"Worst Son in the World" by Troy H. Cheek on May 26, 2005

"You must be the worst son in the whole world," Canda chided me the other day.

She may be right, but not for the reasons she thought.

It all started when my boss called me in to the office. A boss asking you to meet him in the office is roughly akin to a girlfriend telling you "we need to talk." It's seldom a good thing.

The boss is slipping, though, and actually had good news. It seems that he had nominated me for some kind of award and, miracle of miracles, I was one of the winners. "What award is this again?"

"Employee Achievement Reward, I think," he said, smiling.

"I've won the EAR?"

"Well, maybe it was Employee Reward for Achievement." He stopped smiling.

"The only ERA that I know is a baseball term."

"Exemplory Achievement Recognition Program?" he posited through clenched teeth.

"Does that make me an EARP brother?"

Hmph. "Never mind. Anyway, here's your official notification, and you're mentioned in the employee employee newsletter this week. Congratulations."

He was still pumping my hand when I asked him "What exactly did I get this reward for, anyway?"

"Oh," he said smiling again, "I nominated you for the work you did keeping the old access control system running. You saved the hospital tens of thousands of dollars because we didn't have to install a new system like that contractor said we'd have to."

"You mean the old access control system that I've been telling you for years is in serious need of replacing and that it's taken every hacker trick I ever learned to keep it operating? The one that's cost us a zillion man-hours, mostly mine, that we wouldn't have had to expend if we'd just bitten the bullet and gotten the new system like I recommended in the first place?"

"That very one. Congrats! Bye!"

I took this to mean that my latest proposal for upgrading the system wasn't going to be approved. Again. I made plans to call the contractor and tell him we'd try again next year.

True as spoken, the next employee newsletter did list my name on a short list of people who had likewise been awarded or rewarded or recognized or whatever it was we had won. The newsletter itself referred to it three different ways in as many paragraphs. No matter. I broke out the purple highlighter and made sure everyone knew I had won.

One person I gloated to was Canda. That's pronounced "Cindy" by the way. No, it doesn't make any sense to me, either.

We met several years ago. I was in full Bastard Officer From Hell mode, having just resolved some difficult situation or another, and was getting information for a report which would keep me from getting fired for my method of resolution. For that report, I needed the names of witnesses, though I would of course leave off the names of any who had seen things that I didn't think the hospital administration really needed to know about. Canda was on of the witnesses.

"Thanks, Cindy. Oh, do you spell your name with a 'I' or a 'Y?'"

She gave me that "DUH!" look. "With an 'A!'"

"C-I-N-D-A?"

"C-A-N-D-A! Where did you learn to spell?"

In Tennessee, where I grew up with several girls named "Cindy" and didn't meet a "Cindi" until college and always figured she was lying about the spelling. Instead of saying all that, I just nodded and kept scribbling notes.

Years later, I still occasionally pronounce the A's in her name as if they are actual A's and not I's, just to irritate her. I may also call her "Candy Ass" if there are no witnesses.

She continues to try to correct what she sees as a deficiency in my education concerning current culture. The fact that I don't know how to spell or pronounce "common, everyday names" disturbs her. What also disturbs her is that she realized that I'm about 20 years older than her.

"Why, you're old enough to be my dad!"

"I'll be your daddy," I replied. This fortunately went right over her head.

On this particular day, as I was gloating and showing off, and might have used her preferred pronunciation just to throw her off guard. "Hey, Canda! Look who got his name in the paper!"

"Hmp." I still don't impress her much.

"I'm going to frame it and give it to my mother for Mother's Day."

"Say what? That's all you're giving her?"

"Well, I didn't say that was all I was giving her. But I think she'll like it."

"Why would your mother possibly like seeing your name in the paper?"

I carefully put the paper away. "I'll have you know that few things warm my dear old mother's heart more than seeing the name of one of her three sons in print. It makes her feel that we are famous, which means that she did an excellent job raising us." As long as the name isn't printed in the police blotter, which we've all three managed to do at least once.

Canda huffed and puffed for a while, the finally spouted out "You must be the worst son in the whole world!"

Well, as I'd said, that wasn't the only present I had in mind for my mother, whose birthday also falls about the same time of year as Mother's Day. My brothers and our father and a couple of the nephews had all pitched in to get her a decorative pond with a fountain and waterfall. Details of which will follow next week.

But I did snap a picture and brought Canda a copy. "Why, you're the best son a mother could ever hope for!"

Fickle, thy name is woman.

Copyright 2005 by Troy H. Cheek. Reprint with prior written permission only. Comments and questions to