be present. You’d have to be blind to miss Simple Simon. Mysteriously absent is the old market’s summertime anchor, Walker’s (they held no less than four stalls and were the place to get fruits and vegetables), and I’m personally miffed to see that Sunworks seemingly has vanished — where the heck am I gonna get my Thanksgiving turkeys, now?

By the time we left, the market was jammed, making it very difficult to get around. I am able to pass this off as opening-day curiousity, and it will eventually slide into regulars. Outside, people were having extreme difficulty finding a place to park, and I imagine The Shooting Zone is going to have more than a little trouble with market-goers using up their valuable members-only parking stalls.

It’s good to the see the market open again. It’s clear that some effort has been placed on making sure there’s a good mix of vendors, and attention has been paid to retain at least some of the old anchors to keep things familiar. I’m curious as to the loss of some of the old vendors, especially the ones I liked and frequented, and I imagine the inclusion of some vendors led to the departure (or non-signing) of others (Hoven Farms out, Silver Sage in; Walker’s gone, replaced with Soutu Farms).

Will it succeed? Of course it will — for the same reasons the old market succeeded: it offered a higher quality of selection and service without the kvitch common to other markets like Crossroads (sorry, Crossroads, but you know what I mean). Will it be a “farmer’s” market? Therein lies the question — that aspect may have permanently changed, now with more emphasis on ready-made items, and less on the raw materials that farmer’s markets have historically been associated with. But it will be appealing to a significant proportion of Calgarians.

As for my family, we will see. In terms of family-friendliness, the Calgary Farmer’s Market is likely to remain high in our books. The tripling of the distance to get to it is a downside, but even the old market was well beyond walking distance. After things settle, we’ll see how they go.

I should point out that until Friday, I had not really known pain. My previous experiences had been limited to bonks of the head (one of which has left a noticeable scar) plus a few nasty scrapes. And with one exception (which led to stitches in my nose), every injury was resolved with a simple bandage.

Now I understand why “keeping up on your meds” is so key during recovery.

Because this was Day Surgery, I was kicked out of the hospital at the first earliest convenience, which happened to coincide with when Alex could conveniently return to pick me up. As a result, I was the last patient to leave Day Surgery (there was one other, remaining overnight).

I suppose recovering at home is far more preferable to staying in the hospital. There’s no nurses getting you up every few hours, no roommate in severe coughing fits, no all-room pages, and so forth. It’s your own bed, your own bathroom, your own environment. There’s a comfort to that. It also makes me wonder just how far a) our medical technology has progressed, allowing people to go home almost immediately after surgery, or b) how little our healthcare system can support overnighters, and therefore force us out as soon as possible (the “revolving door medicine” issue). I suspect it’s a bit of both.

I passed out in bed not long after getting home, hugging Monkey and Choo Choo (Monkey being especially doting on her poor, owie’d daddy), and downing 8-10 unsalted Premium Plus crackers and a popsicle — the only real food I’d had in almost 24 hours. I waited long enough to pop another Percocet tablet, and laid down.

Now I would like to say that I had envisioned having a good sleep after that. Why, I have no idea. In retrospect, it was such a naive belief as to compare it to the relative innocence of my kids. I was up four times that night, either due to the meds having worn off, the need to pee (my water intake must be pushing my hydration point well past the “safe” limit), or simply because my lower back felt like it was doing to implode. Nausea was also a common factor, which I’m not sure should be attributed to the anesthesia, the meds, the pain, or a weird combination of all three. The only time I did get sick did seem to help much more than should be allowed for the minute volume of ejecta.

Getting in and out of bed was just short of hell. There was no easy way to achieve a vertical stance. Swinging my legs out left me in a partial-vertical/mostly-horizontal state that required either an overhead handle to pull myself up (which we sadly are lacking in our bedroom ceiling), or stomach muscles capable of pulling my upper half into at least a sitting position. Given the broken nature of my muscles, I had to resort to a completely haphazard form of rolling to my left, a partial clockwise rotation to force my feet of the edge of the bed, then pushing myself to sitting (all the while breathing sharply from the pain), and then pushing myself up to standing (thankfully, we have a high bed). The act of climbing back in bed made only slightly more simple as a result of lifting my feet (Alex helping with my left leg, as the aforementioned broken muscles were not cooperating) and sliding in.

Suffice to say, Alex and I were up frequently throughout that first night. I could not be more thankful to have someone with me — I shudder to think of how awkward and difficult this would have been if I were still single.

The next morning — which I take only as the point at where the ambient light in my room was more than the nightly minimum — I ached myself up to quickly down a Tylenol 3 (for which Alex had so graciously filled a prescription) and try to move around a bit.

One of the things in the literature you’re handed before being discharged from surgery is about the absolute need to get back to “normal activities” (with a few notable exceptions) as quickly as possible, provided you don’t push yourself. (In other words, if you do physical labour, you’re going to be a while; programmers shouldn’t have too much trouble.) In short: walking. The key is to walk as soon as possible so your body doesn’t try to heal itself “badly”.

Problem: it was snowing. Again. We’ve seen more freshly-fallen snow in April than we have in the previous three months, combined. The thought of slipping on said new snow pretty much kiboshed my external sojourns, and left me doing laps around our kitchen island until the ache was something akin to a burning ember crammed midway between my hip and my [Insert your own preference for terminology to male reproductive apparatus here] and pressed down on with a 10 lb weight. That’s what’s kept me, for the most part, in a prone position in bed, watching a marathon of Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations.

My food, at least on Day 1, was kept to crackers, water, ginger ale (to combat nausea), half a can of chicken soup, a peanut butter and honey sandwich, and a fairly steady stream of pills. Hardly fulfilling, but in the interests of keeping my stool generation to a minimum (remember: groin injury + cut abdominal muscles) seemed prudent. Not to mention anything heavier might bring on more nausea.

Last night, I slept with more pillows, and considerably more soundly. Having not taken any other medication during the night, I woke up notably more pained than I had several hours earlier. A top-up of Percocet seemed to help, as would a fresh ibuprofen intake a couple of hours later. A couple of cups of strong coffee also did wonders, and was a welcome change from water and ginger ale.

I’m also finding that I’m not as much of a wimp as I had thought — this isn’t nearly as painful as I had imagined. I’m finding that I’m also listening to my body more clearly — when it tells me not to do something, I’m damn well listening. It means I don’t sit on the floor (it’s painful to get up), I don’t lean strongly to grab something (I go over to it), and picking up anything heavier than my laptop is a strong “no”.

Today was better than yesterday, but still tiring. I’m not going to try to go into the office tomorrow, even though this is a launch week for a project, and I need to ramp up on my next major project. Timing is everything, and there is never a good time for surgery. Hopefully, though, Tuesday will be my luckier day.

Until then, I’m staying on top of the meds, and snoozing when needed. Which, it also seems, is right now…

It wasn’t a procedure that I was particularly looking forward to — the thought of surgery was more than a little frightening — but I’m sure I’ll be glad to have had.

Y’know, once all this pain subsides…

I called Rockyview General Hospital on Thursday afternoon to get my scheduled time. Surgery was at 12:15, and I needed to be there for 9:15. Basically, an entire workday having my bowels forced back into place.

No, really. That’s the procedure. Hernias form as a result of a break in the intestinal wall. Eventually, part of the intestine works its way through, causing the discomfort. Hernias don’t heal on their own — you either use a pad to keep things in place, or you get surgery to patch the hole.

The patch literally looks like a piece of screening from a screen door. It gets inserted and the muscles weave into it, creating the barrier. The screen is permanent. Does that make me a cyborg, I wonder?

Alex met me at Admissions. She started at Rockyview two weeks ago, returning to work after over three and a half years of kids and Costa Rica. It was actually weird to see her in scrubs again. She boasted about having Vietnamese for lunch with iced coffee. My nearly 12-hour empty stomach growled, and my head was going into full-tilt caffeine withdrawal.

We scooted over to Day Surgery, where I began my long waiting process with about a dozen others, and their friends/spouses (Alex had to back to work). I sat and read Cryptonomicon until my name was called, about an hour later.

The nurse took me to a change area, where I doffed my skivvies for hospital-issue attire. It was a little tight, and severely lacking on the fashionable approach, but the pant and extra top would at least keep me from freezing while I continued to wait.

My headache was approaching epic levels. Suddenly, those six daily cups of coffee really didn’t seem like such a great idea. I couldn’t read my book any longer — my head hurt so much I couldn’t focus. I resorted to rubbing my head and the back of my neck to help ease the pain and pass the time.

When my name was finally called, I was ushered to a toilet, removed the pajama bottoms and the cloak (keeping the ever-open gown on, of course), and trundled off to the operating area on a gurney. Once there, I rolled over on my side and declared I would nap while waiting for the doctor to show up.

A kindly nurse appeared and asked if I would like another warmed blanket, which was greeted with enthusiasm (seriously, why are hospitals always so darn cold??). A couple of minutes later, Dr. Steve Martin appeared. (Once again, I lamented the fact that he does not have an arrow through his head.). He talked to me for about two minutes, marked on my left groin with a ballpoint pen where he’d make the incision, then headed off to get ready to cut me open.

Barely 30 seconds later, the nurse appeared to deal with all the paperwork and formalities. While she was chatting, Alex appeared (having snuck away just long enough for a quick chat). The nurse vanished, replaced almost immediately (it was starting to look like a surgical assembly line) with whom I felt was the single most important person I would meet that day — the anesthesiologist.

I had a choice: local, or general. There are pros and cons to both (which he outlined fairly well without horrid detail), and I tried to state my local and general fears. In my world, I’d prefer to lose feeling due to my own actions, however ill-enacted they may be.

Alex said “see you later” as the nurse reappeared to take me into the operating room. It was intimidating, and for once TV and movies lived up to the promise: featureless, two massive lights over the table, machines that went “BING”, and people in surgical gowns. The nurse had told me that I was to announce myself and what procedure I was to have. It came out like this:

“My name is Geoff, and I’m having a left hernia. No, strike that. I have a left hernia and I want to get rid of it.”

I moved to the operating table and was set upon by the nurse and the anesthesiologist (who immediately asked if I’d made any decision yet), my arms put onto rests at the side. My right arm got the blood pressure cuff, the left arm — notably my hand — turned into a pincushion as the anesthesiologist struggled to find a vein.

Have I mentioned how much I hate needles?

Finally, a decision on my pain-killing was made. I’d asked all sorts of questions about risks (e.g. not waking up again), but in the end, the real decision was alertness. With a local, I’d be awake and wondering what was going on — I’m too curious for my own good. And with that, an oxygen mask was put over my mouth and nose, and an intense burning burst into my hand.

Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do…

It was like if you were watching a movie, and there’s a cut to a different scene. There was no fade to black — the memory just stopped.

“Take a couple of deep breaths, please,” said a voice next to me. I was in recovery, absolutely no sense of passed time. “Deep breaths, please. You need to up your oxygen. We’ll get a mask if we need to.” It almost sounded like a threat.

I dunno if it’s me or the machine, but I’m always under the limit. I was breathing pretty shallow, and my oxygen level was clocking in at 89. A couple of deep breaths later, it was 99. All was well.

I was trucked back to Day Surgery to complete my recovery before discharge. I needed anti-nauseant and was given Percosets to dull the pain. The only thing I needed to do before I could leave was pee — something that required me to drink a fair amount of liquid in advance. The nursing staff kept my in good shape, and immediately called Alex to let her know I was okay.

“Hi, Diagnostic Imaging? Can I speak with Alex the x-ray tech? Hi, this is Day Surgery. Your husband is alive. Feel free to come by whenever.”

Alex was there barely two minutes later.

I “power napped” (nurse’s words) for the next couple of hours. I had to get another round of anti-nauseant, which dragged things out a bit. When Alex’s shift was over, I wasn’t quite ready to go home, so she ducked home to feed the kids. I resumed napping.

I finally left the hospital around 7, and went home. It was good to get home, although I was a little afraid of being tackled by Monkey. Thankfully, she was extremely careful, a gentle cuteness that I’d never witnessed before.

It’s been Gravol and T3s since, and moving around is difficult. Recovery takes a few days, but hopefully I’ll be moving around more easily soon. And eating. And coffee.

I was told at the time that it could “take a year” until I could get it fixed, but if I was willing to do things more ad hoc, they’d put me on a call list. On the call list I went … and I waited. I finally got called about a month ago, which put me in surgery on 17 March — the day before Choo Choo’s 1st birthday. Recovering from surgery on such an important day was simply something I wasn’t willing to do, so I passed. Last week, they called again.

On 15 April, I’ll get to experience surgery for the first time, ever. And I gotta tell ya, I’m more than a bit apprehensive.

Yeah, okay, call me a “pansy” if you have to (Alex has several times, already; she can back that up with vast amounts of personal experience), but I’m not particularly thrilled with the prospect of surgery. Yes, I want to have surgery — I really don’t want this damn hernia anymore — but I’m also mildly afraid of it.

It’s the anesthetic, really. Sure, you can look at it as “insta-sleep” (and there’s certainly an appealing part to that). It’s not the passing out part that I’m worried about — it’s the waking up again. I’ve known people who … well, didn’t.

It’s one of those moments when you realise that you’re not truly invulnerable anymore, and you’re facing potential mortality in a way you hadn’t previously thought about in any great quantity. And by “you”, I do of course mean “myself”.

So, one week. It’s a day surgery, so I’ll be home that night. But I won’t be able to do much at first, and I can’t pick up my kids for at least two weeks, and as much as a month (I believe). We shall see, I guess.

Wheeeeee.

Then, last year, I found out that I needed frickin’ lasers shot into my frickin’ eyes. At the time the diagnosis was made, it was already apparent that age was catching up to me, and that my vision — compounded from nearly 30 years in front of a computer monitor — was finally beginning to lose its finesse. But I stayed in denial, and stuck to my “when I’m 40″ belief, and marched on with life.

That was until this year. The time has come.

I went to the doctor last Thursday, as part of a now-annual checkup. (Okay, yes,  could have done it every two years, but after having said frickin’ lasers shot into my frickin’ eyes, I felt a follow-up was long overdue.) Monkey came with me, and aside from a technical failure on the clinic’s end (a doodad that somehow measures the curvature of your eyeball), she sailed through the checkup. While she went on to play with the block in the kids’ space, the doctor started looking into my eyes.

Most of the diagnostics came back with something amounting to status quo — nothing had gotten particularly worse, at least so far as the narrow angles are concerned. However, that’s as far as status quo got. When the doc pulled out the eye charts, and put the phoropter over my face … well, quite literally, things weren’t as clear as they had once been.

Last year, I noticed the blurriness. It wasn’t pronounced and it was harder to tell the differences between the various lens settings. This year, much more obvious. Painfully obvious, really. Whether I can attribute this to a single year of aging, or in combination with my eye surgery (which very possibly altered the flow of liquids in my eye, thus altering — even slightly — the refraction of light), I don’t know. But regardless of the cause, the effect was unavoidable. I needed glasses.

In a weird way, this is actually a relief. I’ve noticed my need to keep books further away from my eyes so I can read. I’ve had to squint periodically to see thing that normally I didn’t have to. Monkey sees distant specs, recognises them, tell me that she sees them, and I’m at a loss to see what she’s seeing. So, yes, I’m not losing my mind … just my vision.

And not really that much, when it comes down to it. I can still see very functionally without my glasses, and reading a newspaper is certainly well with my grasp. Fine print on packaging telling you not to look directly at Happy Fun Ball? Well, that’s a bit harder, but not impossible. Distance vision? Yeah. Night vision? Still good, in my opinion (and I can walk around the house at night without lights on without trouble).

Still, denying the reality is … well, foolish and egotistic. Accept the reality, and move on. So I ordered glasses. And today, I picked up my first pair of corrective lenses.

Putting them on for the first time was … well, weird. For those of you who’ve worn glasses, you can nod and know. For those of you who haven’t worn glasses, it’s an odd experience. It’s not like wearing sunglasses — those have little-to-no distortion. But corrective lenses are meant, really, to look out only through the centre; the edges tend to bugger things up a bit. And that threw me. Suddenly, the reality of glasses was significantly less cool than I had thought a mere five minutes earlier. Suddenly, contact lenses didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

I’m never going to wear contacts, by the way. It’s that whole eyeball-touching-thing that negates it. Period.

The glasses needed a wee bit of adjustment, and the technician made sure that I understood two basic things: I’m going to get headaches until my eyes and brain are used to this, and that it’ll take about two weeks to get used to this. And since I’m not really needing/planning to wear them all the time, it might take even longer.

Thirty-eight and a half years. Now if I can just get my bloody hernia fixed…

2010 was the year we made contact … wait, sorry, wrong catchline. 2010 was the year my family welcomed new members, notably my youngest, a daughter (code)named Choo Choo. It was a year I changed my career outlook (yes, again), and found that I’m not (completely) useless. This was a year of family, for me, and that’s perhaps the most important aspect.

But despite all that, I hesitate to call it “a year of change”.

Got me as to why, though. Let’s be honest, there were a lot of changes, not the least of which are the ones noted above. But at no time did I feel like this is a sudden (and possibly unwanted) shift in my life. It actually feels like things are more settled this year, despite the apparent upheaval, than in previous years. Maybe one day I’ll make some sense of that little quandary.

In the meantime, let’s review 2010:

• Began the year with tea at the Banff Springs, seeing my friend Sonny for the first time in about 15 years
• Started working with some old friends at a new(er) company, Evans Hunt
• Went to Edmonton for a “surprise” weekend (mostly for Monkey) and spent a great morning in the waterslides with her
• Celebrated my Nana’s 97th birthday, which would also sadly be her last
• Found out that I’m K+, my kids are K+, and my wife is anti-K
• Spent many a sleepless night worrying about Choo Choo before she was born
• Though originally disheartened, came to love and be thrilled by the 2010 Winter Olympics in Canada, and felt the massive pride for the successes of our athletes
  • Yes, I Twittered obsessively during the Men’s Hockey gold medal game
• Bought our first flat-screen TV, to go along with our Apple TV
• Welcomed my youngest, (code)named Choo Choo to our world
• Watched Monkey’s first Easter egg hunt
• Found out I’ve got something called “narrow angles” in my eyes, and got laser surgery in both of them
• Went to Drumheller, and visited the Royal Tyrell
• Guided (albeit not as well as I could have) the technical launch of my first all-Drupal website: VisitCalgary.com
• Experienced the abject terror of losing your child in a mall
• Said “thank you” to my Nana — I never say “goodbye”
• Went on my first train chase with Monkey
• Went to dim sum a couple of times, but not nearly enough
• Introduced Monkey to sushi — I think she likes it
• Went to Heritage Park a couple of times, and even saw Thomas the Tank Engine (hey, I’m a parent and I like trains, it’s a win-win)
• Went to the Zoo lots (it helps to have a pass)
• Saw a few movies, but not enough for my liking (the favourite of the year was Toy Story 3, and no, not just because I’m a parent)
• Went on the first Great Family Roadtrip:
  • Overnighted in Medicine Hat, AB; Whitewood, SK; Moosimin, SK; and Swift Current, SK
  • Went to Winnipeg
  • Went to some place east of Camper, out in the middle of nowhere, as part of Alex’s family reunion
  • Stopped off in Regina, Moose Jaw, and Portage La Prairie
  • Drove the whole way and back again, and the kids didn’t seem to mind at all
• Got diagnosed with a hernia (yay, me)
• Celebrated Monkey’s 3rd birthday, her first in Canada (beyond the day she was born, that is)
• Finally got right ticked off with Shaw’s horrid home internet service, and switched over to Telus … we’ll see how it all goes
• Did some kitchen renovation:
  • Installed a new sink and tap
  • Tore out the Florida ceiling
  • Installed new lighting
• Had new windows installed in the house
• Returned to being a developer, rather than a pure manager (I’m still adjusting to this one)
• Took Monkey out on her first real Hallowe’en
• Grew a moustache for Movember (my first, and last time)
• Went to the Currie Barracks location of the Calgary Farmer’s Market almost every weekend for a year, until the location finally (and sadly) closed in December
• Went on our first family flight out to Abbotsford, to spend Christmas in BC
• Visited with some old friends from Radical Entertainment
• Went to downtown Vancouver for the first time in about five years, and remembered how much I love it there
• Had my first green Christmas in many, many years
• Didn’t ride nearly enough trains

Whoof. That’s a lot for one year. Can’t wait to see what 2011 throws at me. Bring it, New Year — I’m ready for you!

Twitter has become a perfect way of bringing people together. Just as last year, when I met up with my old friend Sonny, I’m finding Twitter to be an intensively useful tool to meet up with friends long-unseen. In this case, it became a catalyst, and we dragged in a non-Twitterer while we were at it.

And it was a good evening, however short.

I’m on vacation, but the others aren’t — they have to work. So the plan was to meet at The Whip on E 6th (just off of Main St.) for 18:30. That gave Alex and I time to do a little visit of our own, out to Granville Island. Leaving Monkey with the grandparents (Choo Choo had to come with us), we trucked our way from Ruskin down to False Creek.

We stopped along the way at the Toys ‘R Us in Coquitlam to find a Jessie the Yodeling Cowgirl doll for Monkey, as this was what Santa was supposed to bring. Jessie, it seems, is a lesser object of desire when it comes to co-marketing, and we hadn’t capitalised on our sole opportunity. The Toys ‘R Us store was devoid of anything Jessie-related, meaning one little girl would be wondering why Santa was such a yutz. Alex and I started formulating backup plans.

The remainder of the trip was met mostly by construction, which seems to permeate the Vancouver area. Given the Olympics were only earlier this year, I’m rather surprised to see so much. One would think the public coffers were rather dry by now. But the improvements are plainly needed.

The aforementioned Olympic improvements also threw me for a loop. My old memory of driving around the east end of False Creek were thrown off by the road realignments for the Olympic Village. It took a couple of detours before we finally found the entrance to Granville Island.

Our first stop (after parking) was to the Kids Market, one of the buildings that is packed to the brim with perfect toys (and by perfect, I mean ones that don’t need batteries, and aren’t all made in China) … but no Jessie doll. Still, we spent nearly an hour just looking around, wishing that Monkey had come with us after all.

Then we wandered around the various streets, looking into shop windows, my mind racing back to the days when I plodded the same streets as a resident of Vancouver, and not a visitor. Reaching the west end of the island, I found myself looking out onto False Creek, across to the towering glass walls of the West End condos, and the lighted arches of Burrard Bridge. The smell of the sea almost seemed to dance over my soft palate.

We went inside the Granville Island Market. If you’ve ever had a smell trigger a powerful memory, you know how disorienting it can be. I almost tripped. Immediately, I remembered why — as much as I loved the Calgary Farmer’s Market — I always felt it was lacking. The Granville Island Market is the prototype, I think, and sets the benchmark. I loved it then, and I’m pretty sure I still do, even though it’s gone a little more yuppie in the last decade.

Running low on free time, we headed back to the car and found our way out to The Whip, a neat little restaurant just off of Main St. There we waited for my friends to arrive. Katrina was the first, and even in the dimmed light, she looked almost exactly the same as she had the last time I’d seen her, when I’d made a short visit to Vancouver in December of 2000.

Katrina is, with little question, one of the smartest people I know, without all that annoying “know it all” baggage that often accompanies such intelligence. She’s instantly personable, and is one of the people I missed most when I left Vancouver. She sat nearest to me at Radical Entertainment‘s old offices in Yaletown, and was a mean Worms player. That, and I’m intensely jealous that she’s worked at Pixar.

Lee was next. Lee picked The Whip for us, and I wasn’t the only one to think that The Whip was very “Lee”. Lee had been the QA lead at Radical, as well as our softball team’s coach. One of my earliest memories of her was actually a bio that had been made for a magazine (I think) that included a fact that read:

Number of piercings: 25
Number of piercings above the neck: 16

(Numbers are totally approximate to my memory, which is often famously bad with numbers … but we’ll leave it at “a lot” of piercings.)

Lee’s piercings (visible, anyway) have taken a serious nosedive over the years, and I was rather stunned at the lack. And she explained the origin of her Twitter handle, squirrelbaffle. It does, believe it or not, actually have to do with squirrels. (Incidentally, I recommend following Lee, if only because her tweets are often hilarious.)

Neall rolled in shortly afterwards. Neall is exactly one day older than me, which is a point I’ve tried to use every year (though I can’t claim to be wholly consistent on it). Neall sat in the same room as I did, against the window, and regularly scared the bejezus outta me. Not in that he was frightening, but in his demonstration of skill. That, and his tendencies to overhaul his cars to the point of near self-destruction (the cars, not himself) on epic proportions.

Katrina, Neall, and I worked in a group called Pure3D, which created and maintained the 3D rendering engine used in Radical’s games. It was a complex and powerful library that allowed the game teams to focus on the important parts of the game — namely the gameplay and how it looked — and ignore the tedious stuff that made the game actually work.

I wasn’t involved with the coding. I wasn’t then, now, or ever will be good enough to code like them. Whenever other developers, especially in my current industry, tell me that they’re good programmers (or know good programmers), I usually scoff and tell them about the Pure3D. I tell them how they’d code inline assembler into C functions from memory. Or how they’d spin out conversion tools that made use of 3D matrices without cracking a single textbook. There was a guy (Mark) who had a masters in puzzles, and took perverse pleasure in leaving mind-bending puzzles on our desks from time to time. They are, still to this day, the smartest group of people I’ve ever had the extreme good fortune to work with. (Me? I wrote software manuals.)

Joel was the last to arrive. I still owe Joel a debt of gratitude for helping me move out of Vancouver all those years ago (that was a very different time for me). He now runs another gaming company with some other ex-Radicalites, but back in our Radical days he worked on a special project, building a plugin for Maya that allowed artists to use h-splines to create models. Never heard of an h-spline? Yeah, neither had I. Frankly, I’m kind of surprised they haven’t taken off. My favourite memory of Joel was walking into the Rodin team’s room (“Rodin” was the name of the plugin) and finding Joel and teammate Jean-Luc taste-testing a line of thoroughly evil-looking hot sauces, using words such as “smoky” and “peppery”, rather than gasping for air and clutching at his throat as it burned apart from the inside.

Stories. We had lots of them. Although some of us had kept in loose touch (Lee and Neall more than most), we all had our individual histories to cross over — what had we done, where had we gone, what was “new” (and notably, what was recent), and of course talk about the old days at Radical. Radical’s no longer the company I left, of course. Years of change will always do that. It’s inevitable. When I was there, Radical was privately-owned. Today, it’s a subsidiary of Activision Blizzard, and — so it seems — a shadow of its former self. Most of the originals are gone, with only a handful remaining that I still know.

I could have stayed at that table and chatted all night, if they’d have let me. But it was Choo Choo who called an end for me, declaring that she’d had enough, dear Daddy, and please take me home. It was hard to leave, hard to say goodbye again. But it felt good — very, very good — to see them again, even if just for a short while. To remember, to laugh, and to share.

It’s nearly an hour to drive from downtown Vancouver to Ruskin. Our trip was over three hours, but not for any reason other than Santa-driven necessity. The Toys ‘R Us on Broadway offered nothing new. Oddly enough, the Superstore at Metrotown in Burnaby ended up our saviour, even if it isn’t exactly the doll we’d hoped to get. We wanted something simple and cloth. We got plastic and electronic. At this point, any doll would suffice, so long as it was Jessie.

Then, putting my poor map memory to work, I got us lost in Surrey, rather than finding the right route back to Highway 7. It was Alex that steered us right again, and put the GPS to work to get us back out to Highway 1, and then onto the new Golden Ears toll bridge. (There’s nothing as fun as listening to a GPS go berserk trying to recalculate a path when you’re on a road that it doesn’t know about, perched overtop a wide river.)

Tomorrow, we’re going to the North Pole…

At any rate, they’re open again, so hopefully that’ll continue some of the conversation!

Humble apologies,
Geoff

It’s not that I don’t support cancer research — naturally, I do. It was just that I had no particular desire to grow facial hair any more than when I get lazy and don’t shave for a few days. (When you’re trying to get out the door in time to get the bus, you take whatever shortcuts are necessary.) This year, in a desire to have some unity with my fellow Evans-Huntians, I let it start growing out.

Sadly, that’s about as far as I’ve gotten.

The theory is that you’re also supposed to campaign, and collect donations on behalf of your team. (Evans Hunt’s team is known as the Lip Pixels.) So far, I’m the only one on the team who has nothing to his name. Nada. Not a penny. Why? Well, if you follow this blog, or my twitter, or friended me on Facebook, you’ll see that almost all of my communication can be boiled down to three things:

1. Kids and/or family
2. Work
3. Renovations

So what does that mean? Simply — I’ve put zero effort into Movember. It’s not that I don’t care — I do, really! — but my priorities weigh very heavily on my family and my job. That, and I get easily distracted by shiny objects, so that when it comes down to me being more responsible towards the community … well, I kinda blew it. Here we are, almost three weeks in, and this is my first note out. Technically, I don’t even have a moustache.

Alex hates it. My kids shy away from it. It’s itchy as all hell.It’s like a freaking sponge, so drying it out is hard (and now that it’s freaking cold, a wet face means ice), and I’m sure if I keep this thing any longer, some wayward bird is going to hole up in it for the winter.

One of things that truly bothers me about Movember is one of the tag lines:

Every man deserves a little bit of luxury.

LUXURY?! Who the hell things having HAIR grow out of your FACE is luxurious?! That’s seriously demented, if you ask me. It’s a right pain in the … well, face! It’s a nuisance, I feel ostracised, and about the only good thing about it is that (and I know this from university, when I sported a beard for a year or so), beards make those cold winter winds less nasty. But that’s it, folks!

So why do I have a beard instead of a moustache? ‘Cuz way back when, I had this grand scheme where I’d throw out the idea that I, personally, would raise $1000, and the highest donator would be given the opportunity to decide what the moustache would look like, and in the last week, I’d shave it to that specification.

Yeah. Amazing how plans go to pot when you’re utterly sidetracked by stuff you have to do. (Witness the time of this posting. This is the first time I’ve had to actually think about this.)

So this is my (rather pathetic) plea. If you haven’t already donated, it would be really keen if you could offer up a few bucks, I won’t feel like such a loser. And hey, if I happen to somehow pull down a grand, someone gets to tell me how silly I have to look for a few days…

(Frak, I need a razor badly… *scratch*)

All I do is grunt and groan
Hurts me to walk anywhere
Went to see my physician, Dr. Jones
He took my trousers off, told me to cough
Doctor says there ain’t nothin’ to discuss
He tells me any day I might have to wear a truss

-“Living with a Hernia”, Weird Al Yankovic

A couple of months ago (could be longer, but let’s start there), I noticed a rather odd bulge just to the left of my [CENSORED FOR PUBLIC DECENCY]. At the time, I wasn’t too concerned — it didn’t hurt, and prodding it seemed no different than the other side. Given my new exercise regiment, I merely assumed it was a result of over-exertion. (As a side note, I’m probably still correct on that point.)

Yesterday, while having a shower, I happened to notice that it looked bigger than before. Alex, my personal medical encyclopedia, looked at it and said: “hernia”.

It’s amazing the things you can find when you google “swollen groin male”. Oddly enough, one of them is “inguinal hernia“. The picture you see there (probably NSFW, by the way) looks pretty close to what I see (and I swear the picture isn’t me). It gave me enough of a thought to call Alberta HealthLink.

After going through enough conversation with them, the net result was that I should see a doctor within four hours. Given that bit of news, I decided not to wait until the following morning, and trucked myself down to the Sheldon Chumir Urgent Care Clinic downtown.

For those of you not in the know, the healthcare situation in Calgary is reasonably grim. We have four functioning hospitals (one of which is restricted to children), one of which is also the trauma centre for southern Alberta, southeast British Columbia, and parts of Saskatchewan. The Urgent Care Clinics were set up to handle non-life-threatening situations, and take some of the load off the hospital ERs. I chose to go to the Urgent Care Clinic because I know this, and didn’t want to tie up a hospital ER with a non-critical patient.

That said, I had a near-three hour wait to see a doctor. Calgary also has a serious shortage in staff, as when the province took over all the health boards, staff got sliced as part of a budgetary action. Yeah, real swift thing, Alberta Government, cut back on healthcare. (Okay, cheap shot, the government now covers the Alberta Health fees, so it’s not all bad.)

Anyway, I had to wait mostly because other patients needed care more urgently than I did. But finally, I got called in, and led to a room somewhere well beyond the secured doors … which looked oddly familiar. It took a moment, but I was absolutely certain that this was the same room I’d been to back in December.

I waited in the room about another 30 minutes before the doctor finally arrived. He got straight to the point: drop the drawers, and let’s see. It took about five seconds and a bit of prodding: yep, it’s a hernia. He even showed that if I lay down and massaged it a bit, it popped right back where it’s supposed to be.

Yes, I can hear you getting grossed out. Try having one and not feeling all icky.

The short version he had was: surgery. It’s really the only way to fix the problem. So they’ll set up a referral, and I might have to wait “months” to have it fixed. MONTHS. So not only have I been living with a hernia, I’ll be living with one for a while yet to come…

Before I got home, though, the clinic called to tell me that I had a just-scheduled ultrasound for this morning, at 10:20. And I got a reminder call at somewhere around 7:30 this morning, with the information I needed … like, where I was going.

So off to Sunridge Diagnostic Imaging. There, the doctor confirmed in barely the time it takes to say “inguinal hernia” that it was, in fact, a direct inguinal hernia; the other type is indirect. The difference between them? In an indirect inguinal hernia (and I presume this happens only in men), the intestine goes into the scrotum.

Yep, now you can squirm like crazy. ‘Cuz I am.

Anyway, the prognosis hasn’t changed, and I have yet another followup tomorrow, though this is with my “family” doctor. Not sure what’ll change, if anything. If I’m lucky, it’ll up the surgery timeline. But I ain’t holding my breath.

‘Cuz that could hurt.

At the end of the appointment, the doctor told me she suspected I might have something called “narrow angles”, and sent me to an ophthamologist. It took nearly two months to get into see him. That was an awkward appointment, and ended up with the news that I needed surgery. Which I got, today, on my birthday. Laser surgery. In my eye.

Ow.

Okay, truth be told, it wasn’t that bad. The procedure is called “yag laser iridotomy“. “Yag” refers to the type of laser used, which is a Yttrium Aluminium Garnet (basically, a fake ruby). It’s highly controlled, and tuned exactly to burn a tiny hole in the iris. This allows the fluid that flows between iris and the lens to drain properly without causing pressure build-up, which can lead to glaucoma.

And for the record, it’s not Lasik. Lasik surgery is about reshaping the lens to correct vision problems. The iridotomy is a preventative measure. And I don’t have the same recovery issues — unlike Lasik, I have no drops, no drugs, no major vision issues, and no protective covers. Basically, I’m no different than I was this morning.

Well, except for the slight swelling feeling, which I take to be normal, given that part of my frickin’ eye was burned out by a frickin’ laser.

After dropping the Monkey off at daycare (she’s a handful when both of us are free to keep an eye on her, and a weapon of mass destruction pretty much the rest of the time), Alex trucked me over to the Rockyview Hospital, so I could visit the Eye Clinic.

Dr. Latka runs the iridotomy clinic once a month — that indicates how often these actually happen. It’s pretty much an assembly line thing: arrive, check-in, nurse checks your blood pressure (mine was a little higher than normal, showing that despite my relative calm, I was a little nervous), gives you some drops in the eye (including a contracting agent and a freezing agent), then you wait to see the doctor.

The “surgery room” looks little different than a regular eye exam room. There’s the typical bracket you place your head in, and the seats. Aside from a largish irregularly-shaped black box, there’s no indication that this is, really, where you have frickin’ lasers shot into your frickin’ eye.

A couple of more drops, and Dr. Latka slid the massive magnifying lens on top of my eyeball.

Have I mentioned how much I truly hate, loathe, and despite anything coming near my eye, let alone touching it directly?

There was a little dim green light just off to my left that he wanted me to look at. Then the clicking started. The clicking was the sound of the yag laser firing. And yes, I could feel it. Ever been in a strong wind, and have sand hit you in the face? That sudden small, sharp sting? It’s like that. At the back of your eye. (Or at least, that’s where I felt it.) In reality, it’s burning away a hole in your iris, but I can only assume that the feeling was because of where my optic nerves are.

I could barely register the laser light because of where I was looking. Twice, the doctor had to reposition me because I was instinctively trying to get away from frickin’ lasers being shot into my frickin’ eye. After about a dozen shots, I was done. The only instruction was to return in about an hour for a quick follow-up.

An hour later, I went back to the clinic, where the nurse immediately (I had just literally be called) into an exam room. More drops, and then she placed a probe on my frickin’ eye (did I mention how much I hate that stuff?) to test for any change in pressure. She said “fantastic”, and I was off.

I still feel a little funky, and I imagine a lot of that is psychosomatic from, well, things touching my eyeball. Oh, and because of frickin’ lasers being shot into my frickin’ eye. I mean, wouldn’t you feel a tad queasy after all of that?

What does it all look like? Well, how about a before/after picture!

The top shot is the before, the lower is the after. I didn’t ask Dr. Latka (but I will), but I think the part circled in red is where the new hole is. The white glare is the bathroom counter.

It’s one eye down, and one to go. The next won’t be until the first Friday of August.

As for the rest of my birthday, it was quiet. I owe a million people “thanks” for all the birthday wishes (especially on Facebook), but it’s been too busy a day for me to get on there. But there was, of course, time for cake.

The results were pretty much what I expected: I need glasses. Well, not need, but should probably get for reading and night time. And even then, it’s only a recommendation and not mandatory — I still see (more or less) fine, though there is a wee bit of blurriness. Dr. Amy (my first eye doctor) told me I’d need glasses when I was 40, and darn it I’m going to wait until I’m 40!

But then there’s the glaucoma…

No, I don’t actually have glaucoma. I’m just at risk for it. The doctor noticed in one of those painfully-bright-light tests that I might have something called “narrow angles” in my eyes. At this point, I’m not in any immediate danger, but this is something that could worsen in time, and the prospect of going blind is enough for me to get over my phobias and see a specialist. Which is what I did this morning.

Dr. Arun Latka at the Calgary Opthamology Center had a couple of preliminary tests run before he saw me (which appear to be standard), and quickly verified that I do, in fact, have narrow angles in the eye. This involved a new test that I’ve never had before, which struck me with absolute terror: he wanted to place a rather LARGE magnifying lens (looking something like the lens from a jeweller’s loupe) right on my eye.

Cringe. Heave. Try not to barf. Yeah, I have an issue with people getting that close to my eye. Ugh.

When he first placed it on my right eye, it felt like someone had kicked me in the gut. I suddenly regretted eating peanut butter for breakfast. I couldn’t open my left eye from the reaction. Although it was only there for at most a minute, it took a few more for me to not technicolour yawn over the equipment. I wasn’t nearly as bad with the left eye, likely because I knew what to expect. But it still gives me the shivers.

The confirmation of narrow angles led to the next step: laser eye surgery. And no, I haven’t had that yet — but I’m now scheduled for it. The surgery isn’t Lasik (I’m likely never to do that), and considerably simpler. It’s to correct the fundamental problem my eyes apparently have…

The eyes, like most parts of the body, have a flow of fluid within them. This regulates general health. The fluid flows from near the lens out to the cornea, circulates, then gets pushed back in through a narrow channel where the cornea and iris nearly meet, at a point referred to as (I think) Schlemm’s canal. Normally, the fluid flows out and all is well. In my case, the canal is so narrow that it could be blocked by the iris contracting too much (such as being in a dark room). This leads to too much pressure in the anterior chamber (between the iris and the cornea), which causes a pressure build-up in the interior chamber, which causes deadening of the optical nerve … and blindness.

The correction seems pretty trivial (and apparently is fairly common-place): bore a teeny hole in the iris to allow the fluid to balance.

So, for my birthday this year, I get to have laser eye surgery. At least on one eye, anyway. The other one won’t come until August (only one eye at a time, and the surgeon only does this one day a month, for some reason).

Sigh. Someone else near my eyes.

Ugh.

So, here I am, a scant seven years later, probably at the opposite end of the scale. No, I haven’t ballooned out to slovenly proportions, but I’m definitely not where I was by the end of 2003. I’m far, far from it. How do I know this? Because I biked today, for the first time in (what Alex figures) is about three years.

All I gotta say is: Holy crap, I’m outta shape.

I have a whole whack of really lame excuses, most of which start with “I want to spend more time with my family”. That meant a need to get to and from work faster (therefore maximising my time at home), not going out for bike rides or runs, and generally not doing anything to avoid the pudginess forming around my middle. My former four-pack (never quite got the six) waned to a keg…

I honestly tried to make an effort in Costa Rica. But because of our general feel for the area, the heat during the day, Avalon Condominium’s outright lies about a fitness centre (they stopped construction about six months after we arrived, and may not complete for at least another year), and my general distaste (read: hatred) of running, I didn’t really get much further than our weekly walks to the market and back.

Which lead me to where I am now: spectacularly poor stamina, and highly weakened strength. I am not the man I used to be.

Now, I knew I wasn’t particularly well-off before today. Once the weather had moved away from the evil, nasty cold stuff (which I haven’t the equipment or interest to ride through), I hauled out the bike and checked to see if it was still rideable. About the only thing it needed was air in the tires. Finding my tire pump, I had little other excuse. So this morning, I set forth the mission: bike to and from work.

That’s when I realised my pump is actually crap, and couldn’t even inflate Rush Limbaugh (remember, he’s self-inflating). Having no backup, I had to walk 30 minutes to the nearest gas station to get my tires pumped up. Then I hit the road … and the bike paths, and the fields, and the roads, and an elevator at the other end.

Getting to work? Not too bad. Not as fast as I would have liked, but I also intentionally kept it light. Until today, I didn’t even know that there was a shower at the office (I hadn’t actually looked). I felt winded, but not so much that I felt things were in anyway amiss.

Then I went home.

From the office to the Bow Trail/Crowchild interchange, not too bad, but I had a hint that this wasn’t going to be as normal as I had thought. By the time I got to the trail that leads up the side of the bluff to the area I live, I already feared the worst. I geared down. Way down. To the first gear. I never use the first gear.

I chose the paved route over the switchback, thinking that the paved route might be a bit easier on my street tires. It’s also in two stages, giving a bit of a breather as you scoot up the 150-odd metre climb. The lower half rises maybe 15 metres before turning and going to the top of a 90-ish metre climb. Then down a block, turn to the right, and up the remaining 60 metres. Ish.

I think I made it up 50 metres before I stopped. I was so ashamed that I faked a leg cramp for the “benefit” of the mountain biker who tore past me going up like he was on flat ground. I stared down and tried not to think of how high I was still having to go, pedalling as steadily as I could.

I took my time going down the block, waiting for my heart rate to resettle a little. Then came Stage 2. I didn’t make it a third of the way before I finally dismounted and walked the rest. If I could have hung my head in shame without gagging on the heaving breathing, I would have. I had suspected I’d gone a little, but never dreamed I’d lost so much.

What this really means, though, is that I gotta get it back. And without a second car to drive to work and back, I have little other option. If nothing else, this sets a baseline from which I can work my way up to a level of fitness I’m comfortable with. And no, I won’t be posting pictures of my progress — I’m sure that me posting a “before” picture would somehow constitute an attack on the well-minded populous of the world and land me in … well, probably a bootcamp, which really wouldn’t be so bad.

In the meantime, though, it’s the pedal to the pavement, and a lot of wheezing. Hopefully, within a month or so, I might be at a point where I can look like I belong biking up a hill, rather than a wannabe.

You may be wondering: “Why ask those questions? Isn’t that obvious?” Therein lies the ultimate pit-trap of the Know-It-All — the question isn’t obvious, only the answer. And the answer is what a burgeoning Know-It-All will readily offer up to anyone within earshot, regardless of whether or the Know-It-All was asked or even if there was a question to begin with. It doesn’t matter if they’re actually right — it’s the urge to be right that drives them…

…and often drives everyone else around them crazy.

I know this, again, because I’m a Know-It-All. Or rather, a Know-It-All working towards Enlightenment. In that sense, you could consider Know-It-All-ism to be sort of like a martial art. The starting Know-It-All is a mere white belt, a novice to knowledge and ego, and can quite easily lead down the path of an ordinary person, learning and answering only when asked. It is when ego plays a part that the Know-It-All begins its fateful ride.

Witness the Know-It-All Curve. This is the progression of a Know-It-All from the beginning of knowledge, to its truest and holist form. It’s a rough road, spending a large portion of time in Ignorance, before trending into Wisdom. It’s not a one-way road, either, as it is possible — and very easy — for a Know-It-All to slide very quickly backwards.

I Know Nothing

At the beginning, a Know-It-All — and everyone, for that matter — literally knows nothing. They have yet to start on the path, and are beginning to learn. How they learn, to be honest, is somewhat irrelevant. Reading, watching, listening, or doing all have the same basic effect. The question is: who is guiding them? Know-It-Alls tend to breed Know-It-Alls. (Seriously, folks, fear for my children…)

I Know Something (#1)

The Know-It-All has in their possession some knowledge. It’s perhaps not much, and might be readily corrected by others. A Know-It-All could be stopped here and broken from the cycle. Quite often, however, the Know-It-All is allowed to continue by mere fact that no-one else recognises the danger.

I Know More Than You Do

Ego has firmly taken hold within the Know-It-All, and arrogance is starting to show. It doesn’t matter if the Know-It-All actually knows more than the other person, the perception is what is most important. Typically, the Know-It-All perceives itself as being correct and enforces that perception. At this point, almost always, the Know-It-All slips into a trough of egotism.

You’re Wrong

Pretty much at the bottom of the trough is where ego has overridden reason, and the Know-It-All can neither see nor do any wrong. (Particularly spectacular are when two Know-It-Alls at the same point of the path meet head-to-head.) These are the Know-It-Alls everyone hates, and the ones that tend to occupy most everyone’s perception of a Know-It-All. Statistically, this is likely where most Know-It-Alls reside, too. (I’d kill for actual numbers to back this up. But hey, I’m a Know-It-All, right?)

It takes a singular event for a Know-It-All’s world to be shifted. Typically, the Know-It-All, after steadfastly refusing to see otherwise, is proven painfully wrong. Perception changes…

Maybe You Know More Than I Do

Peerage is reestablished, often with someone who is not a Know-It-All, someone who looks at things more openly and can help mentor the Know-It-All out of Ignorance. But for this to happen, the Know-It-All has to recognise two things…

I Know Something (#2)

The first thing a Know-It-All has to recognise on its path to Wisdom is that it didn’t know as much as it thought it did, and that there is a huge breadth and depth of knowledge that still remains out of touch. If the Know-It-All fully grasps that point, then it leads to…

I Know Nothing

The first real step of Wisdom, common with many belief and study systems, is that a student truly knows nothing. This is a fundamental step, as it puts aside all previous beliefs, constructs, and preconceptions, and wipes the slate clean in preparation for a new education with new direction. It is a fundamental step that a Know-It-All must take to truly Know.

I Know Others Who Know More

Rule #1: There is always someone who knows more than you do. Always. Perhaps not in a given subject (there is always a subject matter expert who cannot be disputed), but you cannot be an expert in all things — that, so far, has eluded humanity. Knowing that there is someone else out there who might know more than you drives a Know-It-All (now reforming) to look others for knowledge, and establish their own perceptions in real fact.

I Know I Can Help, Even If I Don’t Know

A group of people working together, however, can establish a far greater set of knowledge than any one person can possess. “Putting heads together” might be old term, but it is also very correct. Different ideas, different perceptions, and different backgrounds often lead to a far more complete picture than any one person can produce.

I Know

The end of the path isn’t really the end — it’s more of a state of being. It’s knowing what you know, what you don’t know, and how to help others to know the same.

And frankly, it’s a darn good reason to make a little trip out to Banff to see old friends.

Internet phenom Twitter really hit it big in 2009. (I would like to say I knew about Twitter from the beginning, but held off on getting account until the Web 2.0 conference in 2008.) Coincidentally, it was a time when many other people joined Twitter, bringing it to the masses and making it the media darling it has become. It also allowed previously ordinary people and/or small groups to become much more visible on a person-to-person level.

This is how I came across my old friend, Sonny Jelinek.

Sonny and I go way back. And I mean “way” as in “preschool”. We both went to St. Cuthbert’s preschool, back in the mid-1970s. We went to the same kindergarten, elementary, mid, and high-school. We were on the same soccer team (his family’s company was the sponsor). We were in the same Cub Scout troop. We were even on the same swim team in high school.

And then, like everyone else in high school, we dropped off each other’s radar for nearly two decades. It was for no other reason than everyone going their own way. Sonny’s way took him further out of the circles the rest of us migrated into — I periodically traipsed across others — taking him as far as southern California.

He now heads up his family’s business — Jelinek Cork — and is the chair of the Oakville Chamber of Commerce. Considering he’s (about) the same age as me, that’s not anything to sneeze at. Compared to him, I have to admin that I do feel a little inadequate.

Through Twitter, Sonny and I exchanged not just greetings, but found out that we were going to be in close proximity to each other. He and his wife Michelle were coming out to Banff for New Year’s, which seemed an opportunity that we simply couldn’t pass up.

Instead of the old standby — drinks at some bar — I suggested we do something a little different: Afternoon Tea at the Banff Springs Hotel.

The Banff Springs, like the other Fairmont hotels, carries on the traditions first held when they were Canadian Pacific hotels, founded by Scotsmen who had the tradition of British high tea. If you’ve never had high tea, it’s something I highly recommend. And if you get a chance to do so at a Fairmont hotel, you’ll be experiencing some of the best in the world. (I can say that, having had tea in a few places outside of North America.)

We arrived in the Rundle Lounge around 13:45, the time Sonny had managed to reserve. It didn’t matter than we hadn’t seen each other in over 18 years — the time seemed to nearly vanish. We looked older, wiser, and (hopefully a lot more mature), but recognition came pretty quickly for both of us. Spouses and The Monkey were introduced.

First question? After graduation, what happened next?

We had our tea for nearly three hours. That’s how good a time we had. Our servers wafted in and out like the scent of tea from the pots we drank, neither interrupting nor competing for attention. The trays of scrumptious sandwiches and cakes were more than we could eat (I think they’ve actually gotten better since our last time) — The Monkey had an entire tray all to herself.

My biggest regret with the event was something that many of you will find shocking: I utterly forgot to take a picture. I only realised it as we drove away from the Banff Springs, headed back to Calgary. Quite the oversight, sadly.

Alex and I remarked as we headed down the Trans Canada that having tea on New Years Day seemed special for a few reasons, not the least of which was having tea with old friends. But it’s a nice event. It’s quiet, peaceful (except for having to chase The Monkey all over the place, as she’s rapidly becoming a poster child for Ritalin), and thoroughly enjoyable way to bring in the new year. (Probably even moreso if you’re still recovering from the previous night’s events.)

Alex and I have declared this to be our new tradition: New Year’s Tea. We’ll be there, a year from today, enjoying the fantastic view, and having a wonderful time.

Who wants to join us?

This morning, we woke up when The Monkey — who has become very adept at waking up before Mommy and Daddy — came marching into our room somewhere around 7:00. We all lollygagged before getting up.

That’s when I knew something was wrong. The room was spinning.

First thought: gimme a coffee, and I’ll be fine. Second though (albeit short-lived): the problems I had with the turkey yesterday are back to haunt me. (I’m the only one out, so that ain’t it.)

After the coffee, I went back to bed … and stayed there all day. Even rolling my head around brought forth serious nausea. (Using my BlackBerry — thankfully — has been no trouble.)

I called Alberta HealthLink, who quickly ruled out food poisoning (phewf!) And suggested I go to the urgent care clinic (think “hospital”, but without operating rooms staying in rooms — they take load off the hospitals) and see what they said.

Typically me, I didn’t go for several more hours. Alex’s mom came over to watch The Monkey while Alex carted me downtown. I almost made it the entire day without yarfing from near-constant nausea, but it finally got me just as I got in the door. Alex had to get a wheelchair.

Two very nice nurses — Jude at triage, and Alice in examination — got me in and settled, but it was still almost two hours before I could see the doctor.

(Dear Canada, enough with the tax break BS — our medical system is falling apart from lack of funding. You might bitch about it now, but just wait until you need it and it’s not there.)

The doctor, who reminded me of the one from early in Fight Club, did some tests before pronouncing that I have a “textbook” case of benign positional vertigo, a common problem that is caused by (normally present) crystals in the inner ear that have come loose. Thus when the head sloshes around, you get conflicting sensory inputs, leading to nausea.

Whee.

Prognosis is good, but I’ll be popping Gravol for a few days while doing some movements that should resettle the offending particle.

So yes, after all these years, you critics finally get to be right: I officially have a screw loose.

Dear Honourable Michael Ignatieff MP,

I recently read a CBC article where you made public a video of Rt. Hon. Stephen Harper in less than a positive light. The article, including references to the video and a few comments from yourself, aimed to effectively attack Rt. Hon. Harper‘s character and credibility. While this action may very well be justified in terms of raising awareness to the Canadian public, I (and likely many other Canadians) see this only as a prelude to what will likely be the fourth federal election in as many years.

What you have before you is a problem, Hon. Ignatieff: you might be right, but Canadians are going to hate you for it. We’re going to hate you for doing exactly what every other politician running for a major office has done for the last quarter of a century: make the election personal.

Canadians pride themselves on multiculturalism. We happily point to the different patches of our country that identify themselves as being distinct and unique. These are not faults, but are facets of a jewel that would not shine any other way. Along with those facets come — as an absolute requirement — differing perspectives, attitudes, and personalities. In effect, it ensures that no two people will approach the same scenario in the same manner.

You must remove personalities from the equation. All that mudslinging achieves is to showcase pettiness and desperation. If all you have to bring up is someone else’s poor judgement, it makes us all wonder what you can bring to the table. It does not matter what Rt. Hon. Harper has personally said, regardless of how inflamatory those comments may be. Your position should be a higher one, not of a tattle-tale elementary schoolyard child, but of the correcting teacher who directs a class to overcome a poor decision.

The Conservatives have something in their favour that the Liberals do not: since coming into power in 2006, the Conservatives have not made any serious mistakes — things that would normally cause Canadians to vote differently. That is a level of inertia that the Liberals — and you, as their leader — need to overcome.

You have another inertia to overcome as well: Canadian political apathy. As you may recall, the 2008 federal election had the lowest turnout in Canadian history. If you wish to turn the tide, you have to encourage everyone not just to perform their civic duty, but be engaged in the direction of their country. That is a task that no Canadian political leader is willing to, at the risk of being attacked by the others. However, this is a risk you’ll need to take.

And you need to take that risk to the west. I’m sure you saw the electoral map from the previous election — the west is a sea of blue, and your party acquired only seven seats. Alberta, in particular, love their Conservatives — attacking Harper will only lend sympathy rather than turning a tide. You need to appeal to the Western Canadian, and have them feel that Western Canada is as important to Canada as Quebec has been in previous elections.

So, how? I don’t presume to preach to a politician, author, professor, and journalist. Instead, I would like to talk to you as a fellow Canadian. You don’t need to tell us what’s wrong with other politicians — you need to tell us what’s wrong with us, with our nation, with the things that we hold as dear and true to our identities as toques, beavers, hockey, and the maple leaf. And then inspire us to help repair those things, so that we become part of the solution, so we don’t just hand our problems to our government and expect everything to be fixed.

We do not need promises or assurances. We need truths, no matter how hard they might be to hear. We need to be told — plainly — what has to happen. We need to be told that even the difficult is possible, and that hope isn’t just a word. We need to believe. We need to want.

Ignore Rt. Hon. Harper. Ignore Hons. Duceppe, Layton, and May. Rise above them. Rise above the petty bickering. Make your message speak for itself, and speak to Canadians. Make us believe that you have a vision that means something more than merely acquiring office. If we are to go to the polls again, we have to know it’s for a good reason, and not because of a political spitting match. If you can bring faith back into Canadian politics, you may also bring greater enthusiasm and support.

To that end, she’s received and is now reviewing the requisite materials for the test. (I offer you the list of questions she gave to me, unaltered, as a starting point.) As one might expect, the test has a number of questions that, yes, an average born-and-raised-in-Canada Canadian would flunk. (I would imagine the same is true of most countries.) Some of these are taken for granted, as just about everyone just accepts things as they are.

But some of these questions are … well, let’s say that they just scream for alternative answers.

I’m not going to put up every question because some of them are just darn obvious. Or otherwise boring, and have no particularly interesting answers. Again, if you want to see the original list, follow the above link. As for the answers, well, this is my take on them. So if you’re actually studying for the Canadian citizenship test, please, for the love of the maple leaf, read Wikipedia.

1. Who are the Aboriginal peoples of Canada?

   Joe, Marge, Fred, Little Tom, Kinney, and Wilma.

2. Why are the Aboriginal peoples of Canada working toward self-government?

   If you’ve got the opportunity to not have to deal with the federal government, wouldn’t you?

3. Where did the first European settlers in Canada come from?

   Um… Europe?

4. Why did the early explorers first come to Atlantic Canada?

   Well, it was pretty bloody hard to go to Pacific Canada,  wasn’t it?

5. What three industries helped the early settlers build communities in the Atlantic region?

   Wal-Mart, McDonald’s, and Tim Horton’s.

6. Who were the United Empire Loyalists?

   A British football team.

7. What form of transportation did Aboriginal peoples and fur traders use to create trading networks in North America?

   The ski-doo.

8. What important trade did the Hudson’s Bay Company control?

   Hockey cards.

9. What did the government do to make immigration to western Canada much easier?

   Made living in eastern Canada so unbearable that everyone fled west.

10. What is the Canadian Constitution?

    A piece of paper.

11. Which was the last province to join Canada?

    Newfoundland. (And while this is the truthful answer, it’s a newfie joke all onto its own.)

12. Name two fundamental freedoms protected by the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms.

    The right to bitch about the government and the right to apologise to anyone for no particular reason.

13. List three ways in which you can protect the environment.

    Again, a bit of a serious response — ‘cuz, yes, this is an actual question. I think it’s actually a survey question, because the federal government in Canada clearly doesn’t know how to do this themselves.

14. What are the two official languages of Canada?

    English, and French spoken really poorly by English-speakers.

15. What does the Canadian flag look like?

    Must. Hold. Back. Obvious. Joke.

16. What song is Canada’s national anthem?

    Duh! The theme to Hockey Night In Canada!

17. Which animal is an official symbol of Canada?

    Okay, another serious one. The beaver. Seriously. How can you not love a country where it’s national symbol is the beaver. Ahem.

18. Where are the Great Lakes?

    Probably where you last left them.

19. Which country borders Canada on the south?

    Um. China? (Is this to trip up Americans applying for citizenship?)

20. What are the three main types of industries in Canada?

    Beer, hockey, and donuts.

21. In what industry do most Canadians work?

    Based on the NHL players, it’s definitely ice-related.

22. What is Canada’s system of government called?

    According to my dad, it’s “A Fucking Mess”.

23. What are the three parts of Parliament?

    “Goofy”, “Dopey”, and “Sleepy” come to mind… (On a serious note: Hey Canucks, did you know there were three?)

24. Explain how the levels of government are different.

    Well, all they tend not to do much. After that, it’s kinda dicey…

25. What do you call a law before it is passed?

    A joke.

26. How are members of Parliament chosen?

    Usually it’s the only person left after everyone else says: “I don’t wanna do it!”

27. Who do members of Parliament represent?

    Cynical answer: Themselves.

28. What is the government of all of Canada called?

    See #22.

29. How many electoral districts are there in Canada?

    Again, kinda serious… Are you fucking kidding me? Even the CBC doesn’t know this and has to look it up. I just laughed when I first heard this. Seriously? You want me to know this?

30. What three requirements must you meet in order to vote in a federal election?

    a) Be alive, b) not be totally drunk, and c) be ready to start bitching about the changes

31. What is written on a federal election ballot?

    Kinda like the electoral districts question, I was surprised by this one. I honestly have no idea, beyond the list of names of the people I’m supposed to choose from. Which, when you think about it, ain’t a lot of information to go on.

    Man, elections are kinda dumb.

32. What do political parties do?

    Again, I think this is a survey, because the government must be looking for suggestions on this one.

33. Which federal political party is in power?

    Funny, but somewhat true — right now, none. Minority governments mean no power. All of it is pure bargaining.

Okay, those are my (somewhat) interesting responses. I know there are lots more, though. Anyone else care to add a few?

Happy birthday to me! 13,505 days and still counting! Whee!

Twenty years ago, I got to do something that (comparatively) very few westerners got to do, and will never get to do again: I went behind the Iron Curtain. I visited the (former) Soviet Union. Believe it or not, the journey was a field trip, organised by one of the teachers in my school board. We had to do prerequisite classwork and had to write two length reports, all of which added up to academic credits.

And we had to write a journal.

My journal, as originally written, was short. I didn’t go for depth of content. (Yes, you can all insert “unbelievable shock” here.) I wasn’t a writer … yet. I was a kid in a foreign country (my first foray outside of North America) experiencing a part of the world few people had any desire to see at all, and was largely misunderstood except for what mainstream media portrayed.

At the time I wrote it, there wasn’t a lot of understanding about what the journal was for, except maybe as source material for our reports that we would write afterwards. Little did we know that when we got back, we had to hand in our journals for grading.

If you’ve ever seen my handwriting, you know this is a Bad Thing.

So I did what any smart kid (who wanted a really good grade) would do: I typed it all out. Except the more I typed, the more I inserted because I remembered other things. Before long, my 10 or so pages of journal entries had turned into over 100 pages. Single spaced. (I got an A+, by the way.)

That was the moment I started to become a writer. I look back at that journal now and … well, let’s just say I’ve had many years to improve my writing ability. But that was the start.

Twenty years is a long time to be writing. I’m having real trouble believing it’s been that long. Come January 2010, it’ll have been 10 years since I started writing internet-based journals (that eventually became the blogging we all know and love).

And with this post, at least according to my WordPress post count, is number 1,000. (That includes a couple of drafts that are coming shortly, and posts you can’t see.) That might not seem like a lot, but when each post is over 1,000 words … well, you do the math.

So, in a way, this is an anniversary: the birth of The Observer, my (former) self-assigned moniker for my journaling habits. A birthday.

Happy birthday, Me!