The Day The Sky Went Silent

I worked in a downtown Dallas office building in those days. My 7th floor office window, on a clear day, commanded a look of the flat, indistinctive North Texas landscape that was so broad and distant that one could almost make out where the Earth's surface made its subtle curve toward the other side of the planet. However, on most days the smog and ozone cleared only enough to reveal the lower parking levels of a nearby office building. So instead of marveling at natural wonders, a few of the IT people I shared the floor with would occasionally entertain ourselves by trying to identify which airline's planes from the multiple airports nearby were the ones rattling our windows at any given moment.

I came into the office a little earlier than normal that Tuesday morning, still a bit hung over from the previous week's annual sand, surf and suds vacation with friends, and logged into my computer. That's where I first saw the bulletin about a plane striking one of the Twin Towers.

Office Space: Coronavirus Home Edition

Back in those halcyon days of, oh, four weeks ago, a friend shared a jokey tweet from Sam Adams, a senior editor with Slate. Adams wrote that the most frightening aspect of a pandemic that forced people to stay in their homes for 90 days would be that “the only ones to survive will be freelance writers.”

It’s now Day Numbersomethingorother of The Big Sequester, folks. It’s the end of the world as you know it, but I feel fine.

This “new normal” the coronavirus created is generally not much different than any ol’ normal day I’ve had for the past 16 years as a work-at-home writer, a socially distant profession well before it became de rigueur. The commute to my office remains congestion-free, provided the dog doesn’t cut me off in his haste to attend to his own business outside. My three-martini lunches still consist of a seltzer and leftovers with Jim Rockford, P.I. I’m always home in time for dinner because I’m always home and someone needs to cook.

Except now those nighttime meals are no longer made for me and my family. They’re for me and my three new full-time office mates.

Answering the Questions No One Asks Me

The time has come, the blogger thought, to write of many things. So let’s once again reach into my imaginary mailbag to see what real topics are on the minds of people who would need real help if they imagined I could provide any.

What can be done to bring back diplomacy that would lessen the threat of nuclear war between the United States and North Korea? — Signed, Stop Pushing His Button

#BanBossy a Misguided Publicity Stunt

Sheryl Sandberg may be a brilliant technology executive, but she's no Noah Webster.

The chief operating officer of Facebook a year ago gave us her "sort of feminist manifesto" for women to succeed in business: Don't worry about being liked, don't give in too soon, work hard, and assert yourself. She padded that out to 240 pages, charged $24.95 a pop and called it "Lean In," a rallying cry that instead lent itself to jokes about shattering glass ceilings with low-cut blouses.

Coaching the Untalented

The dismissal of Rutgers University basketball coach Mike Rice for using gay slurs and firing balls at his players, among other acts of stupidity, started me thinking about the coaches I had while growing up. None I can recall even remotely approached Rice’s level of old-school intimidation techniques though my teammates and I undoubtedly tempted a few of them with our mediocrity.

Take poor Mickey Lione Jr., for example. Lione, one of the most successful and respected coaches in Connecticut let alone his hometown of Stamford, had the misfortune of coaching me on two of his few exceptionally unexceptional high school baseball teams. Our two squads compiled losing records versus the other city high schools, in the county conference and, obviously, overall.

My contribution that first season was that I never played an inning. As the backup to our one bright spot, an all-county catcher named Tony Romeo, I spent the entire spring in the bullpen warming up our perpetually in-demand relief pitchers.

Signs of the Mayan Apocalypse

It saddens me to announce that this will most likely be my last post.

It saddens me further to know that my long-awaited GoogleAds check will never arrive. I’d love to blow all three-digits of that baby on one last CornNuts and malt liquor bender while the hellfire and brimstone rain down.

Those of you grappling with strangers at Target for the last Furby may have forgotten that come tomorrow, Friday, Dec. 21, all life ceases. This doom and gloom arrives courtesy of the Mayan civilization, which is legendary for its contributions to language, math and culture, specifically Southern Culture on the Skids' instrumental, "Make Mayan a Hawaiian."

I usually ignore Judgment Day predictions, but the signs of the Mayan Apocalypse have become increasingly apparent.

The Trouble with Normal

My kids came home Friday afternoon as always.

Excitable hopped into the minivan at parent pickup, greeting me with his typical “Hey, Pops” as he squeezed his backpack in between the captain’s chairs in the middle row.

“Did they say anything to you at school about what happened?” I asked.

“About what?”

I told him there had been a shooting earlier in the day at an elementary school in another part of the state.

I didn’t tell him that the school was only about 45 minutes north of us.I didn’t tell him about the 20 children only a few years younger than him that died.

“Running Over the Same Old Ground”

Last night’s 12.12.12 Mega-Concert of AARP-eligible Rockers raising money for Superstorm Sandy victims had slipped my mind. Instead, I voluntarily bore witness to middle school students performing holiday classics.

The string ensemble killed. Not in the showbiz sense of wowing the audience into a dropped-jaw state of awe but in the Biblical sense of “… and Yahtzblob slew Kincadia with jawbone of an ass then danced the tarantella through the bloody entrails.” Why more parents of public school violin players aren’t throwing themselves in front of commuter buses remains a testament to the high quality of our nation’s antidepressant supply.

Then there was the chorus of which Li’l Diva. The girl loves to sing. Just not what teachers want her to sing. If it’s not One Direction or Ke$ha or the Beibster, it ain’t worth expelling the breath. She faked her way through most of her four songs. She’s more than ready for next year’s scheduled bout of teenage angst.

$50K Closer to Curing Juvenile Myositis

It’s official.

You have helped Cure JM Foundation win $50,000 to research the cause, treatment and cure for juvenile myositis, the rare autoimmune disease that Li’l Diva and our family has dealt with for the past 10 years.

Your votes, tweets and shared Facebook links helped us receive almost 9,000 votes in the latest Chase Community Giving contest. That put us in 20th place out of more 4,000 (yes – 4,000!) organizations vying for the money.

Not bad for a handful of concerned parents and family members volunteering their time to help the few thousand children in the United States affected by this mysterious disease.

Your kindness to my family and our larger Cure JM family in the past four years has helped us win $300,000 in grants, raise about $50,000 in donations and spread awareness throughout the digital world and beyond.

You wear it well, friends.

Thank you, again and again. Not just from me, but from the children your caring will be helping soon. Here are a few of them:

 

If you’d like to do more, please donate to Cure JM by supporting my “run” (and yes, the quotes are warranted) in Baltimore next month on behalf of Li’l Diva. The goal widget is now posted on the blog home page if you want to check out our progress in reaching our goal.

Chain-Reaction Letters I Never Sent

Dear Connecticut Light & Power Company,
Thank you for sending the crew to trim trees in my neighborhood. As you know by the repeated angry phone calls, our block has a tendency to lose electricity whenever someone in the vicinity sneezes too violently. However, the twigs your crew snipped off could barely take out a chipmunk let alone a power line.

Dear People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA),
I do not endorse the bludgeoning of chipmunks but to put your furry-minded minds at ease before I snap, I suggest you come immediately and liberate every little Alvin, Simon and Theodore residing in the Swiss cheese they have made of my lawn. If I were you (but I'm not because I consider cheeseburgers an essential food group), for added critter safety I would also put all the Chip and Dales from the surrounding properties into WITSEC.

Award of the State

Time to play “What the devil is going on in this photo?” in this week’s Fill ‘er Friday. Here is the bedeviling photo for the week:

Clue: That blur is me in the lower left corner.

Good eye! Yes, I AM wearing one of the free suits I got for a blog post two years ago. This must be a big event I’m at if I left my normal work attire of beer and baseball team T-shirts at home.

Yes. This photo was taken by My Love, who demonstrates why even despite my proven lack of shutterbugginess, I usually don’t allow her near a camera on vacation.

Am I leaving a court building for crimes against typing and headline puns? Not completely accurate …

No Stupid Smartphone for This Dad 2.0

Today, with a little luck, I am on my way to Austin for the Dad 2.0 Summit, a.k.a. Paternity Party 2012.

Given my usual luck traveling in or out of Texas, though, I’m most likely stranded at the Chili’s Too in Terminal C at DFW International Airport, reduced to selling my “wares” for Shiner Bocks and Southwestern Eggrolls to survive the long, dull Lone Star nights.

That might not be a bad thing. I’m a little nervous about whether I can really hang with daddy-type dudes for three days.

What worries me?

Come to Connecticut. PLEEEEEEASE!

Let’s talk a little about my ‘hood -- Connecticut.

With deficits and taxes growing larger than a sperm whale (um, that's our state animal), our governor decided to spend $22 million to rebrand and market Connecticut abroad as a tourist destination.

At first glance, it seems excessive.

Then you reflect deeply and frankly about this place I call home -- and you see the light.

That's NOWHERE near enough money to undo centuries of work to make Connecticut the most generic of the Northeastern states.

Consider our state bird: the ubiquitous American robin. State song: "Yankee Doodle." Our seat of government: Hartford -- The Insurance Capital of the World.

Welcome, stranger, to the Land of Steady Habits. We are bland; hear us snore.

The four (four!) agencies the state hired for this job must be real Mad Men. Look at our competition just in New England:

• Vermont's a crunchy life of skiing and maple syrup.
• New Hampshire proclaims "Live Free or Die" when not in the presidential primary spotlight.
• Maine is synonymous with lobster.
• Massachusetts has Pilgrims, Bunker Hill, Kennedys, Hahvad Yahd, etc.
• Even without its legendary music festivals, Rhode Island still has the distinction of being the tiniest state of them all.

But try to define Connecticut.

Long Island Sound? Maybe if it wasn't for, oh,  …the NAME

Mystic Seaport? Not quite a Boston Harbor tea party.

Mark Twain? Lived and wrote in Hartford for decades but he is forever associated with Huck, Tom and the South.

His neighbor Harriet Beecher Stowe? Her house is one of at least three "historic" Stowe residences throughout the country and ours is not the one where she penned Uncle Tom's Cabin.

Yale? You mean that other Ivy League school.

The Coast Guard Academy? That would be home to the fifth most popular of the nation’s five armed military forces.

Lyme Disease? Well, it is our best known export …

Connecticut's portrayal in literature and Hollywood also rarely screams, "Pack up the kids, we're road trippin'!" We're bored suburbanites, preppy snobs, anti-Semites or Stepford wives. Even the Ricardos and Mertzes lasted only a dozen episodes in Westport before shutting down that legendary Desilu production.

Past Connecticut marketing campaigns prove our lack of "wow factor." Most focused on the state being small but with a broad range of features and activities that, sad but true, all our neighbors do much better. We sold ourselves as the Vanilla Mint Listerine of the region: just as effective but much less intense.

That's our problem. Connecticut is good at many things. It's just not particularly outstanding at any one.

No one views our role in U.S. history as quite so revolutionary. Our cuisine, derivative. Our wine, kinda drinkable. Our mountains, more molehill than majestic. Our beaches, not even vaguely MTV-ready (in the era of Snooki, I suppose we can live with that). Connecticut is the utility infielder of the Northeast: able to fill in adequately but unspectacularly when The Hamptons are already booked.

Without best-in-class traditional tourist features to brag about, it's time my fellow residents and our hired shills change tack. We need to mindlessly, obnoxiously and absurdly promote our urban legends and idiosyncrasies.

In short, we need to make like Texans.

Having spent six years in Dallas, I never could comprehend Texans' blind devotion to their home state unless they had never ventured beyond its borders or, worse, only into Arkansas. Yet they embrace cowboy boots in their hellish heat, rally behind a battle they lost in a massacre (which explains why concealed weapons are legal there) and revere native dolts as political geniuses, y'all.

Here's where we finally win. Connecticut and Connecticut alone has P.T. Barnum -- native son, successful businessman, mayor, Congressman and, most importantly, master showman. We need to follow Barnum's lead and fly, nay, wear our freak flag every day and everywhere. The suckers will follow.

Hike the treacherous yet romantic 356-mile trail of the cryptic Old Leatherman! Escape the zombies and monsters in Sleeping Giant Park! Indulge in the ancient, secret powers of our legendary wooden nutmegs! Bwaahaahaahaa!

Step right up, come one, come all to Connecticut! Just make sure to visit the Egress!

Upcoming Tweets from @mrskutcher

This all confirms that CBS hired one “half man” to replace another.

Just took some nude photos of myself … with my new Canon PowerShot.

Valuable life lesson: What happens with a blonde tramp in the hot tub, doesn’t stay in either.

Yo @justinbieber! My invitation stands.

@aplusk The million $$ Redford gave me is not part of the pre-nup. It was a movie, moron.

Counseling with rabbi at Kabbalah Centre. Hope I properly used the words “schtup” and “schmuck.”

About last night … the tub shower is warm, wet and waiting for you once again, @RobLowe.

Finally! I can stop explaining how I survived growing up without social media.

# # #

Technorati Tags: demi moore,ashton kutcher,divorce,Twitter,social media,celebrities

Rage On, Regis Philbin, Rage On

The world is filled with love sweet love today for Regis Philbin, who will be retiring after long ago establishing himself as the pit bull of morning talk show hosts.

Not pit bull as in “vicious” or “mean.” As is in foaming at the mouth.

Drooling, really.

The man is like 147 years old.

He once interviewed Roosevelt.

Teddy Roosevelt.

Oh, everyone loves Reege. Even though he’s a terribly inept interviewer, I like the guy, too. Even after the time that he allegedly wanted to kick my ass.


At least that’s what Frank Gifford insinuated.

Frank Gifford. Hall of Fame football player. Sportscaster. Philandering husband of Kathie Lee Gifford, Reege’s former co-host.

Many lifetimes ago I was the reporter at a newspaper in a small-but-insanely-wealthy town. One day I proposed writing an article about the many celebrities who owned property there.

I combed through the property records in the town assessor’s office. Talked to some locals in the know. Stood on the main street and watched them pop into Starbucks and nosh at the local eateries.

Oooh, there’s Mel Gibson. And Diana Ross. And Ron Howard. And Frank and Kathie Lee. And, yep, Regis.

The article ran and, as with most things I wrote then and write now, I never heard a thing about it from anyone.

Until the next night.

As soon as I walked in, one of the guys in the sports department stopped me.

“Oh, man. Did I take a bullet for you today,” he said. “I got chewed out by Frank Gifford because of that article you wrote.”

He had called Frank, then in his post-football glory/pre-cheatin’ on Kathie Lee days, for comment on some local sports matter. Instead, he got an earful about how he couldn’t believe the newspaper would publish an article like mine.

People like him moved there to get away from the spotlight! (No, they want to be near New York City and other celebrities and live in posh mansions. Otherwise, North Dakota would be teeming with Kardashians and Baldwins. Besides, your wife talks about the town you live in every day. On NATIONAL TV!)

How dare we print what street he lived on! (Then don’t buy the land in your own name. It’s in the land records. Besides, I didn’t give the house number, the street is two miles long and it has dozens of other “estates” on it.)

Now the kicker.

“And he said it wasn’t just him who was upset,” the sports guy told me. “Regis was very upset, too.”

Regis.

Very upset.

With me?!

Reege, on this special day when the whole world is bowing at your feet and the media is falling over itself with weepy praise for you, can we just put this behind us? Can we? Because, man, …

Well?

What do you say?

Aww. Thanks, man.

Now get some rest.

And get me a shot at the seat next to Kelly Ripa. Rrrrrrowl.

Technorati Tags: Regis Philbin,television,entertainment

Notable Number 47s in our House

Jesse Orosco, closer for 1986 World Series champion New York Mets.  

 Black 47, Celtic rock band.

And, don’t know how, but … me.

I only have one bone to pick – one of omission by the Babble Top 50 Dad Blog list folks.

When I was interviewed for this many months ago, the writer asked me, “Does your blog have any special recurring features?”

“Typos,” I replied.

(One other omission -- Homemaker Man’s Musings from the Big Pink not making the list. Friend, you wuz robbed!)

Thanks all of you for sticking with me and my typos, especially:

Those who take the time to comment or email, just once or on every post. I appreciate it, sincerely. Unless you are a spammer or incompetent PR intern. You know who you are.

The handful of local bloggers (and sadly, ex-bloggers) I’ve known from almost the get-go who I still consider my friends even when they abandon me in bars with drunken bisexuals.

The many bloggers I’ve meet and befriended, especially all the DadCentric guys – past and present, in these nearly four years. You all seem oddly normal and pleasant in real life. Or you fake it really well. Meh – I’ll take it either way.

The Things, who have provided so much material. And heartburn. Dad loves you for both.

Murphy, who forces me to get up from my computer to scratch his belly or open the back door for him. Mostly open the door. Every 6 minutes. You’re the uncool’s best friend, even if you become the only hairless Labrador retriever in the world.

And, most importantly, My Love for supporting my “work” and even when you can’t understand why I do it. And for supporting me financially. First rule of blogging: Don’t expect it to pay the bills. Second rule: Marry up.

Fiddle deee diddle deee deidely dee, indeed.

The Sky is Still Falling

Latest word is that the satellite will crash sometime today.

Maybe tomorrow.

Somewhere between the Arctic and Antarctic circles.

Gee -- thanks, NASA!

Thanks to my loyal reader, Cheryl of Deckside Thoughts, for this classic Saturday Night Live sketch about Skylab that sorta reinforces the point of my last post.

Unfortunately, just not the point about sexy multi-boobed space aliens.

Have a safe weekend, friends.

The Sky is Falling

If you are reading this, plummeting space junk has not pulverized you. Yeah, you!

Earlier this week, NASA officials reported that a 6-ton atmospheric research satellite is tumbling to Earth at a roughly, oh, a gazillion miles per hour and could strike at any minute. I'm not surprised that this is news to you. The mass media have been oddly restrained considering the 12,000-pound mass of fiery death hurdling toward us. And these are people who whip up mass hysteria about far more improbable doomsday scenarios involving Mayan prophesies or a Michele Bachmann presidency.

Instead, the biggest topic on most news shows this past week was about was how Two and a Half Men killed off Charlie Sheen's character. If only the writers had him die under a school-bus sized hunk of molten titanium that dropped from the sky instead of being splattered by a plain ol' Parisian commuter train …

You think at least one broadcast would have dug up a "disaster expert" for us. There's only a few hundred of them out there, unshaven and panhandling, since Irene-ageddon. Think of the economic stimulus if we were all told to again have our "to go" bags ready, this time not just with a 7-day supply of Power Bars but Kevlar helmets and asbestos undies. Instead, the little the media did report consisted of statistics about how unlikely it is falling space-age metals will permanently dent your noodle. (For the record, the odds are 1 in 31 trillion, which is exactly the same chance of survival TV critics, gave Two and a Half Men … eight seasons ago.)

Contrast this to 1979. That's when word came that the space station Skylab would come crashing down. Church attendance rose. Media outlets offered rewards for recovered debris. One of my elementary school buddies and I, armed with binoculars and wearing plastic replica Major League Baseball batting helmets for protection, sat on the steps in my front yard, peering through the July leaf canopy looking for flaming streaks in the sky. This week, when my kids learned about the falling satellite, they couldn't even muster excitement over the possibility of a wayward chunk causing an early school dismissal.

This is all further proof of how bored Americans have become with outer space. After centuries of fantasizing about advanced civilizations with sexy multi-boobed aliens and living on Mars, we boldly went where no man has gone before and turned up … rocks and gases. As a result, this summer NASA put the Space Shuttle out of its misery and Hollywood hasn't considered putting a new "Star Trek" series on the tube in years.

Today, Gene Roddenberry turns in his grave; the rest of America just turns over and hit the snooze button.

Technorati Tags: satellite,NASA,crash,space

Seasonal Breakup

Dear Summer,

I'm so over you.

Maybe not physically. No -- definitely not, physically. I still yearn for your warmth. That's what happens when you thin your blood for three months with daily infusions that are three parts India pale ale and two parts avobenzone.

That will pass, though. I'll just continue to compensate by donning socks every waking moment, just as I have done this first post-Labor Day week. It's the first time I've had to do that since June. JUNE! Even though those leather sandals I bought this spring still have a good couple weeks of tread left, I'm willing to send them on a premature permanent vacation.

Speaking of near-death experiences ...

The minivan is in an annual state of seasonal disaster that's even worse than usual, thanks to you. Your enormous tropical disturbances and steamy jet stream waters last month sent us packing two days and an entire case of beer early from the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Two adrenaline-stoked adults, two exhausted children and one confused Labrador retriever speeding off a barrier island at the ungodly August hour of 5 a.m. Then, 10 hours later, we arrive back at our Connecticut home only to discover, via an iPhone app, that the little dotted line projecting Hurricane Irene's eye shows her passing all of two miles from our house.

That was the last straw. For every pleasant yin you brought a much darker yang, my former friend.

Those picturesque afternoons and evenings on the back deck, sharing a cocktail or bite with family and neighbors? It was a sneak attack on my arteries and belly. You and your savory grilled meats, aromatic cheeses and sweet, sweet mojitos. I'm feeling my bad cholesterol level rising at the thought of that misbehavior you encouraged. My wife and son aren't happy about the golf-ball size welts your little winged terrorists left on their legs and arms, either.

The free tickets fate handed us to experience the many rides at that amusement park? They came with intolerable summer road repair standstills on I-84 and almost equally long waits inside. As for your other promised entertainments, those overpriced, underwritten 3-D family movies you pumped out every weekend ... promises not kept, ex-pal o’ mine.

The weeks of relaxation at home while our tween did sleepaway camp upstate? Ended early in an infected big toe and a nasty infestation of head lice. Sure, my thinning locks escaped the little critters, but just who do you think had to delouse the rest of the clan for an hour or so every day? For two weeks straight!

Summer, I'm going to hold a grudge against for you for some time.

At least until it stops raining.

And I get around to finally shoveling out the minivan. That's when I'm sure I'll start finding all those unintentional souvenirs you left behind.

The crumpled parking passes to the minor league baseball games.

The seemingly infinite grains of sand from along Long Island Sound and the Atlantic Ocean.

The X-ed out sheets from the many rounds of travel bingo (how is it we never found a "bird on a wire"?).

The receipts from Gopher Ice Cream and Rita's Ice.

The collection of tiny pencils from golf courses both big and miniature.

Ghostly zinc oxide fingerprints from children and their pals.

All right, Summer, you had your moments.

Same time, next year … right?

Your friend,

Un

My Love’s Just Not the SAHM

As if the Uncool world were not upside down enough, what with the Autoimmune Wonder Twins and all …

My Love is “between jobs.”

Since March.

Panic.

Despair!

Holy guacamole, am I going to need to get a real job again? I’m not fit for 9-to-5 any more. I bruise! I’m A BLEEDER!

MOOOOOM-MYYYYY!

Actually, it’s not that bad. We parental Uncools are a fiscally responsible lot (ahem, coughcough-CHEAP-cough). We are in good standing thanks to our savings, investments and a wicked global demand for my plasma and blood platelets. (Bet My Love is regretting making me snip The Boys now. Then we’d have another $37.83 a whack, I mean, week.)

We are also covered as far as Thing 1’s medical expenses go. Mortgage, no problem. Cars, paid for. Yep, the only thing at risk of being lost around here is someone’s sanity.

Surprise! It ain’t mine.

My Love loves working. LOVES it. However, when the time came for her to make a radical career change, she vowed to do the same with her work-life balance.

“I’ve been working since I was 14, detasseling corn in the arid fields of Nebraska during the day and slaving at a 7-Eleven at night. I’m taking the summer off,” she declared.

“My Love, I give you two weeks before you are willing to clean the grease traps at Burger Sling for minimum wage just to get away from this domestic life.”

“Pfft,” she scoffed in a “there, there, my little at-home daddy” tone.

“I know you, ex-executive goddess. You worked through maternity leave. Both of them. I’d come home and you’d be holding a baby to your boob with one hand, banging out PowerPoint presentations with the other. You are not cut out for laundry and chauffeuring children to playdates. That’s a man’s job.”

Of course, I was wrong.

It took not two weeks, but two months for her crack.

She spent most of her first week of freedom cashing in some of the zillion airline miles she had accumulated from her old job to go skiing with friends in Colorado. Then she took a weekend jaunt to Vermont with some her ex-coworkers. When not gallivanting about, she spent her mornings and afternoons meeting people for meals or coffee or finally using the half dozen spa treatment certificates I had gotten her as presents over the years.

“Honey,” I said one day, “can you take Thing 2 to his baseball game today? I’ve got to coach Thing 1 at soccer practice.”

“Can’t. Having tapas with Pippa Middleton.”

“How about picking them up from school on Thursday? I’ve got a dentist appointment that might run late.”

“Nada,” My Love said. “I’m meeting David and Victoria at the beach.”

“Did I say ‘dentist’? I meant ‘tumor removal surgery’.”

“Still can’t. Sand. Becks. Posh.”

“You know, your being home hasn’t help me out one bit. And when did you start hanging out with English celebrities?”

“I don’t want to disrupt your routine, dear,” she said. “I know how important that is to you.”

My Love soon hit the reality I quickly encountered early in my at-home dadness. It’s fun to play while everyone else is at work, but it quickly becomes hard to find anyone to play with during that time. (I know what your dirty little minds are thinking. She could play with me. But remember, folks, My Love wanted to preserve my routine. That means no weekday extracurriculars with the testiculars.)

In a fit of desperation, My Love made the mistake of all rookie at-hommies. She volunteered to chaperone on a school trip -- escorting Thing 1 and her fellow fifth graders on a trip to Ellis Island to learn about immigration.

Let’s put this in context, shall we:

• Ninety 10- and 11-year-olds.
• Bus trip from Connecticut to New Jersey.
• During both rush hours. On a Friday.
• Plus a ferry ride.
• Weather forecast: frequent rain storms.

Eight weeks out of corporate life and My Love forgot all she knew about doing a pre-project cost-benefit analysis.

Let me sum up her experience by quoting the text message she sent me that afternoon:

“Today is the first day
I wish I was at work.”

Welcome back, My Love. Now, let’s take a look at that resume of yours.