Frickin’ Frackin’ iPads

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My sons seemed a bit underwhelmed when they opened their new iPads on Christmas morning. I mean, they appreciated them, they are gracious kids, but there were so many new toys to focus on. Pokemon figures, Kirby figures, books and art supplies. They rushed from the room to play with toys, and stayed up there for several hours, getting along and having fun together. It was a veritable Christmas miracle.

And so, the iPads remained untouched most of the day, still in their packages. I’d kept the receipt, of course, the one that showed the warranties I’d purchased for far too much money. I cleaned the house, had a short nap, cooked lunch with my boyfriend. After lunch, the kids wanted to play video games, and they spent a few hours playing Kirby Star Allies, their current favorite. That’s the game the toys they were playing with came from. It was around dinnertime they wanted to use their new IPADs finally.

“Okay!” I responded with enthusiasm, glad they were remembering their most expensive gift. “Just give me a few minutes to set them up!”

I opened the packaging on the first one, pulled off the plastic pieces, set aside the instructions, assembled the charger and plugged it into the wall. I pushed the bottom button and the white apple icon showed up on the screen. Technology has come a long way since I was a kid, I thought.

I followed prompts, indicating English as the language of choice and that we resided in the United States. Then the iPad instructed me to hold my own iPhone over the iPad so that it could connect to my account through the Wifi and download my information automatically. A few minutes later, the iPad mirrored my phone itself, complete with text messages and call history, a larger replica of my phone. Which was cool, except I didn’t want an iPad for me, but for my son. I looked up a series of prompts on how to create a family account for my child, and began following those instructions. And about ten minutes later, it needed me to verify a text message code sent to my phone and then enter it onto the iPad so that I could prove that I was the parent. But the text never came. After some investigation, I realized that the text had been sent to a phone number that I hadn’t used in over 8 years and no longer had access to. Aargh!

So I called Apple technical support. After a ten minute hold, the man looked up my account and listened to my struggles. He estimated that the number was used because it was connected to my Paypal account, which was set up on my source, and he instructed me to log in to Paypal to change my user information, then reboot the iPad again. So I accessed Paypal, which would only allow me to change my number after I verified my personal identity, a process which took another ten minutes. I logged back into the iPad, started the process again, and got the same prompts.

“Dad, can I use my iPad yet? It’s been an hour.”

“Just a bit more time, buddy,” I replied, feeling my stomach acid start to build up to uncomfortable levels, and my heart rate increase. I called Apple support again.

“Oh, well if that isn’t working, just create an entirely new profile for your son. You can reboot it and he can just have his own account.”

“I can do that even if he is only ten? And my other boy is seven?”

“Yes, sir. Just go to this link.”

I’ll fast forward here and simply say that I spent nearly 40 minutes setting up those accounts, only to get told that because the kids were not 14, they weren’t allowed to have their own accounts. They had to have profiles created through family sharing on my direct plan, which is what I’d tried to do in the first place.

“God damn it!” I screamed while bringing my fist down on the table.

The kids were shocked, and I immediately apologized. It had been nearly two hours now, I explained, and I was getting frustrated, but I didn’t want to ruin Christmas. My boyfriend calmly offered to help, but I was stubborn and wanted to do it on my own. I retreated to the bedroom and closed the door as the kids kept playing video games.

I took several calming breaths, but I felt my fury bubbling. This should have taken ten minutes. I started the process all over, with both iPads running this time. I used my phone to create the duplicates of my account, then I created a family account for each one of them. And for some reason, this time, it sent the text to my own phone number, my current one, despite my having rebooted the iPads twice before. Once I verified my identity, I was able to create accounts for both kids to play in, and I set up the appropriate parental controls. Another thirty minutes had gone by.

“Dad, we are still playing Kirby. Are you almost done?”

“Almost, monkey! Be patient!”

Then I got into the space to download apps for the kids. I chose a few simple free ones for now, Animal Jam, and Youtube Kids. Both of them required me to send a permission request to myself, presuming I was the kid using the iPad accounts, and I clicked yes on both iPads. An approval link then showed up on my laptop and on my phone, both in my Email and text indicators. Wow, very thorough, I thought. I opened the link and clicked yes for my approval. Then I got a new indicator that stated I needed to receive a text verification code to enter I was really their parent in order to approve the apps. And the text verifier was sent to… you guessed it, my old phone number from 8 years before.

I then entered full meltdown mode. I shook so hard I was crying. I fought the temptation to throw the iPads against the wall and shatter them to little pieces. Why was this so futzing difficult! I felt like the dad on Christmas Story, who takes a wrench and beats the heater in the basement every time it breaks down. I couldn’t believe how aggravating this was!

Somehow I worked through my fury and rebooted the iPads yet again. I created the accounts, I downloaded the apps, I sent the approval notices, and this time it worked. I proudly called the kids into the room to show them their brand new iPads, and then showed them how they worked.

“You can create little animal characters and play this game! You can watch cartoons! You’re gonna love this!”

Both boys were thrilled. They got on their pajamas and then sat next to each other on the couch, the same places where they’d been playing Kirby just a few minutes before. Independently, they each opened YouTube Kids. Then they each, without speaking to each other, looked up ‘Kirby Star Allies’ on the app and began watching someone else play the video game on their screen. They did this for the next 90 minutes, watched a stranger play video games on the internet, on their brand new iPads that had cost an arm and a leg each.

Then at 9:30, they both turned off the devices and gave me huge hugs, thanking me for a perfect Christmas. I tucked them in, sat down on the couch wanting to cry again, and found myself still wanting to smash the screens in with a hammer. All that so they could watch video games that they had already been playing all day.

But I didn’t give in to my violent impulses. Instead, I did what any sane adult would to. I opened a bottle of red wine and closed Christmas out in style.

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Calgary Loft

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I’m on the 17th floor

It’s dark outside

I’m standing in a pair of black briefs

looking at the neon city against a dark sky

as the cars drive on bridges over the river

But mostly I catch my reflection in the glass

I can see through myself and into the city

and that awakens the poetry corners of my brain

I’m only renting this penthouse

but for many this would be the realization of a dream

Hardwood floors, marble counter tops

a grill on the balcony overlooking the river

It’s easy to picture red wine in goblets on coasters

laughter as the sun sets

lentil pasta in steel pans, fresh flowers in vases

and homegrown coffee in the morning

And the vision of all this haunts me in its way

because its all so fleeting, so temporary

Those preconceived ideas

about happiness, joy, success

Because some day, someone else would own this space

and make it theirs

and the landscape would change. 

I can see through myself and into the city

and then the light flicks off

and I can’t. 

Fireworks at Christmas

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The snow drizzled down in wet dollops, and I wondered if it was fake, being shot out of a machine from a hilltop nearby. But it kept falling, heavier, collecting around my feet and settling on the trees. By morning, there would be a few feet of powdery, wet snow.

I stood facing the mountain, bundled up in a heavy coat, a snow cap pulled down over my ears. I clutched A, my 6-year old, close, to keep him both warm and safe. Next to me stood my boyfriend, Mike, his hands in his pockets. At his side was my nine-year old, J. We huddled together in front of a campfire, one built in a circular tin. There were hundreds of people on the platform, all in coats, scarves, and hats, many with young children. Some wore festive gear, like light-up Rudolph noses, Santa beards, or elf hats, and many clutched plastic cups of white wine or champagne in their gloved hands.

The night wasn’t going exactly as I’d hoped. When I booked the expensive room at Snowbird resort, I’d been planning a romantic getaway for Mike and I, one with wine, a nice suite, a hot tub, and a fancy dinner. It was Christmas Eve, after all. But the ex-wife had crossed wires a wrong way, so suddenly, there we were, my sons with us on our evening out. Santa had already visited that morning, on Christmas Eve, a regular occurrence for my sons who have two Christmases in two homes. Thus, with a mantra of “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em”, playing in my head, I just packed the kids up to the resort with us.

When the fireworks started, a teenage girl nearby began jumping up and down in obnoxious excitement, putting on a show for her friends. “Oh my god, you guys, the fireworks are starting, yay!” Her jostling knocked me backward a bit, and I had a mental vision of knocking my son into the tin can fire. I spoke up loudly.

“Hey, please don’t jump! There’s a fire here!”, and the girl looked as if I’d punched her in the face.

“I–I wasn’t trying to–I wouldn’t have–”

“You’re fine. I’m not mad. Just please don’t jump around. There’s a lot of people here, and little kids.”

“I would never hurt a kid!” she said, defensively.

Her friend, a burly teenage boy, put a hand on her shoulder, turning her toward him. “Hey, come on, it’s not worth it. It’s Christmas.” They turned away, acting as if I had just started a fight, and I could do nothing but role my eyes, and console my son, who always grew worried when there were angry tones.

The fireworks flashed in the sky. I bent down to whisper to my son, “I bet you’ve never seen fireworks in the snow!” before realizing he was plugging his ears to avoid the sounds. I looked at the other son, whose face was bright red as he shivered.

Soon, a string of red lights began appearing at the top of the mountain, slowing winding into a long line as the fireworks blasted overhead. Skiers had headed to the mountain top and were headed down the mountain in a procession, holding red electric torches, forming a gorgeous, bold, crimson line that arced into a short zigzag toward us. The snow continued falling, and then Santa’s sleigh, bedecked in green and red lights, began flying down toward us, a modified version of the ski lift. I excitedly pointed up to the kids, showing them that if they squinted they could see his red suit and waving arm, but they were too cold to enjoy it.

The show lasted ten minutes. Santa landed and handed out candy canes. The skiers put out their torches. And the fireworks finished with a beautiful booming resonance, leaving evanescent plumes hanging in the dark, snowy air. Both kids were begging to go inside.

Thirty minutes later, the four of us squished in around a wooden table in a fancy restaurant. Old timey Christmas songs played on the loudspeaker. The kids drew Pokemon on the backs of the menus with broken crayons, soon ordering macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets, at $18 per tiny plate. Mike and I ordered delicious red wine. He got crab and steak while I ordered the only vegetarian option on the menu, some savory mushroom concoction that left me hungry. Dinner took nearly two hours, and the kids, though well-behaved, began to almost pass out in their seats.

Coats and hats back on, we trudged up the hill back to our hotel. We’d been downgraded from the fancy suite to a standard room because of the kids. We slipped and sloshed up the hill, which was covered in inches of snow, and the kids began crying with exhaustion and cold, but in no time we made it. We collapsed into the bed of our substandard rooms, and I contemplated the dual reality that I was thrilled to have my sons with me, anytime and always, yet how very different this Christmas Eve night without them might have been.

The next morning, as we waited for the plow to come and pave a way out of the parking lot for us, I contemplated the hotel’s terrible coffee and how badly I needed a nap. One kid had a small anxiety attack about never getting out of the snow while the other consoled him. I held my boyfriend’s hand, remembering fireworks, red torch lights, wet snow, tin campfires, and jumping drunk girls, then compared it to the previous Christmas, when I had slept and awakened alone.

As we drove down the mountain, taking turns choosing Christmas carols to sing, I thought how maybe this wasn’t such a bad Christmas after all.

the Frenchman and the American

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So what is it the Americans think of the French?

That’s a rather broad question.

Yes, but I mean traditionally. Culturally. There must be some existing stereotypes. 

Okay, sure. There is a tendency among American comedies to make fun of the French for being, well, cowards. They called them frogs was back when. I think it dates back to World War II.

Oh, that is nothing. That is actually a world-wide stereotype. I lived in Ireland for work for a few years, and was teased about that all the time. I think it is rather funny, actually. 

And there is a perception about the French that they love their wine and love their women. In the 1950s, the country seemed enamored of France. There were a bunch of musicals about Paris, all the Maurice Chevalier type, an older man constantly drinking wine and champagne and lusting after women.

Well, there is truth to that as well. We do love a fine wine or a strong drink. And we French men, we definitely love our women. It’s rather funny, many Americans expect me to be an expert on wine, but I am not. But because I have a French accent, they expect that I do. I throw a few fancy words around and everyone thinks I have a very educated opinion. ‘Ooh, this wine, it’s from 2013? That was a very good year for red wines in oak barrels. This is delicious.’ I have no idea what I’m talking about, but suddenly everyone is ooo-ing and aah-ing over the wine. 

The same with cheeses and breads?

Of course.

Growing up, I based my knowledge of France off of that chef character from the Little Mermaid, chopping up all the fish and crabs. Sacre bleu, what is zis, how on Earth could I miss such a sweet little succulent crab?

Oh my, you must stop singing. 

Clearly I need more wine.

The funny part of the Little Mermaid is it sends such a terrible example for children, and for women. It seems to suggest that 16 year old girls should defy their fathers and give up everything for some boy. Give up your legs, give up your voice, give up your life for the boy. Beauty and the Beast is the one that is actually based in France.

Oh my god! The candlestick! Flirting over the feather duster the whole show! That’s you!

I’m hardly the candlestick. 

So I went up to Park City today. It’s the Sundance film festival right now, so the city is packed with people in jackets and hats, bustling down the street in a rush everywhere with full cups of coffee in hand. I pass these two men, both of them clearly French, and very snobbish. They are sauntering down the sidewalk, smoking cigarettes, blocking traffic, as they talk in their French accents about how awful the last movie was. It’s like the were critiquing a cuisine.

Well, they sound very French, except for the sauntering part. They must not have been Parisians. Everyone there is in a hurry.

Okay, so the same question back to you. What do the French think of Americans?

Well, to be honest, not just the French, but most of the world, at least the places I have been, they think of Americans as idiots. Very boastful idiots. Always going on and on about how America is the best country in the world. But when asked why, Americans say because of Freedom. It is so annoying. Much of the world has freedom, yet America has the highest prison populations, the most gun violence. Not that France is perfect, we definitely have a lot of racism there, but America takes racism to another level. I don’t see what everyone is bragging over. 

Well, fair enough. There is some truth to that as well.

I think the stereotype exists, but more in very religious communities in the south. In Texas and Alabama perhaps. French stereotypes exist as well, but only in various parts of the country. 

People from any country only need to see one Donald Trump rally or Sarah Palin speech to realize we have a lot of gun-toting idiots in this country.

And the gun violence. My god, so many mass shootings. It seems like every few months or weeksDon’t get me wrong, there are many things I love about America. I did choose to live here for the next few years. 

You definitely picked an interesting city to live in. Salt Lake City is fascinating.

It really is! I researched a lot before I moved here. But I am regularly surprised by it. 

Well, Utah is a state that formed outside of the United States government. Brigham Young led hundreds of thousands of people out here and basically became the emperor of the land, settling the whole place in the name of their God. So when the government came along, Young was elected the first governor. It is literally the Mormon holy-land.

Yes, but the city does not feel so Mormon.

Well, down the road is literally the headquarters of the Mormon church. Yet we have a lesbian mayor, a fairly Democratic government, and a huge LGBT population.

It is a fascinating place. There is much going on in the city, from live music to bars on every corner. I think I will like it here. 

Come on, you’re doing fine. You’re already meeting girls on Tinder.

Yes, yes, I have met one girl. That must make me quite the ladies’ man, as you say. 

Ha, shut up and drink your wine, Frenchie.

After you, American.