I'm not naked

It was 18C yesterday. Hot enough that Alex wanted to play in the pool and run through the neighbour's sprinkler, but cold enough that I was wearing long sleeves and jeans.
I told him "sure" as long as he took off his pants and shirt and put on his swim trunks.
Ten minutes later he was dressed and spent the next nine minutes running around and soaking Henry with his squirt gun. Actually, Henry had the squirt gun; Alex had the garden house turned wide open. Inside of ten minutes both were drenched and sporting blue lips and a serious case of goosebumps.
Alex came in, stripped off his trunks "because they were cold" and ran back outside to play.
I took off after him, grabbed his arm and asked if he saw any other naked kids outside.
He looks around and answered "no."
Then Henry walked over, opened his towel and said "See, I'm naked."
D'OH
I ignored Henry and sent Alex back inside "to put something on."
Thirty seconds later he came out wearing a plastic Medieval helmet, chest armour, scabbard and sword. He was buck naked underneath.
"Dude, I thought I told you to get dressed?" I asked.
"No," he said. "You told me to put something on. And I did put something on."
I went inside and got the camera.

Funny fiction

My boss wondered why I had not phoned in sick. Having an urgent problem with a section of the newspaper she knew nothing about, she dialed my home phone number and was greeted with Alex's whisper.
"Hello?"
"Is your daddy home?" she asked.
"Yes," whispered the small voice.
"May I talk with him?"
The child whispered, "No."
Surprised and wanting to talk with an adult, my boss asked, "Is your Mommy there?"
"Yes."
May I talk with her?"
Again the small voice whispered, "No."
Hoping there was somebody with whom she could leave a message, my boss asked, "Is anybody else there?"
"Yes," whispered my four-year-old. "A policeman."
Wondering what a cop would be doing at my house, the boss asked, "May I speak with the policeman?"
"No, he's busy," whispered Alex.
"Busy doing what?"
"Talking to Daddy and Mommy and the fireman," came the whispered answer.
Growing more worried as she heard a loud noise in the background through the earpiece on the phone, Ros, my boss, asked, "What is that noise?"
"A helicopter," answered the whispering voice.
"What is going on there?" demanded Ros, now truly apprehensive.
Again, whispering, my child answered, "The search team just landed a helicopter." Alarmed, concerned and a little frustrated the boss asked, "What are they searching for?"
Still whispering, the young voice replied with a muffled giggle... "ME."

Candy from a baby

They say it's bad to steal candy from a baby.
So that's what I'm stealing it from a pre-schooler.
Alex made a huge haul of candy on Easter morning and has been slowly eating his way through his goodies.
His mom put them away from his prying eyes for "safe keeping" but I know where her hiding spot is. (It's the same place she hid my Christmas present.)
So anyway, I have been living off pilfered chocolates for the past few weeks and am trying to feel guilty about it.
I don't.
I rationalize my actons by saying I'm looking after Alex's health.
It's too late for me, bt the kid's only four.
He's got a full life ahead of him.
But me. . .

Egghead

My son has started lying.

Experts, however, claim you shouldn't punish a preschool for fibbing, it's all a natural part of development.

I'm punishing him anyway.

Not for lying, necessarily, but for thinking I'm dumber than a hard-boiled egg.

I was watching the Canucks clinch their division the other day when I realized it had been at least two minutes since I heard any sound from Alex.

I immediately jumped to my feet and raced into the kitchen, where I caught him standing on a chair in front of the sink with blue food colouring completely covering his mouth and hands.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Nothing"

"Where did you get all that blue stuff?" I asked again.

"Nowhere."

"Alex, your hands are all blue. How did they get that way?" I demanded.

"The cat."

I smiled, but bit my tongue and continued.

"Alex, were you playing with an Easter Egg? " I asked.

"Maybe."

"Well, remember mommy and daddy saying that we don't put unpeeled eggs in our mouth. You could choke on the shells," I warned.

"But daddy, I didn't put any egg in my mouth," he said through his blue-stained teeth.

"Alex, go to your room. And on the way past the bathroom, look in the mirror."

Semi-witty Penultimate Posting

It's the time of year when a young student's mind turns to thoughts of internships.
One of the worst parts of journalism school is the time-honoured ritual of submitting applications for summer employment and then receiving a bunch of rejection letters all in the hopes a of getting that coveted interview.
As a service to my colleagues, here is a list of typical questions, how to answer them and what you are probably thinking.
Question: Why are you interested in this newspaper?
What I said: You do a great job of covering the community and giving a fair and balanced view of global issues with a uniquely Canadian perspective. I've also asked some (read: none) second-year students and instructors at UBC about the paper and they said it has a great work environment.
What I thought: I looked through your paper and saw that you hire people who do not appear to have any writing skills or morals whatsoever. That made me think that I have a chance to work here.

Question: Why do you want to be a journalist?
What I said: I went to journalism school because I want to make a difference. Reporting allows me to perform a public service and contribute to the betterment of society, both of which are important to me.
What I thought: That's a good question, and I ask myself it daily. I think it's a combination of stupidity and desperation. Plus I was rejected from law school.

Question: Do you think your grades are an accurate reflection of the kind of work you will do as a journalist?
What I said: Journalism school has been a challenge, and I think my grades reflect that. More important than my grades-- which, by the way, have steadily improved over the year--is my dedication to the work I do. My performance during my summer jobs is the best indicator of how I will work, and you will find that my previous employers were all pleased with me (or at least forgot who I am and so will not remember the screw-ups).
What I thought: My grades are completely indicative of how I work.I will put in the minimum effort needed to not get fired, and I will approach my job with contempt and disinterest.

Question: What would you say is your greatest weakness?
What I said: My greatest weakness is that I get too personally involved in a story. For instance, when I was working on a big investigative piece and the guilty person was caught before the piece ran, I felt cheated. I would have liked to have all their dishonest deeds published, thus allowing society to judge all of their actions, not just the few minor indiscretions the person admitted to.
What I thought: Money. I understand you are a union paper and your interns are way overpaid. If I can scam my way into this place I'll be able to afford to keep my frat brothers drunk for most of the summer.

Question: Tell us about a recent mistake you made.
What I said: I accidentally misspelled a government officials name.As soon as I realized this, I alerted my editor and he had the presses stopped and a correction was made.
What I thought: An even bigger mistake I've made has been wasting 20 minutes of my life in this interview instead of having a beer which would have been much more satisfying and productive.

Question: What do you do for fun?
What I said: I enjoy jogging, skydiving, and traveling to exotic countries.
What I thought: Beer. And chasing girls. If all else fails, I also have the entire collection of Girls Gone Wild DVDs.

Question: Tell us about your style of leadership.
What I said: I lead by taking the initiative and working proactively with my peers to come up with solutions.
What I thought: I lead by playing "The Eye of the Tiger" at maximum volume on a boombox and yelling at my underlings.

Question: If you don't get hired by this firm, what will you do?
What I said: I will analyze what I could have done better during the interview and take that knowledge with me into my next interview with [another newspapers name].
What I thought: I will breath a sigh of relief that I won't be working for a fool like you. Or I will stalk you and slash the tires on your car. I haven't decided yet.

Question: Do you have any questions for us?
What I said: Will I have a key so that I can come in and work on the weekends?
What I thought: Will I have a key so that I can come in and steal office supplies on the weekends?

Question: We value creativity in our writers. With that in mind, what kind of plant would you be, and why?
What I said: I would be a tree, because they are tall, strong, and live a long life.
What I thought: I would be three-metre tall stalk of B.C. Bud covered in flowering buds in a constant state of resin production, therefor saving me the hassle of having to source good herb.

--With thanks to Craig'sList

Has Been and The Gonna Be

I consider myself a cyclist.
Back in the day I used to be a pretty good racer.
I was a USCF certified fitting specialist and worked 50-hour weeks in a bike shop, racing on weekends and training before the shop opened in the morning.
I moved back to Canada, hurt my back and found out carbohydrates make you fat unless you ride 10,000 kilometres a year.
Still, I own a ton of gear, two bikes and fix my neighbour's bikes in exchange for beer or babysitting.
But truth be told, Alex is the real biker in the family.
He rides every day; I ride three times a week.
He has the newest bike in the family; my Bianchi is three years old.
I own a set of the coolest free-riding pads in the universe, but Alex, who wears my forearm pads as leg armour, is the one whose crashes have scratched them beyond recognition.
I have two bike-related scars--one on my cheek and one on my elbow; Alex has scars on both knees, both elbows, his chin, his butt and a bruise on his tummy from landing on the handlebars.
But the real kicker is recognition.
When we went into West Point Grey Cycles yesterday, the shop dude called: "Hey Buddy, how's the riding?"
He was talking to Alex.

Right on the money

It’s been a weird week.
One of the nicest people I’ve ever met has turned out to be a left-wing radical, my son is now riding his bike to school and the Canucks have made the playoffs.
Strange how dissimilar things can all be tied together.
My friend Elecia, bless her tree-hugging heart, passed on a recipe for removing the toxic black mold problem in my apartment. As you know, black mold can be lethal, but my tie-dyed friend said a mixture of lemon juice and baking soda would clean the mold right up. She swore this is what she uses to get bong-resin stains out of her shag carpet in her VW van, so I tried it.
Of course, it didn’t work, and I wasted $5 worth of lemons, but no real harm done.
Alex started riding without training wheels on Friday and by Saturday we bought him a new bike, mountain bike gloves and a neat little Orca bike horn. By Saturday the whole package had been devalued by about 50 per cent. He crashed so many times, the bike’s paint is scratched through to the frame, the gloves have a hole in them and the whale is now a two-piece unit.
About the only positive thing to come out of my week was the Canucks. The $100 I put on them with Bodog at the beginning of the season to win the Cup is now looking like a pretty shrewd bet. 100 to 1 (now down to 10 to 1) would pay out $10,000 US, enough to get Alex some new gloves and pads and pay a professional to come in and wipe out the mold problem.