So, for reference, Subject Zero is a character revealed for Mass Effect 2. She stirred up a great deal of controversy, and I thought that she deserved a little bit of the Patrick Treatment.

Ergo, my Halloween costume, already tweet-spoiled:

So, in case you were thinking that I was just dressed up as a Thunderdome reject, take heart: I was actually dressing up as a Thunderdome reject in drag.

Much thanks to the Damsel, who applied most of the body paint (with my son applying the rest, including the nose for the smiley face on my tummy) and all of the back tats, especially my multitudinous tramp stamps, and also pretty much made the nipple-halter thing herself out of a belt and whatever else we had lying around.

The best part of the day was people completely failing to recognize me, which was kind of fun, as I am not usually a master of disguise. Evidently losing my crunch beard, which I'd had for about a month, had something to do with it.

Me: Okay, I'm wearing body paint and a nipple harness, and you think the disturbing thing is the fact that I shaved?

My Wife: Yes.

So there we go.

So it's a night during crunch. I came home for dinner, but need to go back to work after the boys are asleep. The Damsel is supposed to do the bath. She's in there for awhile, and I am annoyed, because I can't go in to work until the boys are asleep, which requires them being out of the bath, clothed, storied, and snuggled. I am, due to my crunch status, perhaps not entirely sensitive in the way in which I voice my frustration with this after we get the boys dressed. The Damsel reacts as expected for someone who is also in the middle of crunch, at volume and length, and then returns to brush their teeth with the Dude pulling on her arm.

As a Leo, the Damsel tends to react quickly. As a Taurus, I tend to build steam. As such, I process her response for a minute or so, building up some truly awesome replies, and then head into the bathroom and say, "See, the thing is--"

At which point the Dude walks out of the bathroom, stands in front of me, and says, with a firm but not angry voice, "It's done, Dad."

Completely nose-smacked by my own son, I walk back out into the living room while the Damsel, who is laughing but also very sportsmanlike, informs the Dude that no, she was grumpy with me, which means I get to be grumpy with her back. She comes out into the living room to let me discuss my issues.

I bring up my counterargument. She responds, growing heated herself, only to have the Dude whistle her down. (He can't actually whistle, so he just says "Reeeeeeeeee!" in a high loud voice.)

"Mom," he says firmly, "it's okay to get angry, but then you need to calm down."

The Damsel sputters for a second or so before growling, "Yes. Yes, you're right."

So this is our son, the peacemaker.

It's fascinating seeing how much he's like us, but also how different he is. I realized a few nights ago that while he has my focus -- he can tune everything out to build the crap out of some blocks, while the Damsel's strength lies more in multitasking than focus -- he's an extrovert, not an introvert. And this just boggled me, because I always assumed that the focus was part of the introversion, that you had to be one to be the other. But nope, there's the Dude, as social as his mother and as focused as me, totally breaking my conceptions of what parts of me make me who I am in the process.

(When I mentioned this to the Damsel, she snorted and said that that explained why she's flummoxed by the Bud sometimes, because she doesn't know how to deal with a drama queen who is also an introvert.)

I may be the busiest very boring person ever.

Had a lovely vacation. More time with the boys, and the Damsel's folks were up to see us, resulting in more yardwork getting done in one week than was done in the previous 51. Okay, that's unfair. To the Damsel. Who does some yardwork. But her dad was trimming and edging crap all over the place. I didn't know our bushes could look like that! (I could use "broken arm in June" as defense, but honestly, I know me, and I don't think I'd have been chomping at the bit to edge the lawn even if I had four working limbs.)

Started physical therapy during the vacation week and am now doing a number of exercises. People always ask me how painful it is, and everyone set me up to think it would be horrible -- "Yeah, it's all these painful exercises that hurt like hell, but you have to do them to get your arm better."

Dude, you know what hurt? Snapping my arm. Recovering from my arm being cut open so that a fricking plate could get stuck into it and screwed onto my arm-bone to hold crap together. Having constipation when on the meds followed by diarrhea when off the meds. Not being able to sleep because no position was comfortable for longer than fifteen minutes.

The arm stuff is uncomfortable. Also, I can now lift my arm over my head. I'll take it.

Arrived back at work on Monday to find that many things were very very exciting. We're getting close to trying to lock down content, which is terrifying. "No, seriously, we can never change this again after this date. So do you really think that it should say "Examine" or "Investigate" when you mouse over the lab table?"

I am working on journals. I have missed the journals. They missed me as well, which they showed by crashing painfully when I tried to re-order quest descriptions. Oh, Story Manager, you little scamp. I know you, which is why I save my work often.

I'm also working on some of the other stuff I worked on during ME1 -- the news, for example, which we're trying hard to make reactive any time that it makes sense. "In the news today, a random woman decided to have her baby get genetic therapy after talking to a passerby in the Presidium. More at eleven." I feel like we got a lot of good reactivity into the game itself -- places where things will be different depending on your choices in Mass Effect 1. Still, we couldn't deal with everything with big huge plot differences. Hopefully news vids and some of the other systems we're working on will let the player know that yeah, we really do know what you did a few years ago, and there's still a chance that some of it could come back to bite you in the butt later.

Aaaaaand that's about it. Like I said, a very dull busy person. :)

He has the eagerness of youth, asking me constantly during the morning when we will begin. I remind him of the proper time. I was young, once. Once I would have gone into battle at midnight before, so that I would be done before breakfast. Now I sit and look at the clock, gauging the time.

When we are ready, I gather my tools. The handles lie cool in my grasp. Once I would insist on special tools, with rubber grips and unstained wooden handles. I was young, then, more in love with the glory than the outcome itself. My son dances around me, helping arrange everything in its proper place.

We add the flour, then the salt. We are supposed to sift it, but even when I was young and fierce, paying strict homage to the instructions, I did not use the sifter. Once I went into battle in my college dorm's kitchen, using whatever I could find, giant tools all built for mass production, not the fine work of an artist. My son helps me stir the salt. He spills some of it onto the counter, flour running into the cracks below the oven range. I am annoyed at the loss, the need to clean, but he is here, learning the art of battle from his father, and his father has done far worse on his own over the many years. Perhaps we will mourn the loss later, but that will be later, and for now it is done.

I show him the special secret, taking a little of the salted flour away and mixing it with cold water to make a paste. I explain that we will put it aside for later. After a moment, I add more water. More than the instructions dictated, but, as I tell my son, the instructions were written for San Francisco, where the fog rolls wet and slick across the ground by the sea. We are thousands of miles from my old home, the home where my mother taught me the ways of battle, as her mother taught her. Here on the high and arid plains of Edmonton, more water may be required. My wife laughs from the other room to hear me give such instruction, for in my youth, I did battle for the honor of her family in the mountains over Albuquerque, and was gravely defeated when my work fell asunder for lack of water. To be old is to know the rules by heart, and to know when to break them. I wonder whether I will write down the old instructions, when I send my son away, or whether I will instead write them as I practice them now, here in our dry house on the plains.

I mix in the margarine. It should be shortening, but shortening has trans fats, and so we use margarine, trans-fat-free margarine, along with our organic whole-wheat pastry flour and our organic sugar and our sea salt. Is it still my grandmother's recipe if every ingredient is different? These are questions for philosophers. I am but a warrior, and I finish this stage of the battle well, mixing the paste back in and spreading the result across a low baking dish. My mother taught me to use a bowl, but the low dish lets me spread it out, so that it is easier to roll later. When I did battle at her home, she saw it and was impressed, and I felt proud.

We ready the apples. Three bowls, one for the apples, one for the scraps, and one for the cut pieces. Once, I would have used only a hand peeler and a paring knife. I would have sat in front of the television, my palm aching, fingers cut and raw and wrinkled from the juice as ten Granny Smith apples slowly turned into thin crescents in a bowl, knowing that when I was done, the dough would be ready. My wife gifted me with a tool that does the work more quickly. It screws onto the counter, and when one turns the handle, the apple is peeled and cut into small pieces automatically. My son wishes to use it. The resulting pieces are not the same size as the pieces I would get with the paring knife, and the apples are not peeled to the degree I would like. I let my son turn the lever and remain silent. This is his battle as well. Years from now, he will remember, and perhaps he will know what I felt but did not say. We finish in less than half the time we would have taken with the paring knife. Perhaps this is how my mother felt when I used the baking dish instead of the bowl.

It is time. I turn to my son and tell him that I love him, and that I am not angry, no matter what happens. I tell him that in the heat of battle, strong words may be uttered, but always, he is my son. My wife finishes her woman's work of putting away a tent. She takes the boys outside to pull weeds in the backyard. I thank her. My son is enthusiastic, but he has done enough for this battle. He need not see the gore and horror that accompany the finish.

I clear a spot on the table, lay down the fork, the knife, the rolling pin, the pie plate, the flour, the butter, and a flexible placemat device. I distribute the flour, half to stop the dough from sticking, half as an offering, like the sumo wrestlers tossing rice. I remove the baking dish from the refrigerator. The battle begins.

The lower crust goes poorly, sticking to the pin. I have not cut off enough -- I always try to leave more for the upper crust -- and I must roll it thin, then move it into the pie plate, where it tears and crumbles. I spread it out, mashing it down, grinding the edges with my thumbs, using the extra bits to mend holes and add to other areas where there is not enough. It is imperfect. It will suffice nevertheless.

The apple pieces pour in, along with the sugar and cinnamon, and the flour to hold it all together. It is always a guess, a test of luck. Pour in too much, and the upper crust will not cover us. Pour in too little, and it bakes down, showing the puny weakness of the spoils of battle.

I roll out the upper crust. More flour on the pin, polishing my weapon before battle. The dough rolls out well. More flour, and I roll it thinner. It is large enough. I fold over the placemat, then ease it back, gently tugging the stuck bits away. I ease the folded crust over the apples, then unfold it. Some of it comes apart, and I ease it back together gently. It is imperfect, again. After baking, it will show the scars from where it came apart. Still, it is enough. It covers the apples, hangs down over the side far enough to press down the fork and leave the tiny crenellations that mark the proper dish.

No swearing. Little crust doctoring required. My son could have stayed. Perhaps another day.

I add the secret ingredient to the top, passed from mother to daughter to son. It is not written in the instructions, the secret. I will not mention it here. I poke the holes in, heat the oven, put it in.

Then I clean the table, do the dishes. I clean my tools, my weapons of war. My son is outside, doing the women's work of moving furniture and edging the lawn. He will have time to learn this part of the battle.

He will call it "our pie" when we eat it tonight.

It is a good fight.

Last night, after reading Stellaluna to the Dude, we got into a conversation about whether Stellaluna was a bird. This quickly spiraled into what exactly mammals are, which was a fun conversation for Dad to have by the seat of his pants, especially when it in turn spiraled into an exciting game of Mammal, Reptile, Fish, or Bird?

Okay, when you pet an otter, does it have fur or scales or feathers? Great, and if it has fur, what is it?

If I were slightly less lazy, I would make a flowchart that showed the eventual Dude thought process. If he got Scales for how it felt to pet the creature, we then had to go to "Whether it had legs" and "Whether it lives in the ocean."

Even doing this by the seat of my pants, I managed to avoid screwing up his childhood development by lobbing whales and dolphins at him. As it was, he got penguins, and they don't even fly.

My wife, badass Dragon-Boat paddler, helped paddle the BioWare Dragon Boat team to victory this year in the Edmonton Dragon Boat Festival! They brought home a gold medal, a silver medal, and a sweet jade dragon statue with little ruby bits for the eyes.

Go BioWarriors! You all spent a lot of cold, wet, mosquito-filled nights paddling on the river, and your reward was having a bunch of people look at you in surprise and say, "Wait, you guys make video games? Really? And you're here? I mean, we could see the breast cancer survivor team and the LGBT team and all that, but a video-game-company team? Really?"

If you're breaking down stereotypes, you might as well do it someplace with a dedicated beer tent.

Damsel: So I saw your post about Cookie and I helping dress up (FOLLOWER NAME) for the romance.

Me: Oh, good.

Damsel: And... well, I was so excited that I started to post a reply, and I wrote, "Squeee! Yaaaaay (FOLLOWER NAME)!"

Me: Uh... NDA?

Damsel: And then before I hit "post", I went, crap, he didn't actually say the name, did he? And I went and erased it and got so embarrassed that I didn't post at all.

Me: See, this is why we can't have nice things.

Damsel: Okay, I know! I didn't actually do it!

Me: You know I have to blog this.

Damsel: For fuck's sake...

- - - - - -

ETA: And then she called me from work today while I was driving over to pick up the kids, just so that she could hold the phone up to the speakers and I could hear a follower's awesome voice say, "I have a shotgun." To be clear, this totally made up for everything.

Hello, LJs, it has been foreverish.

I dropped off-planet shortly after breaking (and here I want to write shattering, because, you know, it hurt, but honestly it is a break, a simple one, albeit one referred to by the doctors as a very complex simple fracture) my arm-slash-shoulder, and then came back around, and then dropped away again. Mostly the reason I dropped away again was because any additional typing hurt a whole lot. Another tiny part is the fact that there are only so many times one can write, "Nothing new here. Arm still hurts. Tired of drug side effects. Still really need them," before one goes just a bit insane.

When a doctor buddy read my first draft of Islands in the Mist, she strongly recommended cutting the implication that a character became addicted to pain medication after a nasty injury, because it is extremely unlikely to actually happen, and more people underdose themselves than ever get addicted. Having now been on several things stronger than anything this nondrinking non-drug-using pharmaceutical virgin has ever tried, I'm torn, because a) I can see her point, but b) I can also see how drugs will fuck you up. I have no idea if what I went through was actual codeine withdrawal or just the JV version, but after having to stay home from work because of diarrhea and stomach cramps and subsequently using up my yearly burst-into-tears allowance, I have no interest in getting hooked on anything that wants me to keep using it later.

My slng officially comes off in a couple of days, though I've been out of it for most of the time for a few days now. I'm off and on. A coworker described me as a tyrannosaurus, not entirely inaccurately. I can use the hand, and I can type, but if my life ever depends upon me using my left hand to reach for something over my head, I am boned. With the left arm extended, I can't even hold it out level. So I imagine physio is going to be fun. I'm hoping I can use it to springboard back into the martial arts that fell by the wayside during the big nasty crunch push at work.

Work is busy and crazy and hectic. Most of our writing is done. We're now at the point where the fixes we make are of the "addition by subtraction" variety. Which lines can I cut? Which lines can I relink to make them go together better? Which parts can I cobble together to form new lines? I've got a bunch of systems work ahead of me, testing things like persuades and the Paragon/Renegade system and tinkering with sound sets to make the bad guys sound distinct and evil and such. 

The boys are awesome. The Bud is the first kid I've seen who actually talks back to Dora and Diego (the Dude always just sat silently, but the Bud will shout answers to their questions, which then goads the Dude into doing so as well in the spirit of competition). The Dude had the following kickass exchange with his mother:

Damsel and Dude are at the recycling center, throwing out old plastic.

Dude: Mommy, wait! Wait! That's not garbage! (He points.)

Damsel: Oh, it's one of Gavin's toys. Hm. How do you think it got into the plastic recycling bag?

Dude: I don't know.

Damsel: Did you put it in the bag?

Dude: No, I didn't do it. Did you?

Damsel: No.

Dude: I don't think Daddy or Gavin did it, either.

Damsel: Then who do you think did it?

Dude: I think it was ninjas!

That has since been listed as the official cause of the Bud's toy getting into the bag.

And my arm injury, when "Fell down ice-skating" failed to impress people.

Today's doctor's appointment went well, and I've been cleared for limited typing. So, novels, no, but occasional short two-handed blog posts, yes. :)

Doc said that the X-ray was good, and I was right where I was supposed to be in terms of recovery. So there we go.

No other news. Work is crunchy. Home is stressful as a combined result of work-crunch and Damsel going from "wife in relatively equal relationship" to "single parent who also serves as caregiver for disabled husband while simultaneously working until midnight". So, you know, baby steps.

just took second shower since accident. painful but good. my arm has some spectacular bruising. i'd be worried about my elbow if not for, you know, the broken shoulder.

i'm down to lighter meds -- 1 ty-3 every eight hours (from 2 ervery four this time last week). that is feeling good.

sleep still sucks, which is unfair, because i was good at sleep. i liked sleep. i would count it as one of my strengths. now i wake up in all kinds of pain -- stiffness as body lies still maybe. i also kinda crash if i don't eat regularly, when i used to be able to coast foodwise -- energy requirements for healing, system shock, drugs, i don't know.

tomorrow i'm going back into work. only one hand, so typing limited, but being married to an editor helps -- she has promised to put in the capital letters for me. we'll see if i xan stick it out for the day or if i keel over midafternoon.

feels good to be here relative to two weeks ago. showered solo. dressed self. mostly clearheaded. progress.

apparently there's a giant health-care crisis down in the states. people are concerned that obama is trying to socialize health care, and the liberals are trying to reassure people with, "oh, no, it's not socialized health care, this plan of ours." people are yelling that countries with socialized health care get dragged down, that it's inefficient and slow.

first, these people all sound like the rich folks who refused to fly southwest because southwest's seating system made it impossible for the rich folks to pay more for a better seat. that's fine when it's an airline. when you say that about health care -- when you don't want everyone to have a reasonable standard because then you wouldn't be able to have the very best for yourself -- you sound kind of assholish, no matter how vaguely you pretty it up.

second, i broke my arm on a sunday. i was into the er, x-rayed, and home in two hours. i got into surgery the next day. i got home the day after that. total cost? zero. all i'm paying for are prescriptions (and our work plan will see that reimbursed).

even if i didn't love my job, i'd be nervous about moving back to california. socialized health care ain't perfect, but it's a damn sight better than the "pay or die" care most folks are stuck with down there. (i know, er not like that, but i can tell the same story about getting diagnosed with asthma, something my doctors in california never caught as my quality of life slowly degraded and i worried about paying money i didn't have for another appointment. total time from walking into medicentre (non-appointment doctor's office) to walking out of pharmacy with new meds? nineteen minutes. total cost for an unscheduled non-emergency appointment on a saturday afternoon? nada.

yeah, canada's health care is socialized. america's is anti-social.

apparently the auto-update-from-twitter stopped working. sorry! still alive, just sticking mostly to short form given one working arm.

going off hard stuff may have been a mistake. last night was long and ugly. everything hurts. going to try perc again. hoping it doesn't screw me up.

so, several days later...

(this is patrick, as lack of capital letters will suggest.)

what happened

went ice skating for kid birthday. dude started out - bud had no socks, so damsel ran to get socks, as we were in west ed mall at indoor rink. took dude around rink a couple times, then swung him back in. bud very ready to get onto ice ("hockey hockey hockey!") Damsel's skates not yet on. grabbed bud to take him around.

alternated between crouching while bud flailed on ice and carrying bud while skating. experience of ice not what bud had hoped, very cranky with slippery factor. decided to skate rest of way, cutting across middle rather than sticking to wall.

got to middle before fall. not sure why. think it was minor balance issue that i'd have corrected for had not been carrying bud, who added 25 pounds to top of body. horrible skater, but good balance.

saw that fall was going to bring bud down hard, so twisted to come down on left, not right. had moment of success as bud landed on butt. then hit hard on left side. left arm outstretched as part of twist, and hit with, it felt like, armpit. i know. not actually possible to lead with armpit. still felt that way. not even pain as much as pop, shock.

bud didn't cry -- too surprised. said vague comforting stuff, tried to roll over and get him off ice, realized immediately that arm did not work. no lifting. managed somehow to get bud up in right arm, get to wall. signalled for help. vicki loh came over to get bud (wow, she and kevin are good skaters) and i, now with free arm, went along wall to get out.

damsel wanted me to go to er. took five to see how i was doing, realized how much i could not move arm, agreed. mom (in town for buds bday) watched bys at party while damsel tookme to hospital near west ed.

er experience good. evidently looked very injured. walked in, nurse said, you sit over here, we'll get you someone fast. shoulder worse at this point.

cranky 20-something in softball uniform came in shortly after. clearly thought she should be at front of line. nurse asked if she were there to visit someone. guilty pleasure on my part.

er was fast. whizzed through. damsel says i was gray, which had to help. nurse (nice, got me ice), then doctor (brusque, didn't help me take off shirt), then x-rays just ahead of softball girl (ha!), then doc. confirmed broken shoulder, said would forward to ortho, sent me home with tylenol-3.

mom handled boys, as did other awesome folks at party. damsel did most talking at er. ended up gaving to channel memory of old martial arts teacher to pee. (think of what i needed to do, do it, plan steps)

sunday night

tylenol-3 soothing, effective at taking edge off. dry, bitter aftertaste, but very full-bodied painkiller.

surgery day

got call next morning (slept downstairs in heartburn chair) to come in for surgery. odd miscommunication -- er docs implied orthos would give more detailed info, while orthos just went, "yeah, come on in for surgery asap, and don't eat anything," which stung a bit given that damsel had just brought me fresh scones.

damsel drove me to ortho hospital in st albert. then sat awhile. then was friendly to intake person and subsequently got private room. eventually went into pre-op still with no idea what was going on. everyone still seemed to think someone else had given info, and damsel took "we don't discuss specifics until pre-op, and not with spouse," well. iv seemed uncomfortable at time, but i would later learn about far less comfortable things.

very intense doc told me about surgery. recognized patter designed to get fear so that i'd agree to planned surgery, didn't really care. arm broken, part of shoulder went down into broken area. plates and screws and life changes.

had to climb from gurney thing onto op table. awkward and painful. was told others had not done so well. yay me.

wham anesthetic

woke up while wheeling into room. everyone said it went fine. damsel agitated. learned later it went long and didn't have info for her on why. tried to reassure damsel. she says i was very cute. answered question, caught her laugh, asked if i had just answered something she asked a half hour agi. she said yes, and then, a short time later, i asked "really?" in embarrassment.

long night

many good nurses. one bad one.

told to drink lots of water so i can pee. threat of catheter used to show iimportance of peeing. i drink a crapton of water. then morphine makes me puke up all the water. complete failure to pee.

morphine: strong and effective, the man's man of painkillers. since it made me puke up water, i will not be returning to it.

in morning, i receive a catheter. after i remove my pants, rubber tube stuck up my urethra by two attractive blond nurses, one of whom has a nose ring. a bit like starring in porn for a fetish you don't share.

one of good nurses talks with me about things instead of morphine. gives me percocet instead. awesome. people talk about going weird, and i sort of do, but it's not like i thought it would be. not intrusive acid trip. instead, when i close my eyes and do what i normally do to sleep -- relax and free associate -- i get vivid image of antique store filled with thousands of frogs with pennies stuck on their backs, and as they all ribbit, it makes a coppery shimmer of light go across the room from the way the pennies catch the light.usually, you know, feathers, snowflakes, leaves blowing in wind. frogs with pennies on their backs? less common.

after catheter, am able to pee. have to pee (very painful thanks to catheter and removal of same). have to pee into measuring bucket so output and intake can be compared.

doc comes in, gives intense pep talk. physio person comes in, gives exercises. good nurse comes in, changes my dressings. very particular, has to be done as doc requested. hurts like hell.

later, bad nurse comes in, insists dressings are wrong. ignores my "but doc specifically said" with reassurances that this willl be better. refuses to call doc or good nurse. hurts like hell again. also patronizing. most people know how well i react to that. later, damsel chews herr ass out.

home tuesday night. damsel near tears from stress, than caught by speed trap. has to pull off onto gravel to get ticket, hurts my shoulder, she bursts into tears.

now
home since tuesday night. have watched many eps of bones. started watching listener (meh) and mentalist (ooh) and caught ghost rider and under siege, both awesome in their badness.

down to normal ibuprofen. both perc and ty-3 started making me dizzy, nauseous. up periods of wanting to go into work followed by pain and shiverweakness.pissed off at feeling disgusting. get weak attacks near planned wash times.

hanging in. still kind of sucks. wanted to be better by now. still, normal drugs after plate in shoulder three days ago not bad.

all i can think of. thanks to jamie for watching boys and jenny for shopping and cookie for taking mom to airport and mom for staying two extra days and everyone at work for covering for damsel and me. leaning on a lot of people right now.

Hi, again - Patrick is back home this evening, drugged to high heaven on Percocet (or however the hell you spell that), but happy to be here. The surgeon was quite pleased with how the surgery went: he has a couple pins and a plate (and Oh, Yes, airports will now have yet another fun step to them; he has an MRI warning, too), as well as the tendons/ligaments, etc. in his shoulder being "un-squished".  Except for 3x daily physio, he has to keep it isolated for 6 weeks. (!) Thanks for the encouragement on keeping up with the physiotherapy -- really helpful to have the words of experience right now.

Jokes about one-handed typing are being fielded with good humor during his times of coherence. :D

His shoulder is still stained with pink antiseptic solution, his arm has some spectacular bruising under the dressing, and the bondage sling is a thing to behold. For those of you who know his obsessive displeasure with having ink/writing on his hands, you can imagine that the "---------- OTHER SIDE ------------",written down his good arm in giant blue letters with a seemingly fairly permanent marker, is not creating feelings of joy. But it did seem to help ensure that they got the correct shoulder fixed.

He was on our notebook reading your kind words just about as soon as we got him settled into the recliner, so thanks on his behalf (and mine) for all the encouragement and support. :)

- Karin

Quick post to report that we're headed into a hospital for Patrick to get surgery on his shoulder. Thanks for all the nice wishes; he can't type, but he can read, and you are all awesome and wonderful and making him feel much better. THANK YOU!!!

This is not actually Patrick -- it is the wife, posting on his behalf with a note that he won't be online much for the next little while, as he broke his shoulder this afternoon. We were ice skating at a young friend's birthday party -- he was skating with the Bud, they slipped, and he did a heroic "twist yourself around to keep your kid from falling" maneuver, landing hard on his elbow. This apparently jammed his arm up into the end of his collarbone, so one or the other is chipped. Or something. Not entirely sure yet.

The ER doc said that the procedure for emergency stuff like this is to pass the x-rays and files on to a team of orthopedic surgeons to determine whether or not he needs surgery, so we're supposed to hear from them Monday or Tuesday.

He's hurting fairly bad, is doing better on the pain drugs for now, but he has to keep it isolated - I asked HOW isolated, and, unfortunately, that does include typing. I fear that may be his undoing. (Although it has been suggested that if he finishes up his dialogue for the game one-handed and on painkillers, it could add a very entertaining Hunter S. Thompson vibe to the last character he's working on.)

His mom was up for the weekend for the Bud's birthday and has kindly arranged to stay here a few extra days, so that will be really nice. The no-typing thing is going to be very interesting for a while. I'm sure anyone who reads this knows what I'm up against in trying to enforce this one...

Regards -- the Damsel

Hello. My name is Patrick Weekes, and once upon a time, I had a blog.

That was before life came in and kicked the crap out of it.

Work... continues. Mass Effect 2 has won a crapload of E3 awards, as have other BioWare games. I am intensely proud of that, despite having little to no participation in anything related to that demo. I am also really hoping that we're near the top of the hill, because neither I nor the Damsel can take much more. We're very close to burn-out.

Every human in the family has been sick twice in the past two weeks, which seems a bit unfair for one of the four months of decent weather Edmonton has. The new cats are settling in nicely and have a generally good relationship with everyone except Avelie, who is a butt. And a couple of days ago, we took in a foster dog that someone had been mistreating. He's sweet and nice and very very very very skittish. He dug a small hole for himself in the backyard, and whenever anything scares him -- the screen door, a passing car, me blowing my nose -- he goes over and lies down in his hole, which is kind of the saddest thing ever.

He's underfed, too -- the way he walks reminds me of a horse, because you can see his shoulderblades as he lopes along, and he's got these long skinny legs and long thin body despite being at least mostly beagle. (We're thinking an underfed teenage beagle/retriever mix, maybe.)

So yeah, sad, but very friendly, and incredibly good with the boys. (Who were also incredibly good with him. Slow movement, soft voices, hugs, all very nice.)

The Dude's love affair with secrets and surprises continues:

Dude: Daddy, you're home! We got you a surprise at the store!

Me: Great!

Mom: Don't tell him what it is!

Dude: Okay! We hid it in Gavin's room!

Me: Don't tell me what it is!

Dude: Okay! ... Daddy, come with me. I need to show you something.

Mom: You're not going to show him the surprise, are you?

Dude: (whispers) Daddy, come with me.

Ah, secrets.

ETA: Okay, I wrote most of that a few days ago. Then I got a nasty headache. And it stayed. And yesterday, I finally went to the doctor and got medicine for a sinus infection. This one snuck up on me -- usually, I'm snotting all over the place, but I was just kind of congested, and I didn't notice it until it was so bad that I was lying down moaning because of the pressure on my eyeballs. The Damsel gave me a ride home yesterday, because I wasn't in driving shape.

So yes, hopefully work getting close to end of craziness, because my body is getting close to end of functionality.

Politics: This week saw a great victory for California, when the people were assured of their right to religious freedom, especially the freedom to determine whether other people can have non-religious civil marriage ceremonies. With luck, Californians will find themselves encouraged by judicial support for democracy in action, and we can move on to other issues that I, like many religious people, feel strongly about, namely removing the "right" to divorce and stopping adulterers from getting driver's licenses. And maybe stopping Jews, black people, and atheists from marrying. They can have unions or whatever. I'm willing to be flexible. Yay democracy!

Work: Sweet jesus, I am ready for the big heavy crunch to be over. This week saw some of my stuff head off to VO, and other stuff get prepped with last-minute rewrites. I'm also working on sound sets, trying to get some increased options so that people are less likely to shout "Enemies everywhere!" like the Sicilian from The Princess Bride every three to five seconds during combat.

I think next week will see me dive back into henchmen, but I'm not really sure.

In Mass 1, I was the little guy writing side quests. I can comfortably say that I'm embedded a bit deeper this time. I'm writing squad members. I'm writing big missions. And I've still got some tiny little roleplaying plots that warm my heart, in addition. I am really proud of this game, for all that the process of making it has killed my diet, my workout schedule, my sleep debt, and my eyesight.

Life: On Wednesday, I saw a post on the internal work messageboard declaring that a coworker's friend was moving, and had to either find a place for his cats THAT DAY or send them to the Humane Society. (While initially harboring uncharitable thoughts for people willing to toss their pets into a shelter to get euthanized when they move, I later found out that the coworker's friend was moving from Canada to the UK, and had no clue where he was going to be living, and had been looking for someplace to place the cats for four months, which made a bit more sense.)

Faced with, in effect, "Please take these cats, or we will kill them right now," we are now the proud owners of two new cats. They live in the Dude's room and are currently practicing their hiding and panicking skills. The old cats are reacting predictably. Raja is calm and unimpressed, Athena makes occasional investigative forays and then goes elsewhere to think, and Avelie makes horrific yowling kitty threats that are inversely proportional to his complete and utter inability to ever attack anything except the little blob of light made by the laser pointer.

We had a lovely day at Elk Island today -- for those not in the Stockton of the North, Elk Island is about 45 minutes from Edmonton, a national park that is home to buffalo (or bison, depending on which sign you read) and a number of small lakes with many beaver dams.

We packed. The Dude got very into helping me pack food, and then desperately wanted to do more helping, so he ran point on packing toys.

We got into the car and tried to shoo the damn dog (the no-longer-temporary Pixie, now the only dog) away, because we wanted to leave her outside to run and romp in the backyard, and the door from the garage to the backyard doesn't close properly. She gave us the Incredibly Sad Puppy Face, then saw that it did nothing on me and turned it on Mom, who wavered and broke and suggested that dogs weren't actually forbidden from Elk Island. I groused and let the damn dog into the car.

After a long drive notable for the Bud almost falling asleep, getting woken up by the sun in his face, getting cranky, and then getting Dadded back to sleep (either Reiki touch or just general soothing presence of Dad), we reached Elk Island National Park. After paying, we drove in slowly.

The buffalo did not disappoint. Two of them were grazing right by the road. The Dude was excited. The Bud was asleep. Pixie growled and barked with a refreshingly naive bunch of optimism, until I clamped my hand over her nose to shut her up so as to avoid something impactful and uninsured happening to our vehicle. She was very fierce, though, and if we are ever threatened by bison, I want Pixie there barking and growling alongside me. It won't accomplish anything, but I'll feel so embarrassed that I might be goaded into action.

(Note: Pixie is a beagle. She weighs somewhere around 20 pounds, only a bit more than one of our cats. The buffalo could likely have swatted her across provincial lines with their tails.)

We reached the large lake area and proceeded to split up. Mom and the Dude made sand castles. Pixie and the Bud and I played on a playset nearby, until Pixie discovered a new way to slip her harness and frolic. Frolicking was curtailed, given that this was a buffalo-roaming zone, and I didn't want her confidence shaken by any real-world beagle-buffalo contact. Later, we all went down to the beach and played in the water while Pixie waited up with the food, and then wriggled out of the damn harness again.

We ran into buffalo on the way home, and Mom got the boys out of the car to look. This time the Bud was awake for them:

Mom: See, those are buffalo. They're like cows.

Bud: Moo!

Mom: That's right!

(one of them, sleeping, stands up)

Bud: Moo get up!

Mom: Yes, that's right, the... moo... is getting up.

(points at one still asleep)

Bud: Moo nigh-night!

Mom: Yes! (heart melts)

On the way home, the Dude decided that we should eat dinner at Red Robin, which was awesome, especially given that Mom and I had already decided that that was what we were doing. After a lovely not-prepared-by-us dinner, the waitress dropped off the bill with the usual "Here's the dessert menu, and the bill is inside, no rush," speech. The Dude took the bill, at which point Mom jokingly asked whether he was planning to pay.

"Actually," he said, "I was thinking about some cake," and then held up the dessert menu to show us a piece of cake the size of my head.

Isn't it wonderful when they have ideas?

Mom worked him back to "What if we made cake at home?" and then whipped up some brownies once we got back.

Later that night, bathed and in pajamas, the Dude lay in bed beside me and remembered all the cool things he'd done that day.

Him: And next time we go in the lake, we need to go a little deeper.

Me: (looks at his non-swimming son) Really?

Him: Yes. And we need goggles.

Me: ... Okay.

Him: So you can see in the water. They're called sea goggles.

Me: Got it.

Perhaps it is indeed wonderful when they have ideas.