Roger Pires May 24, 2012
When he's not offering his take on daily life, Roger Pires spends his days as a computer systems analyst. It's not exactly a glamorous calling but hey, it pays the bills. He enjoys hockey, canoeing, snowshoeing, and spending as much time as he possibly can outdoors. He lives in Udora with his wife and two kids, who are his prime inspiration for Ravenshoe Ramblings.
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When the cat's away
It wasn’t signed in blood but a pact is a pact. When my wife and I were mapping out our respective careers, we drew up a list of conditions that must be met for either of us to take a job. There were certain things we agreed not to do. We wouldn’t take any job that posed an unacceptable risk of physical harm. Lion tamer was out. So was soccer referee (it is not unusual in certain European and South American jurisdictions to use them as target practice). Also out was any vocation requiring the use of machinery that had the potential to maim. I had no desire to be known around the job site as “Lefty”.
Most importantly, we agreed not to take any job that involved travel. We’re not talking about the occasional hop to head office. I mean serious travel. Like the kind that requires you to be reintroduced to the family upon your return.
Fortunately, the glamorous life of a software developer rarely has me venturing beyond the cafeteria. My wife’s work usually keeps her close to home. Her recent announcement that she’d be embarking on a weeklong business trip was a chance to give our agreement the litmus test. The company she works for is based in Traverse City, Michigan. The state is shaped like an oven mitt. “TC” is located where the middle finger would be. As a recent hire, they needed her to travel out to the homeland for some orientation. Debate was short; five business days away fell within the acceptable limits of our pact.
She filled me in on some of the details of her trip. They were putting her up at the Ritz-Carlton or so it seemed. Her room had a king-sized bed and a big screen TV. It even had a kitchenette in case she found the thought of ordering room service to be unbearable. The whole thing sounded more like a royal tour than a business trip. While Her Majesty was jet setting across the “Great Lakes State”, I would be sworn in as keeper of the realm. It would fall upon me alone to ensure appointments were kept and chores completed – or at least attempted. I was starting to think this whole travel deal was a great idea. I reminded her nibs that subsection 4, paragraph 12 of the “Spousal Career Agreement” does allow for the other spouse to come along as an entourage. But that would involve leaving our two teenagers to fend for themselves for a week. World wars have started with less. Besides, touring the strip malls of Northern Michigan seemed like a tragic waste of a week’s vacation. My wife, the eternal optimist, reminded me I wouldn’t have to do it all alone; I had two able-bodied kids to help. I told her this was no time for jokes. The future of the free world – or at least my sad little corner of it – was at stake.
As always seems to happen when you’re flying solo, the calendar was filled with a connect-the-dots array of scheduled outings. Almost every day, I was required to be in several places at once. Unless they could perfect human cloning in the next thirty-six hours, it meant rescheduling long-awaited appointments. To find another time slot would involve the rearranging of several planets and getting a few doctors to alter their vacation plans. To get my son where he needed to be on time, I would have to leave work, pick him up at home, and deliver him to his destination all in a span of about five-and-a-half minutes. Not even his mother, driving at Mach one, could’ve delivered the payload that quickly. It was time for Plan B. I would introduce him to the lost art of taking the bus. So I suggested he meet me at work by walking a couple of blocks from school to catch GO transit into Stouffville. He heralded my plan with a shrug and a grunt, sign language for “you’re dreaming in Technicolor, Dad.” He was convinced that being forced to take public transit was against the Geneva Convention.
I’m often left in slack-jawed amazement at a teen’s ability to turn multitasking into an extreme sport. Coordinating various social engagements on Facebook with one hand. Texting an army of their friends with the other. All the while downloading the entire iTunes catalogue and still having enough brain function left to wipe out a brigade of enemy jackals on “Halo 3”. But standing under a sign with a picture of a bus on it is beyond the ken of these cyber geniuses. I had to do some fancy footwork. Of course, I would supply bus fare. I would also spring for the Big Macs. He wavered. It was time to bring out the big guns. I promised him that if he didn’t get on the wrong bus and end up in Beaverton, I would agree to cruise by Kawartha Dairy for a large “Moose Tracks” – a confection that’s more geological formation than ice cream cone.
The week breezed by like a month. Fortunately, all good things must end. My wife returned once again to the mundane world of being a wife and mother. I started plotting a business trip of my own. The hard part will be convincing my wife our head office is in Tahiti.
