Input Data, Output AAAAUGH!

After two long days of extensive online research and opinion soliciting into new laptops, I have announcement.

I’m exhausted and intensely confused.

SSD. HHD. Hybrid. Hybrid? These things run on unleaded now?

Lightweight. Ultrabook. Convertible. What the … I’m not buying a car. Which would be far easier. My requirements for a vehicle are simple: start, go, turn and stop on command; don’t explode or fall apart in between.

“Why so stressed?” asked My Love, brushing off another fallen strand of my hair from her shoes. “You should be excited. This should be fun research. new computer! Oooo, shiny shiny!”

Spoken like the indiscriminate, sporadic consumer she is. You remember her bulk shopping sprees at farmers’ market that lead to the Summer of Freshly Rotted Vegetables. Here’s a more recent example:

I opened the kitchen cabinet where we keep our vitamins and Li’l Diva’s daily meds a few months ago to discover, in a rare unsupervised trip to CostCo, My Love had purchased half a dozen boxes of low-dose aspirin. In all, 216 tablets.

“I heard a daily aspirin is good for your heart,” she said.

True enough .. if you have a heart condition. She doesn’t and I’m constantly reminded I only imagine I do. Otherwise, they are good for aches and ulcers. Creating ulcers, that is. I’m ahead of the curve on that one.

Back to the research.

i3. i5. i7. Hut-hut-hike! Punt!

SATA. mSATA … Aaaaugh – my head feels like it is going to explode.

Oh.

Dang that woman of mine.

Me on TV. DadLabs TV. Via Internet. So, Me on the Internet. Big Whoop.

Scene: Our kitchen, last night, My Love wanders in from work, exhausted, spent, the day’s burdens pinning her shoulders for the three count. Me – bouncing up and down like a pup, pre-neutering.

ME: “Guess what, honey, guess what? I’m going to be on the Internet!”

MY LOVE: “Uh, you’re on the Internet every day.”

Bubble. Burst. Ka-BLOOEY!

Actually, here’s the deal:

I will be appearing / stuttering / flop-sweating live via Skype today -- Wednesday, May 2 -- at 3 p.m. Eastern time on DadLabs UStream show.

The topic: juvenile myositis, The Cure JM Foundation and the work my family does to find a cure for this rare autoimmune disease that our daughter has been battling with for almost 10 years.

Sounds heavy but you know I won’t be able to go more than 15 seconds without some sarcastic remark that will get me in trouble with the authorities. Or worse, in trouble with My Love.

DadLabs.com, if you don’t know, is a great parenting site whether you are a male or female. Lots of fun videos and information about kid products, parenting technology and general parenting advice … and humor.

You can watch the show without registering, but if you want to comment via chat you need to register here. This show will also be archived for posterity … and future blackmail.

Wish me luck.

Better yet, wish my antiperspirant extra strength.

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?

Everything Falls Apart

The following items broke or otherwise shed their inanimate coils in the past seven days:
Makita Cordless Drill. I’m not sure what about this death hurt more: That it thwarted the plans Thing 2 and I to bond over power tools by making bird feeders out of empty seltzer bottles or that My Love had given me the drill as my “bachelor party” gift. Read what you will into that last bit.
Floodlight over garage door. Meh. An $8 bulb. Not a biggie. Especially considering the next thing to go was …
The automatic garage door opener. Not the clicker in the car, mind you. The actual thing that raises and lowers the door. You’d be mistaken if you thought the door being stuck in the closed position would actually prevent money from flying out through it.
Golf pull cart. Since Santa and his minions, you know -- the ones who live under my roof, all failed to bring me the one gift I actually had on my list, I purchased my own online. Alloy mag wheels. All-weather scorecard holder. Umbrella holder. Adult beverage holder. Oh. Oh. Oh. That’s what I’m talking about. After assembling it, I tested the foot brake – an important feature lest your cart roll down hill and force you to exert extraordinary effort to retrieve said adult beverage – and there was this horrible crack like biting into a chicken bone and snapping through the marrow. Or like the sound my knees make when I squat down to look under the sink for a nonexistent last roll of toilet paper.

 
I called the toll-free number of the Canadian company that makes the cart (honestly, I didn’t even know Canadians played golf but I guess that explains why we when you put your woods back in the bag you cover them with toques, eh?). It was disconnected.
Remote control. Not any remote control, but the remote control to the TV in the family room. With the 46-inch flat screen. And the satellite TV. And the TiVo. … I need a moment. … And a tissue.
And, the one you’ve all been waiting for <drumroll> …
Wood slat on my bed frame.

Too much bouncy bouncy. Or too many Ho Hos. Either way, my fat ass stakes claim.
+ + +
This list is brought to by the letters ABDPBT.

Scenes from a Generally Good Day

The dog licks my face when the alarm beeeep-beeeep-beeeeps at 6 a.m. He then proceeds to step on my manhood like so many others before him. Et tu, puppy?

This prevents my normal routine of rolling back over and sleeping for another hour. Instead, I get up, fire up the laptop and knock off a third of my freelance work for the day before either me or the coffee turns bitter and cold.

* * *

Attending Thing 2's first "publishing party," in which he read the "How To" stories he wrote in class.

He wrote three -- "How to Draw a House," "How to Make a Macaroni Necklace" and "How to Read a Book" -- the most of anyone in his class.

Note to self: Given the recent chimp attack in town, writing may be a good alternative to his monkey training aspirations.

Second note to self: Start assessing female classmates for potential ambitious, corporate executive wife-types.

* * *

On our walk through the neighborhood, Murphy starts digging through a rotting pile of leaves by the curb. He starts to crunch a large black object between his teeth.

"Droooooop it," I say.

He does. To the asphalt falls a garage door opener.

And … it's not mine.

On the stroll home, it fails to open any of my neighbor's garages.

* * *

I finish tweaking the layout of my blog, actually re-writing some of the HTML coding on my own, without causing it or my computer to crash.

Need to suppress my inner geek before I try reprogramming the microwave for time travel, thus reconfirming my semi-idiot status when it comes to technology.

Urgent note to self: Quick! Try to contact Kari from "MythBusters" before power fa …, dang! Too late. Someday, you red-haired scientific beauty, you will be mine. Oh, you WILL be mine.

As long as My Love is cool with it, of course.

* * *

Finally think of and write a decent piece (maybe, possibly) for a long-in-coming project.

"Mary Tyler Moore" theme plays mentally in my head.

My manhood takes another blow. Stupid brain!

* * *

While walking down the supermarket aisle, Thing 1 says, "Hey, Dad! They're playing our song."

On the ceiling speakers, wafting through the shelves of soup and tomato paste, I hear:

I got it! (I got it!) I got it!

I got your number on the wall!

I got it! (I got it!) I got it!

For a good time call!

I had that song on CD we were listening to on a car trip three or four years ago. From the backseat, the Things kept yelling for miles, "Play that number song again!"

Tommy TuTone sure beats that Lindsay Lohan CD she was into one summer.

* * *

I start a fire.

In the fireplace.

Without any Duraflame assistance.

Note to self: Stop eyeballin' that freakin' microwave!

* * *

Thing 2 appears in the living room, giggling, tripping, my pajama bottoms hiked up to his chest as the dog nips at the ankle cuffs.

"Can I sleep in these, Dad?"

"As long as I can take a picture first."

"OK."

Meet the New Uncool; Same as the Old Uncool

Get out of your reader and come check out the new look to the "Always Home and Uncool" blog! There's still a little tweaking to do, but you'll get the general idea.

Questions? Comments? Quesadillas? You may want to visit the new FAQ, too.

BTW -- thanks to all of you who contacted me with concern about my well being after that last post. I guess the lyrics to that song and a few other things I said might have led you think that I having a meltdown, joining a cult or worse -- out of beer.

Let it be known that I was in midst of one of my periodic self-imposed freak outs about something of no great consequence (that would be my career), coupled with computer issues and a bit of a butter-creme birthday cake hangover from Thing 1's party.

I'm nearly over it. Just let me finish this corner piece. And lick the plate.

Last Stop

Ever flip on the radio and suddenly find your favorite station was playing nothing but the audio tracks from the original "Bob Newhart Show"?

I did once. That's how the station signaled that it was changing formats.

The "Newhart" audio was much better than the new music and DJs, by the way.

I'm probably not going do anything that drastic here. I am going to attempt to switch my Feedburner account to Google this weekend and maybe make some updates to the blog layout during the week. Pray I don't lose you, the site or my mind in the process. (If you, like me, aren't of a praying nature, raising a glass filled with the beverage of your choice will do fine.)

I'll have something new posted by mid-week; if it's not in your reader or inbox by then, check back with the site.

Or call 911. In either case, bring beer.

Meanwhile, enjoy the video from one of my favs:


Video: "Last Stop: This Town," The Eels

You're dead but the world keeps spinning
Take a spin through the world you left
It's getting dark a little too early
Are you missing the dearly bereft?

Taking flight and you could be
Here tomorrow
Taking flight, well, you could get
Here tonight

I'm gonna fly on down for the last stop
To this town
What?
I'm gonna fly on down then fly away
Well, alright

Get down

Takin' a spin through the neighborhood
The neighbors scream
Whatchya talkin' 'bout?
cause they don't know how to
Let you in
And I cant let you out

What if I was not your only friend
In this world
Can you take me where you're going
If you're never coming back

Im gonna fly on down for the last stop
To this town
Im gonna fly on down then
Fly away on my way

Get down

Why don't we take a ride away up high
Through the neighborhood
Up over the billboards and the factories
And smoke

I'm gonna fly on down for the last stop
To this town
Yeah
I'm gonna fly on down then
Fly away on my way
Fly away
Get down

Death of a Web Site; Birth of a Thing

Back in the days of yore, when American Bison freely roamed the Great Plains and Internet access was dial-up only, we had a family Web page on America Online. Nothing fancy, but it served as a way to keep our friends updated on our adventures following our move to a strange land called Texas.

I maintained it fairly regularly for about three years until the nearly simultaneous arrival of Thing 2 and the onset of Thing 1's autoimmune disease overwhelmed my free time and patience. For six years after, it sat idle and abandoned like a zillion similar sites other people set up back in a time when the closest thing to iTunes was the squawking ping of the modem mating call.

This past Halloween, AOL killed that site along with its entire free "Hometown AOL" Web hosting service. I'm sure the ironic timing was lost on them but it was an understandable death.

People move on. Priorities change. Technology improves (or, in the case of Word 2007, it grows more annoying). Blogger's days will also eventually be numbered, I'm certain.

But before the site went black, I downloaded all its content. I hadn't seen much of it in years and I was surprised that it wasn't nearly as embarrassing as I thought would be. Nor was it as good. Eh, life is one continuous re-write, is it not?

Therefore, to mark this weekend's anniversary of My Love's squeezing Thing 1 out from between her marathoner's thighs, I bring you -- from the archives -- my blow-by-blow account of that blessed birth -- as written by myself nine years ago with some slight clarification and enhancement for today's sophisticated tastes:

Feb. 5, 2000 - Baby due. Baby no show. An entire bag of Reduced Fat Oreos disappears from the cupboard.

Feb. 8, 2000 - My Love's doctor says not to worry. If no baby by Feb. 15, they will induce that day. After the appointment, we go for Mexican food. Much salsa is consumed.

Feb. 14, 2000 - Valentine's Day. Still no baby. Inducement scheduled for 8 a.m. tomorrow. Our Whitman Sampler is low on vanilla creams.

Feb. 15, 2000
Approx. 1:15 a.m. - My Love's water breaks. Hey, no one tells her when she's going to have a baby!

1:30 a.m. - My Love's wakes me and tells me the news. After asking her if she's sure for the 20th time, we decide to go to the hospital.

2:30 a.m. - On the road to the hospital, My Love predicts a six- to eight-hour labor. "I'm going to make this mind over matter," she says.

3 a.m. - We arrive at hospital and check in. My Love asks for, and receives, Labor Room 1 because it has a jacuzzi. (Ed. note: Not sure why. Water birth wasn't part of the plan. I didn't bring my trunks either.) My Love starts having contractions.

8 a.m. - The epidural is administered. My Love's language again becomes printable in a family newspaper.

10 a.m. - I go for breakfast at the hospital cafe. Western omelet, toast and coffee. Mmmmmm.

Good signs appear while reading the newspaper: Horoscope for today's birthday, according to Joyce Jillson in The Dallas Morning News: "It's a year of self-expression. Your need for expansion takes over, and you may move into a bigger place ... Your best signs for romance are a Taurus or Libra."

I am a Taurus. My Love is a Libra. Oooh, veeeeeery scaaaaaary stuff kids!

The News' "People in the News" column notes that also born on this day was Mick Avory, original drummer for The Kinks.

Video: "Tired of Waiting for You," The Kinks

11:30 a.m. - We settle in for a viewing of the Jimmy Stewart classic "Harvey," which includes this dialogue:

Doctor -- Uh, trauma. Spelled t-r-a-u-m-a. It means shock. There's nothing unusual about it. There's the "birth trauma" - the shock of being born...

Elwood P. Dowd -- That's the one we never get over.

1:15 p.m. - I go for lunch: chicken salad, pretzels and cranberry juice. Mmmm. (Ed. note: Around this time My Love had her 10th cup of ice chips. Sometimes, it's good to be me.)

4 p.m. - Now that we've finished watching "Oprah," time for My Love to start pushing. My role is to hold up one of her legs and count 10 aloud during the pushes, which is a good thing because the nurse keeps forgetting the count.

4:58 p.m. - Out pops baby Thing 1.

Game Boy

The note from Santa was printed, signed and ready for hand delivery, but not a peep was raised about puppies, turtles or anything else that did NOT appear under the Christmas tree. After two days, I finally fed it to the shredder.

Lesson learned: Giving eight Nintendo DS games to two kids can save a life ... or at least this Dad's sanity. But I am worried about Thing 2's.

Outside of a few potty breaks and my convincing him to play a dozen rounds of Lazer Tag around the yard with me Christmas afternoon, this is all anyone has seen of our beloved 6-year-old since he ripped through all the paper and ribbons on Thursday morning:


In fact, My Love pointed out this morning that he is still wearing the same clothes he put on to play Lazer Tag ... three days ago.

The longest "conversation" he has held with us in that time was about how good Santa is at "Super Mario Bros."

"The box was open and I put the game in and it was already saved to Level 8! I've never gotten that high! Santa got it to Level 8 for me!" he said.

This is because Santa buys good little boys Nintendo DS games through Amazon.com -- used .

But I think I'll let the jolly ol' elf maintain his street cred with the boy. 'Tis the season.

Speaking of which, every time you vote for me at Humor-Blogs.com, an angel gets some.

Nothing But Puke and Plugs

I contend that you're not really a parent until your first reaction when one of your children starts to throw up is to cup your hands and try to catch it.

I speak from vast amounts of experience. Read about it today on DadCentric. This photo somehow plays into the whole story. Trust me.

Finally, you're not really an Apple iPhone owner in the New York City area until you download my drinking buddy Chris's app that gives you the Metro-North Railroad schedule in and out of Grand Central Terminal at the touch of button. I hear it's pretty good. I don't know because 1) I rarely leave home, duh, and 2) my cell phone is actually just a cell phone ... from 2004. I'm a traditionalist.

New posts next week ... maybe here, maybe elsewhere. We'll see.

BlogHer '08 and the Damage Done

Pardon the interruption. This is Reggie Hartner of IWitless News with a late-breaking, special report on what appears to be a mob of women wreaking havoc in the San Francisco Bay area. Let's go to Special Correspondent Todd Zalinsky for details. Todd.

Yes, Reg, thanks. I'm standing here in by the ruins of what was The Westin St. Francis Hotel in the Union Square section of town. It was here that hundreds of thousands of the so-called "fairer sex" reduced this haven of 17-channels-of-pay-per-view-porn into this:


Are those … are those signs … in Chinese, Todd?

Yes, Reg, you are seeing correctly. We're pretty close to Chinatown. That's my favorite dim sum shack just to the left.

Todd, do we know who these women are and why they went on this rampage?

Glad you asked, Reg. These ladies were here for what we were told was "conference" on "blogging."

Blogging?

Yes, Reg. It's some sort of fad involving fingers and mice. Pretty kinky stuff, but then, this is the City of Love where you'll find Big Brother holding company with gassy painted women while ridin' in a hole in the ground. You know, how it is, Reg.

Too well, I'm afraid. Well, what exactly caused the riot, Todd?

Reg, it seems these ladies had been brought together by some of the most evil geniuses known to mankind …

The Taliban?

No, Reg.

Fannie Mae loan officers?

Uh-uh.

Married illegal-immigrant homosexuals bearing salmonella-laced chimichanga components?

Not even in the same league.

Then who, Todd?

Marketing executives, Reg. The chief adverts and perverts of General Motors, HP, Microsoft, Starbucks, KY Jelly …

KY Jelly? Is even our, uh, I mean, THE bedroom no longer sacred?

It gets worse, Reg. Even McCain was involved.

Senator McCain? The Republican nominee?

No, Reg. The people who make … smiley fries.

Good God, man. This IS serious.

Seriously involving alcohol, Reg. Seems these fat cats plied these women with apple-tinis and Comsos like it was the second-coming of the "Sex and the City" movie premiere. It was all part of their plan to get inside their digital pants, to coin a phrase. They wanted these so-called "mommy bloggers" to plug their overpriced, made-in-China, lead-based, non-flag-pin wearing wares on their Web sites. Their M.O. was to motivate these vunerable vixen under the guise of sisterhood and profit.

Make money for running advertisements? That sounds fine to me, Todd?

Yes, it does, Reg, until these liquored-up ladies learned they would be making less than a one armed Honduran school girl with a lazy eye sewing clothes for Kathie Lee Gifford.

Tragic.

Yes, Reg, tragically square-to-be-hip were these boozy broads in the City of Broad Shoulder Pads who apparently came here with dreams of book deals for scribbling about poopy diapers and mad money for Manolo Blahniks. Instead, they left on the fast track to cirrhosis of the liver.

Todd, do we know who is ultimately responsible for this?

Reg, a lot of blame is being laid upon one woman who repeatedly and head-achingly self-proclaims herself as "the boss." She also has a sidekick with a funky wig-hat fetish. And then, Reg, there is the imaginary hobbit they rode in on.

Huh?

I'll save it for the 11 o'clock report, Reg. Needless to say, it was a quite a scene, even before the riot. You've heard the phrase "swearing like sailors"? "Monkeys throwing feces"? "Donkey parties"? Let me tell you, Reg, these ladies are into some wild-a …

Let's save that for the commercial break. Todd, let me ask, where were the men during this?

Reg, outside of the marketing pimps and waitstaff, the only male I could find was some rambling homeless man with a portable trampoline who hummed Neil Young tunes.

Where was he found, Todd?

Hanging by the pool sans children, if you know what I mean, Reg. The police are now holding him in the investigation of the apparent murder-suicide of a pair of anthropomorphic pigeons.

Eww, sounds like we'll need to do a special investigative cable special on that one, Todd. One final question. Our researchers have just handed me some information. Todd, it seems this conference ended Sunday. Why are we only hearing about this now?

Well, Reg, we just got here. We had some travel difficulties.

Elaborate, please, Todd.

Reg … c'mon. We're guys. We didn't ask for directions.

Ho, ho, ho. So true, so true. Thanks for the report, Todd Zalinsky from San Francisco.

We'll have more information on our IWitless Web site. Just register, then click the big smiley face to show you love flame-inducing satire. And now, back to your usual programming of elegies to dead dogs.

Are These Awards or STDs?

In the course of two weeks, my humble blog has received five awards.

OK, it was one award four times with a second award sandwiched somewhere in between.

Essentially, my fans have given me blog-award clap. If only I had paid more attention to that health ed filmstrip series in the fifth grade.

Let me start by thanking the bestowers of these itchy gifts:

-- Laurie of Posts From the Playground, who gave me the first award first and hope when I needed it most;

-- Literal Dan, the 2008 Best of Blogs winner (I'm required by law to write that) and a fellow at-home dad with writing ambitions and poop jokes to spare;

-- Tent Camper at I Pee in the Wind, who also knows what it is like to live in the shadow of a smokin' hot, all-powerful being;

-- Ms. P of Post Picket Fence, who I found slumming on my blog one day only to learn she married my former Little League battery mate; and,

-- Heather from Outnumbered by the Brood, who typed that I am "witty, a wonderful writer, and enjoys beer as much as I do." That translates to I am "goofy, a functional typist and a drunkard" -- none of which I deny. Actually, she made a point of noting that among the mommy blogs, I'm a "breath of fresh air." My manhood simultaneously salutes her and shrivels in her wake.

The rules for the ARTE Y PICO award (see end of post) that I won four times require me to recognize five other bloggers ... for each award. That adds up to six honorees. Eh, I was a journalism major.

So, please take a bow, accept your Spanish featherduster (hmmm, good name for an adult toy), then follow Da Rules at the bottom:

*** Kristine at Stamford Talk and Fancy Pancakes. Her work convinced me that "hell, even I could blog" … then she ended up as my first commenter. Oh, snap! Honestly, she's working hard to pump some life into my hometown. She also tolerates my "well, when I was a whippersnapper growing up in Stamford" smart-aleckiness in her comments section. Her readers don't. In real life, she looks a bit like Jennifer Garner. If Jennifer Garner had some bitchin' yellow nail polish. And a Benaffleck-ectomy.

*** The anonymous guy at The FTF (the First Time Father). He reminds me of what life was like when the Things were just rug rats. He reminds me that that part of my life is over with -- for better and for worse. He also lets me cheat at golf.

*** Marla of For a Different Kind of Girl and I will soon commence a long, passionate love affair. But first, we need to lock eyes from across the room at a Hooters reunion concert. We need to ditch the spouses. We need to deal with immigration. Maybe not in that order.

*** Dorky Dad because us dorky dads need to band together. Mommy bloggers are drunk with digital power. They're acting like … like, white male baby-boomer CEOs! Swearing, snorting, grabbing ass. Ladies, is this what you fought for all those years? DD, let's create a BlogHim ad network. Draft the Blogging Equal Rights Amendment. Damn these useless breasts of ours!

*** Bethany at The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks. Blame the alleged "editor" in me. Simple yet brilliant.

Next, the I LOVE YOU SO MUCH award wants me to spread the love to another eight bloggers. I'm giving it to only two because I'm a miserable bastard when I haven't had my RDA of fiber. Besides, these people really, really, really deserve your love:

*** Anissa at Hope4Peyton. She writes about her personal struggle with her young daughter's leukemia. As my best friend from high school died of this disease and I have a child with a potentially fatal autoimmune disease, I can relate to everything she writes. Except the neurotic dog. Mine has ADD.

*** Connie at Madeline's Journal. This is a journal written by a friend and fellow parent of a child with juvenile dermatomyositis. Except Madeline is having many more complications -- part of the reason Connie hasn't been keeping it up to date (hint). Read it (scroll to the bottom of her home page to start). You'll understand why we need help finding a cure for this disease.

That's it. Thanks for stopping by. I'm bewildered, blessed and in need of another beer.

* * * * * *

DA RULES (bend them as necessary):

If you won the ARTE Y PICO award:

1. Pick five blogs you consider deserving of this award, whether for creativity, design, interesting material, or contributions to the blogging community, no matter what language.
2. Name each nominee and link to his/her blog.
3. Show the award and include the name (and link to his/her blog) of whoever presented you with this award.
4. Link to the Arte y Pico blog so everyone knows the origin of this award.
5. Post these rules.

If you won the I LOVE YOU THIS MUCH award:

1. Post the I LOVE YOU THIS MUCH blog award on your site.
2. Name eight other nominees for the award in a post, and link to them
3. Cite this blog as the source of your award.
4. Post the award rules.

Caught on tape ... at last!

Like most Parental Units, we bought a camcorder right before the birth of our first child.

Like most camcorder-owning Parental Units, we never use the frickin' thing.

Oh, we try. Our Sony Handycam Hi-8 (not-quite digital images on very tiny cassette tape - it's digi-tape! No, it's cass-ital!) has traveled through several U.S. time zones. We usually pull it out on the last day of a trip after we realize that it was what was causing that strange lump in the closet corner under Day 1's dirty underwear.

By then, the battery has lost all its power. After two hours of recharging (this is pre-Y2K equipment, people), it's ready to go. Unfortunately, by now we've already gone to the swim-up bar for the sixth round. Autofocus, autoschmocus -- my mojito needs more min-tito, Isaac, and tell Julie to stop pawing Gopher's white shorts.

Well, last week, the camcorder finally captured a priceless moment in need of replay on the family flat screen: the mistake my son, Thing 2, did NOT make in the annual afterschool-program play.

This year's epic, based on "The Little Rascals," found the He-Man Women Haters' Club facing a dilemma. Obey the teacher's orders to dance with the girls or squeegee the hair oil out of Alfalfa's 'do and sell it for $4.50 a gallon to an ex-stripper-turned-soccer-mom on the lam from a crazed Ethiopian Viagra dealer with an enormous royal inheritance locked in a Nigerian bank account that only Porky's Social Security number could unlock.

At least that's my best guess. The sets were nice.

Midway through the "action," came the deafening silence. Followed by finger pointing and muttered accusations. Someone forgot his or her lines. Some looked at my boy, sitting onstage in a white turtleneck and a backwards Bridgeport Bluefish cap. Others, in the minivan on the ride home, just screamed at him.

"It was all your fault!" suggested Thing 1, who I think played one of the twin pole dancers in the show. "You messed up and we skipped two whole lines."

"Did not!" countered Thing 2. "I did not mess up."

"I know, when we get home, let's review the videotape," I said. "I have it right ..."

I turned back so I could retrieve the camcorder I left under my seat in the auditorium. Consistency -- my virtue, my curse.

At home, I waited the three minutes necessary for the camcorder to rewind the six minutes of actual footage I shot. Then, it occurred to me - what if the boy did screw up? This could cause permanent damage to his ego and psyche. This could stop him from ever taking the stage again.

This could be my ticket out of many school performances for the next 11 years.

"Now, we push 'Play,'" I said.

It was like watching the Zapruder film for the first time; however, the answer was crystal clear in this masterpiece, even if the picture was a bit grainy and shaky.

Thing 2 - NOT GUILTY!

"Oooooh," his big sister said. "I guess it was Brendan's fault. He forgot his line."

I made her apologize to the boy. Then, I let Thing 2 eat popsicles until his tongue went numb.

Work-at-home tip, No. 2

Never answer your home phone. Nothing good ever comes of it.

Most times, it is either telemarketers who don't abide by the national Do-Not-Call list, your college soliciting yet another donation or a robo-call asking you to vote for someone in the next election. These are not your businesses' stakeholders, as we used to say in the world of corporate communications.

You may have your answering machine screen calls or look at the Caller ID if you are curious, but resist picking up the phone in mid-message. Reeeeee-sist!

Exception to last rule: Always pick it up if it is your child's school calling you about bomb threats canceling all afterschool activities. Otherwise, they call whoever is next on the "emergency contact" pecking order, and you really don't want to freak out your Mom any more at this stage in her life.

Get a dedicated business line or, if you only telecommute on occasion, have your business calls routed to your cell phone. Just make sure you change your cell phone voice mail message to something that makes it sound like you are still in your office at work.

That means making sure the sound of the 5-CD/iPod/satellite radio music system, dog, newly installed water feature, and/or ice clincking in your glass can't be heard in the background. Those sounds would be honest, but not very professional. So I'm told.

Old-school txt msg'n

My Love regularly travels internationally for her job. It is more glamorous than it sounds, she says.

Our closet full of complimentary shampoos, conditioners, sleeping masks, earplugs, toothbrushes, sewing kits, breath mints and sleep booties says otherwise to me, though.

Then again, one of my most exotic business trips consisted of driving from Dallas to a plastics packaging plant in McAlester, Okla. I got to eat at a restaurant with a statue of a steer that was the size of a bus (similar to the one they had for years at United House Wrecking in Stamford) and drive past the state prison that Tom Joad was discharged from at the start of "Grapes of Wrath." Now that's Americana, people.

Because of her frequent travel, mi' lady and I tend to converse through messages put only in e-mail subject lines. It is text messaging - 1990s style, yes, but I'm never in need of a cell phone while working from home, texting is expensive and instant messaging, the wife says, only opens the door for more colleagues to interrupt her already hectic work day. Technological aptitude is definitely one of the few things not in her skill set.

So, we communicate in non-real time. This is usual between her giving 723-slide PowerPoint presentations on why someone's salary is being paid in Euros via Chinese yen exchange rates with bonus payouts in English pounds parlayed into equitable compensation by Heisenberging U.S. dollars in accordance with international duty schedules for aligned Band 18 jobs. Mmm, sexy - no?

So, here's an example of how Friday might have gone if she wasn't inbound from Heathrow all day:

Coloring Easter eggs this AM.

RE: Coloring Easter eggs this AM. -- Ugh! Another meeting. I'm slammed.

Eggs boiled. 16 survivors. Maybe. Define "hard."

RE: Eggs boiled. 16 survivors? Maybe. Define "hard." -- Stop it. I'm on Slide 467.

Out of white vinegar. Using red wine

vinegar. Red wine vinegar. Sorry. Premature launch.

RE: Premature launch. -- I got carsick on way from airport again.

Eggs dyed; kids alive. Dog still mostly yellow. C U soon.

RE: C U soon. -- Love ya.