Shark Tales

The story always starts with three guys who get themselves into a situation of imminent danger. Miraculously, a genie appears and grants each a single wish. The first two wisely use their wish to get themselves to safety.

But the third guy? Well, he’s not very smart. He foolishly uses his wish as a means of entertainment.

I’m not sure why my kids like these stories so much. One night I didn’t feel like searching for a book to read them so I made up such a story on the spot. Now I’m asked to create a new story each night. That’s a lot of pressure, and I’m beginning to run out of dangerous situations. I’ve used floods, volcanoes, earthquakes, lions, snakes, fires, and hurricanes.

Yet nothing will ever match the shark.

See, these three guys went scuba diving, but were quickly surrounded by a ferocious and very hungry shark.

“When was the last time the shark ate?” asks Lincoln.

“6 months. Maybe longer!”, I lie, hoping to convince the kids he’s one ravenous shark.

Suddenly, a genie appears out of thin air. Sensing the men are in danger, he grants each of them a wish. One guy wishes for a Jet Ski he rides to shore. Another is pulled to safety by a passing fishing boat.

But the third guy. He’s not very smart.

As the shark circles the third guy, the genie is perplexed when he asks for a large foam finger. Like the ones you see at college football games.

“That’s your wish?” asks the genie.

“Yep, one giant foam finger”

The genie grants his wish and a foam finger appears. As the genie disappears the shark races towards the guy. But at the last second, the guy pulls out the foam finger and pokes the shark in the eye. Embarrassed and sporting one incredibly bloodshot eyeball, the shark swims back to the ocean in search of easier prey.

Yep, this is how I spend my time with my kids. Maybe I should be at the park or the museum. Would they be better off if I read children’s classic literature to them?

Maybe so.

But nothing beats the shark.

My Favorite Group of 2009

One of my favorite iTunes features is the play count column. Occasionally I’ll sort my playlists using this column to see which songs I’ve listened to the most.

Looking over the last year, the top of my most played list is dominated by Ivy who I found through Last.FM this year.

The first song I heard, "Edge of the Ocean”, is my favorite. It’s both mellow and upbeat, and it puts me in a good mood when I’m down. It’s such a simple song with simple lyrics. I’m surprised I’ve not tired of it.

I love the soothing voice of lead singer, Dominique Durand.

There’s a place I dream about
Where the sun never goes out
And the sky is deep and blue
Won’t you take me there with you

[audio:edgeofocean.mp3]

One other song I enjoy is “Ocean City Girl”. Same smooth vocals, but a bit more reflective.

The night is falling; the streetlights start to glow
No one’s there when the cracks begin to show
They can’t hurt her like she’s been hurt before
No one here can get near her anymore

[audio:oceancitygirl.mp3]

Give them a listen and see what you think. What is your favorite group or musician you discovered this year?

The Voice of a 5-Year Old

I like to think that I do a good job of keeping my work at work. A 45-60 minute commute helps clear my mind before I arrive home. But occasionally work spills over into family life.

That’s exactly what happened on Friday.

What should have remained a minor misunderstanding turned into voices being raised. I had many opportunities to put an end to it. Instead I continued to fan the flames until a small issue had escalated into an argument in front of the kids. In the car. Where they could hear every single word.

I couldn’t have botched the situation any worse than I did. I could see it in Kim’s eyes. They said, “Why won’t you drop it?”

Sometimes how something is said carries more weight than what’s said. Yet I didn’t realize it at the time. I kept harping. Wouldn’t let it die. More gasoline on the fire.

I looked straight ahead as I drove. My eyes were on the road, but my mind was elsewhere. Kim was silent. And probably stunned that I came home in such a bad mood on a Friday of all days.

As I’m about to turn around and head back home, I hear the voice of Anna, our 5-year old daughter.

“Dad, you need to talk to mom in a nice voice. If you talk in a nice voice everything will be OK. I know you can do it.”

It took the words of my daughter to jolt me back into reality. I understood how unkind I’d been to Kim in front of four little sponges before being taken to task by a little girl who sleeps with a bed full of stuffed animals.

But on this night, that little girl acted more like an adult than her dad. I’m fortunate that fatherhood provides me many opportunities to redeem myself.

Donut and Muffin Factory

Unless you know where to look, you’d never notice the Donut and Muffin Factory tucked between the Godfathers Pizza and Little Caesars. The first two years we lived in Auburn, I drove past this red bricked hole-in-the-wall on my way to the train station. In truth, to call it a hole-in-the-wall is being kind because it looks like a run-down laundry mat in a seedy section of town.

Even pulling into their parking lot requires insider knowledge. “Is this where I turn?” I ask Kim not wanting to overshoot the lot. Two one-way streets make it difficult to get turned back around. It’s as if the donuts are so special, the owners don’t want anyone just passing by to enjoy them.

I maneuvered my way into the parking lot.

“Is it even open?” I ask Kim.

“Well, I stopped by before noon a while back and they’d run out of donuts”

How does a donut shop run out of donuts?

The place didn’t look open. No neon “OPEN” sign hanging from the window. No cars parked out front. I couldn’t tell if any lights were on, so I told Kim to stay in the van while I checked it out.

I walked to the entrance and peered through the windows. We’re in luck. A woman behind the counter motions me to come inside. I returned to the van to retrieve Kim and the kids. A bell jingles as we open the door. The kids immediately run towards the counter and begin pointing at any donut with sprinkles.

This isn’t Krispy Kreme. It’s not even Winchell’s. You won’t find a fancy menu, $4 coffee, or a cooler full of healthy salads. In fact, you won’t find many donuts behind the display case because the owner will have most of them on a tray next to her while she hand frosts each one.

The last time I stopped by she was mixing up a batch of frosting. When I asked what flavor she was making she replied, “Strawberry or vanilla. You pick.”

But what the place lacks in amenities, it makes up for in personality and authenticity. When you walk through the door you’re greeted by a copy machine. 15 cents a copy. It must be 20 years old. Above the copier is a local business bulletin board. Today’s featured business is “Busy Beaver Movers”. Only a couple coverless fluorescent lights flicker overhead.

While Kim and I choose flavors, the owner grabs two handfuls of glazed donut holes for the kids. That was almost enough to keep Kai’s tongue off the display case. Almost.

And good luck making sense of the menu. Most donuts are 65 cents. A few “fancy” ones are 75 cents. It’s not clear which are fancy. Bulk discounts kick in with half and full dozen orders. But it doesn’t matter much because the owner seems to ring up maybe half your order. Feels like I asked for about $20 worth. “That’ll be twelve fifty”, she says.

Kim was excited because three cruellers were there for the taking. She let me have the strawberry on my birthday. The kids devoured a few of their own before we took a dozen home with us.

So if you’re in Auburn and looking for a Starbucks-type experience, the Donuts and Muffin factory near the train station is not your best bet. But if you’re after a great tasting donut with absolutely no fanfare, you’re in luck.

Just get there early before they run out.

Staring at the Ceiling

I turn 42 years old today.

Don’t worry. I’m not looking to buy a Corvette, splurge on a Tommy Bahama wardrobe or hook up with an obscure Brazilian model.

If I were a professional baseball player, color commentary guys would mention my age before each bat as if every game could be my last.

In many ways I’m not where I thought I would be at this point in my life. To say I’ve stumbled into a career in technology would be kind. I got into tech because of the money and I’ve stayed for the money. Yet it’s the money which makes it difficult to leave.

I admire people who put their heart and soul into their job, placing it above everything else. I’ve seen these employees at every company I’ve worked for. Work and life are one and the same.

Actually, I don’t admire them.

What I admire are people who found their passion in life and went after it regardless of pay or glory. I admire people like my father who worked as a teacher for 32 years because that was his passion. He’s a natural leader whom students wanted to be around. One can’t fake that.

He didn’t do it for the overtime because there wasn’t any. Nor were there annual awards waiting to be bestowed upon him. Yet he had a lasting influence for good over hundreds if not thousands of students who walked the halls and ran around the bases.

That’s what I admire, and that’s what I was thinking about this morning as I stared at the ceiling from my bed. Before I could head downstairs to the shower, Kim plopped Kai next to me and ran off.

I’m 39 years older than Kai. I hope to be around when he’s my age. I want to see how he turns out. I wonder what he’ll think about his father when he’s my age? Will he be as proud of me as I am of my father?

But for now, he’s giving me that “don’t touch my bottle” look. I love his floppy blonde hair that strangers and family tell us is too long ensuring it will only grow longer. Kai is probably our last child. It feels strange to write that.

Finally, he finished his bottle. He inched closer to me. I could feel his cold feet rub against my legs. I remained still because he’ll seldom lay next to me for more than 15 seconds. But this morning was different. He stopped only when he couldn’t move any closer. Just as I thought, “no way will this last” he rubbed his cheek against my chin until it tickled too much and a giggle escaped.

I went back to staring at the ceiling with a smile on my face. A few minutes passed and I assumed Kai had fallen asleep. I watched as his chest took in one deep breath after another.

His feet were no longer cold.

Yet when I turned to look at his face, I could see he was staring at the ceiling just like his father.

I’m going to pretend he gave me an early birthday present.

Dear Santa

The kids wrote letters to Santa tonight. When I commented to Luca how many items she came up with she said, “I underlined the really important stuff”.

I’m sure Santa will appreciate that extra bit of flexibility.

The Inflatable Mattress

The plan is hatched on a night the kids don’t have school the next day. Luca is the ringleader. She calls a huddle in the living room, and I know something is going down when I hear the whispers turn to giggles and finally someone says, “Anna, go ask dad!”

Within a few seconds, Anna is gently tapping my shoulder while I sit at my computer. Of course, I don’t show any signs that I know she’s coming to ask me a favor.

“Dad, if I ask you a question, will you PROMISE to say ‘yes’?”

“Depends what it is. What if you ask to drive the car to Chuck E Cheese?”

She laughs. I love Anna’s laugh.

Anna knows exactly how to wrap me around her finger. She’ll stand behind me for a short time before moving towards me so I can see her face. She wants me to see her incredibly sad face. But I have to look quickly because Anna can’t keep a sad face for more than a few milliseconds. Eventually, her smile turns to giggles, and finally I learn what her siblings sent her to ask me.

“Will you blow up the mattress?”

Our kids love the inflatable mattress because they can move it around the room to get the best view of Scooby Doo or the Smurfs. When it’s time for bed, each of them pillows off their 1/3rd of the mattress. No trespassing allowed.

Before I went to bed last night I checked on them. All but one blanket was on the floor. They had moved towards the center of the mattress and were sharing a blanket. Arms were wrapped around each other and feet were strewn across legs. But they were sound asleep now and had gone to bed without any tears, wet willies or wedgies.

It’s scenes like this which help me realize how much they love each other. It’s not always apparent when they argue over Nintendo or who has the most chocolate milk. It’s not enough to have a handful of Wheat Thins if your little brother received one more than you did.

As I took down the mattress tonight, Anna asked if she could help. After I opened the valve, I began folding the mattress into fourths to press out as much air as I could with my chest until I hit the floor. I told Anna she could stand on the mattress to flatten it out.

But Anna had other plans.

“Just put me on your shoulders and I’ll help you”

This time her older brother and sister were nowhere to be found.

With Anna on my shoulders, I took my time. Air hissed from the mattress with each fold. Anna messed up my hair, grabbed my ears and covered my eyes. She’s a bundle of joy with a wonderful personality. I’m slowly getting to know her as well as Luca and Lincoln, and I cherish my time with her.

“Dad, why are you going so slow?”

One day she’ll understand.

Trust Is All That Matters

I spent four months in Rock Springs, WY before moving to the Seattle area. During my time in Rock Springs, I rented a small apartment and didn’t have many friends outside of work. But over time I got to know a man who managed a small print and frame business. One afternoon he asked me to lunch. I was excited to finally make a friend.

But when I showed up for lunch, he was dressed in a suit and tie. I thought that was odd, but didn’t realize what I’d walked in to until he pulled out a large white binder and said, “There’s something I’d like to share with you”.

As I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, my new friend wanted to “share” the Amway dream. I felt used. I pushed my lunch away and spent the next 10 minutes coming up with excuses to leave.

I thought back to this experience as I read several articles discussing Twitter advertising from Robert Scoble and Steven Hodson. I respect both of these guys, and felt I’d chime in with a few thoughts of my own on the issue.

Twitter has always felt like a casual conversation among friends to me. It reminds me of the old days on IRC chat where people sat around and shot the breeze for hours. But I can’t imagine sitting around with a group of guys on a Saturday afternoon when suddenly one guy stands up and yells, “23-inch Dell Monitor on SALE NOW! Use Referral Code: 12301”.

Can you imagine this same person shouting out ads every five sentences? How about only once every time you got together?

No way. We’d kick his butt to the curb the 2nd time he pulled that stunt. And that’s how in-Tweet advertising feels me. It feels shady and unauthentic. Why would I click on some random link so someone else can get paid when I don’t see the value?

Now I’m not going to unfollow someone the first time they send an ad across my screen. But I’ll scrutinize the relationship to see if their other tweets are of such high value that it’s worth the occasional ad noise. If not, I’ll unfollow.

Both Robert and Steve mention Chris Pirillo as someone who uses uses his blog, Facebook and Twitter to push ads and coupons on his followers. I like Chris’ sense of humor and have followed him for many years. I saw him speak at WordCamp Seattle this year and find him to be intelligent and thoughtful. He’s also an excellent speaker. But as much as I recommend him in person, I stopped reading his blog and following him on Twitter because I was unable to determine where his editorial content stopped and his ad pitch kicked in. Does he really like that new Mac or is someone paying him to talk about it? Chris gambled with my trust and lost. And trust is not easy to regain so why risk it?

Last year a travel company offered me cash to place a small text ad under the search bar on my blog. I thought about it for a few weeks and eventually accepted the money which was just enough to cover my hosting fees for the four blogs I host. You won’t find it on my blog today because I decided not to renew it for a second year. At the time, I felt like it wasn’t a conflict of interest because I don’t really write about travel.

But it never felt right. I understand that some bloggers like Steve are trying to make a living by writing and providing valuable content and opinion. I agree with Scoble that those people deserve to get paid for their writing. But when it comes to Twitter and its casual nature, I don’t agree that anyone is entitled to receive payment for their tweets. Why should anyone get paid to use Twitter? What do they provide that I can’t get elsewhere? Links to content that I can find on Digg or Failblog?

Writing a blog, interacting with people on Facebook and Twitter all give me the opportunity to make friends, share my thoughts and learn from others. Once advertising enters the mix, my guard goes up and the relationship changes. Apparently those changes don’t bother many people given the number of ads I see on blogs. Remember how nice and clean Dooce used to be? Check it out today. Same goes for TechCrunch. I don’t have much patience anymore searching for content among a sea of ads. It’s easier to unsubscribe and move on to another blogger who respects my time.

I don’t want people following me on Twitter or read my blog to wonder if I really like the Flip Mino HD or I’m just saying so because Flip paid me to say that or gave me free product. My reputation and name mean more than the money.

And isn’t trust what it comes down to anyway? Why risk losing that trust by sending ads down your Twitter stream? The risks don’t outweigh the rewards.

Enjoying Every Minute

Have you ever found yourself in a situation and thought, “What am I doing here?”

Going back nearly twenty years, I asked myself that question the day I woke up in Germany, and it finally hit me that it would be two years before I saw my family and friends. I stared at the ceiling as the sun crept through a small window. I didn’t want to move. Afraid of the unknown and not quite sure how I ended up thousands of miles away from Utah.

A similar experienced happened to me this past week. Kim was cleaning the kitchen while I tried to corral our three youngest children into the bathtub.

Luca was yelling because it’s her turn to take a bath. But the water is dirty. And what if there’s no more hot water left because I filled the tub too full, and mom is hogging the rest of the hot water by WASHING the dishes?

Catastrophic! Who knew hot water was so rare?

While washing the shampoo from Anna’s hair, Kai decided to pour water down the back of my pants, and now the kids can’t stop laughing because it looks like dad peed the back of his pants.

Hilarious.

I’ve had enough.

I lean up against the hallway wall. I’m exhausted. I’m outnumbered. What am I doing here? Before I can answer that, I notice only two kids in the tub where three should be.

How did one escape while I’m standing TEN FEET AWAY?

This isn’t our first child. I can’t blame it on lack of experience or rookie mistakes. One might assume that by number four I’d have a handle on things. An orderly dinner would lead to kids working quietly on homework. Bath and bedtime would be a cinch. I should be a seasoned veteran by now. The Mariano Rivera of bed time. Yep, the bedtime closer.

So why does our bath routine result in more water on the floor and down my pants than in the tub? If the Super Nanny were in town, I’d be getting a lecture while our kids sat on the couch pulling faces and trying not to laugh.

As this runs through my mind, and I’m about ready to call for backup, I feel a tug on my pants. When I look down, I see a dripping wet two year old streaker holding a blue towel. He extends his arm towards me and says, “Help!”

I wrap him in the towel like a burrito so he can’t escape before picking him up. Before I can dry his hair, he puts his head on my shoulder.

There’s no better reward.

Later that night as I took off my shirt, I realized Kai’s long blonde hair has soaked much of it.

I may not always know what I’m doing, but I’m enjoying every minute of whatever it is.

Walking My Bike In The Rain

When I was 20 years old, I was serving as a missionary for my church and living in Siegen, Germany. Siegen is not a tourist Mecca like Munich or Heidelberg. But it has its share of castles and is home to a university.

One gets to know a city when traveling by foot or by bicycle, and my companion and I spent 10-12 hours a day traveling through town looking for people to teach. Honestly, we were ecstatic if anyone wanted to speak with us. About anything.

One morning I woke up to the sound of thunder. It wasn’t long before the rain came pouring down. We had an appointment on the other side of town. I sat at the kitchen table and watched the wind blow the rain into our window wondering if I should ask my parents to send me a few boxes of Cap’N Crunch cereal.

I grabbed my raincoat and hat as we raced out the door leaving my gloves and map back at our apartment. The rain didn’t let up. I peddled as fast as I could, but it didn’t matter. Within minutes I was soaked. I didn’t have a fender over my back tire so cold water flipped up against my back and dripped down my back. My hands were numb. I was miserable.

Given the start to my day, I shouldn’t have been surprised when our appointment never showed up.

As I walked back to my bike I felt like cursing. Had I not been wearing a tag with “Elder Nordquist” alongside the name of my church on the outside of my jacket, I probably would have let loose with a few choice words. Instead, I began walking my bike. I was too upset to ride and still shivering. I didn’t know where I was going, but I was done riding in the rain.

I’m not sure how far we made it before realizing we were lost. The rain decided to move on and the clouds were moving out as we made our way up a hill to see if we could gather our bearings. Not a word was said as the two of us pushed our bikes up the hill to the sounds of shoes squeaking with each step. My shoulders hurt from my water-logged jacket. My light brown leather messenger bag was now dark brown from the rain.

Both of us were winded as we neared the top of the hill. Finally, I placed my bike down on the side of the road and sat on the curb. My skin was wet, but my body was warm from the hike. I looked out over the city searching for a landmark to help guide us home.

And that’s when something clicked. I don’t know why. But at that moment I stopped caring about my predicament and took in my surroundings. I’d just walked up a street made of cobblestone. I could look down on a several castles surrounded by lush gardens dating back hundreds of years. I was living in a foreign country serving others and learning to be an adult. I’d learned enough German to get around town and order my favorite pastry: the pudding pretzel.

I’m often reminded of this experience when I become frustrated at home or at work. Sometimes it helps to slow down and get off the bike.

We never did recognize a landmark from the hill that morning. Sensing we were lost, a kind, German man pulled his motor scooter up next to us and drew a map on the inside cover of a wet Book of Mormon.

As we reached the bottom of the hill the rain returned. Although every patch of clothing I wore was soaked, I just smiled.