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.

I’m Not Pregnant

… but I did write this piece “When Husbands Go to the Ends of the Earth for Their Pregnant Wives” for the WhatToExpect.com website about My Love and her completely absurd demands on me, the man who knocked her up.

And, if you clicked that link and read the intro – yes, I am the blog editor for the NYC Dads Group these days. Even though I live in Connecticut. Hey, everybody is outsourcing these days.

Morning Has Broken and So Has My Chair

I’ve been laying low early in this New Year as seems to be my tradition just as is fixing everything that falls apart around our house over the holidays.

Fluttering fluorescents in the basement. Toilets not flushing. Shower drains not draining.

Let’s not forget the gap in the garage door that provided entry to the winter winds. And, apparently, a family of field mice. They made themselves at home in a basket of winter hats and gloves then noshed on salt-and-pepper pistachios from the pantry shelves. They even had a mobile home, a fact I learned the first time I put on my ski boots and found pistachios … among other, um, stuff.

Then there is my so-called “work life.”

My laptop, after five-plus years of loyal service, is on life support. In the past few months the power cord has developed a habit of randomly not providing current, the battery had to be replaced and the screen frame  cracked. Worse, of late its performance has all the consistency of Axl Rose when he’s off his meds.

In less technologically challenging news, two days ago this happened:

At least, for once, I know my eggnog-enhanced hindquarters were not responsible for this casualty.

So while I wait for the Staples delivery man to bring me Temper-Pedic pleasure for my posterior and drive myself insane by over-researching new laptops, you may chew on this:

Please click over to DadCentric and read a piece I wrote about a North Texas father who pretended to be a gunman to expose security flaws at his child’s elementary school.

Then give me a recommendation on a non-Apple laptop. I could use a few more opinions to overwhelm and confuse me.

Bloody Hell

It started with a simple runny nose.

A Claritin here, a Zyrtec there, Benadryl everywhere and all will be fine in a couple of weeks, so I thought.

Then the sneeze.

A quarter-size red bubble on the white tile floor.

Off to the doctor we went.

Not my doctor.

My dog’s.

All you need to know about a dog having blood come from its nose is this: It is never good.

Fight or Flight

After several hours of Googling coding freebies then typing then re-coding the re-re-coding and banging my head on the keyboard, the latter often resulting in better work than when using these mitts of concrete at the end of my arms, I stood up and sighed.

Walk it off, clear your head, I yelled at myself internally because doing so aloud when you work by yourself is just loony.

I pushed back my chair and stood with a creak-creak here and a Mother-Fletcher-I’m-old there.

I looked out the sliding glass door, lost.

That’s when I saw him.

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.

Renovate Your Bathroom; Wreck Your Life

My world thickens in daily layers of dust.

Saw, sheetrock, saw, joint compound, ceramic tile, saw.

I’m an archeological dig in reverse.

Indiana, where are you? Be not afraid, Dr. Jones -- the only snake here is easily charmed by my plumber. At $45 an hour.

So if you plan to renovate a bathroom, here are some important things to know beforehand:

• It costs how much?!
• For every one room you renovate, expect at least two other rooms to be adversely affected for the duration of the construction period. Generally, these will be the rooms you spend most of your waking or sleeping hours in. In my case, both.
• Temporary walls of plastic sheeting do not a bedroom make.

• If you are renovating a second-floor bathroom, repeat after with me: Acrylic, in-laid tub – good; cast-iron standalone tub – holy hernias!
• If your desk is on the floor directly below that cast-iron tub, up your life insurance. Just in case.
• Vanilla yogurt stains on your shorts send the wrong message to construction personnel.
• That message is not as bad the one you send them when you have fresh vanilla yogurt dribbling down your chin.
• Stop telling me to think about the future resale value. At these prices, I plan to be entombed in this flippin’ bathroom.
• Can you tell the difference between a new toilet and the old toilet with a new seat and lid. I thought not.
• Avoid backing into your subcontractors’ cars.

• If you do back into one of your subcontractors’ cars, pray it’s the guy doing the drywalling. Even I have hung, taped and mudded drywall, so how badly can he screw you over to exact revenge?
• Say, where are my car keys? And the dog?
• The air conditioner guy is not a plumber no matter how convincing he sounds telling you about needing a second hot water tank to meet your new showerhead’s output.
• But just to be safe, double check the gallons per minute rating on the manufacturer’s spec sheet. Boo-yah!
• The difference in color between ivory and isabelline grout is nearly impossible to distinguish with the naked eye in daylight. However, your  spouse will.
• Heated towel racks are a nice luxury. Placing them across the room from the shower is pointless. Trying to even out the error with radiant heated floor tiles – yeah, nice try.
• Are you serious? How FRICKIN’ much?
• In the end, time waits for no man -- especially the repairman. Get what you pay for the first time.

Like lists? Then join in every Monday with Anna at ABDPBT. Or else she’ll cut ya. On Twitter.

Technorati Tags: real estate,real estate investment,remodeling,housing,humor

Since You’ve Been Gone

My Love and I have not been sleeping together lately.

She’s been on the road for work a lot lately. Mexico. Miami. Fort Lauderdale. Yeah, yeah: cry her a river.

She called me today, sounding a little concerned.

“You haven’t been blogging lately,” she said. Her tone of voice suggested she was anticipating some questionable service charges on my credit card.

“It’s a little hard to string together a coherent sentence around here these days,” I said, “for one reason or another.”

REASON NO. 1: My Achin’ Hammie

I was not kidding you folks. Luckily, it wasn’t too bad. I religiously followed the RICE treatment (rest, ice, Corona, extra dry martinis) and it feels almost normal again. Attempting to write with one’s foot propped up on five pillows while the back of your leg melts through every bag of frozen food from the fridge (when and why did I every buy Brussels sprouts?) is hard enough, but then there was …

REASON NO. 2: My Achin’ Stomach

Thing 1 and I returned from Chicago with, oh, let’s leave it at “an intestinal disagreement.” I spent two days on the couch praying for death or the satellite TV equivalent -- a Dane Cook comedy special. Instead, I watched a lot of Little House on the Prairie reruns. Was there a major 19th-century disease that didn’t find its way to Walnut Grove? I witnessed rabies, typhus and the infamous Oleson family chlamydia outbreak.

REASON NO. 3: My Missing Bathroom

If timing a bad leg with an inability to hold down one’s meals didn’t make life challenging enough, then there was the matter of being down one bathroom. We are renovating the master – a project that conveniently started while My Love was on the road and not so conveniently takes place directly above my office.

And, of late, through my office:

If the banging that shook loose two light fixtures (including the one over my desk) weren’t enough, then there was this:

That’s the hole the plumber had to make in the ceiling, also above my desk, to drain the liquid from the hot water line puncture created by the flooring guys.

On the upside, I think breathing in all the sawdust and drywall powder help clog my internal plumbing.

“And that’s why I haven’t been blogging lately,” I said. “So today, I said ‘screw it’ and played golf.”

“How’d you do?”

“On one hole, it took me four strokes to get out of a single sand trap. It was the most productive day I’ve had in two weeks.”

Wayward Passengers, Please Report to the Gate

My Love just returned from the annual company physical (perk of being a Globetrotting Executive Goddess), and the news is good.

Even though I – he of imagined heart attacks and actual panic attacks - still hold the family record on that sexist stress test), she is perfectly healthy and able to continue to support me in the manner in which I am accustomed.

Then, while stepping out of the airport shuttle van, the computer bag on her shoulder swung forward. And the momentum took her with it.

BAM!

Two bloody knees and a sore wrist.

So, friends, while I attend to her every need (her need, not mine, gutter-dwellers) (but I appreciate your rooting for me), here are few oddly appropriate items I wrote elsewhere this week for your enjoyment:

• I expound on the ups and downs of at-home dadness over at DiPaola Momma’s Chicken Nuggets of Wisdom
• My short story at Polite Fictions dispels the common belief that airports are hell.

+ + +

THING 1 FUND UPDATE
$18,600 raised; $6,400 to go!

Help the Uncool Family find a cure for Thing 1’s autoimmune disease!

Even if you can only spare $5 or $10, please support us in the Austin Marathon by donating to Cure JM Foundation, the only nonprofit dedicated solely to putting an end to this often painful and potentially deadly disease. Just whip out a credit card and click over to our FirstGiving fundraising page.

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."

Sex and the Working Spouse

A couple of readers recently asked why I don't blog more about two things: sex and My Love. Oddly, these were posed as separate topics -- i.e., "Why don't you post more about sex?" and "Why don't you write more often about My Love?" -- as opposed to the compound subject, "Why don't you blog more about sex with My Love?"

As if the twain has never met, people. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

My Love has been home a lot of late, with "home" loosely defined as somewhere in a 20-mile radius of the place the rest of our family sleeps. Yes, she's still an international executive goddess, but her AAirpass has been revoked temporarily to help save her company some scratch. So instead of jetting off to some fascinating Marriott in a foreign land, most mornings she's been up and out by 4 a.m. to the 1960-ish beige reinforced concrete decor of corporate headquarters and then back home by 10 at night.

Still, some of you might expect there'd be an increase in quality time with the Mrs. based sheerly on physical proximity. Instead, you get scenarios like this one: The Things and I sit down to dinner, hear the garage door open below us and her car pull in. My Love comes bounding up the stairs to join us … two hours later.

"I was on an overseas conference call with our office in Phuntsholing and I didn't want to lose the signal," she said.

"Did you say, 'fun to schlong'?"

"Phuntsholing," she said with more clarity. "It's the New York City of Bhutan."

"I couldn't agree more if I actually knew where the hell you were talking about," I said. "Did you say, 'butt on'?"

The mounting piles of paperwork have even led My Love to try to escape "meeting hell" by invading my territory a few times by working from home. It's an art she's yet to fully perfect, in my opinion, at least in terms of multi-tasking. Like last week, she sat on a stool at the kitchen island, working on the computer with her Blackberry earbud welded in place for 20 straight hours. Good start, but she still shrugged off dozens of my best requests, suggestions and double-entendres to "have a snack," "get in some stretching" and "address those stubborn Tupperware stains."

Pretty much reminded me of our first trip to Las Vegas.

"I'm busted. Let's go get some dinner. The food trough is ready and waiting. I smell 10-cent shrimp cocktails!" I said, pushing away from the blackjack table.

"In a few minutes. Just one more shoe after this one."

"You said that five hours ago when I wanted to go for lunch. And three hours before that when we were supposed to meet your dad for breakfast."

"I can't break up the table. We're on a streak. You -- at third base! Split 'em and hit 'em. Now."

"Very well," I said. "I'm going out to the corner to find drug-addled call girls willing to use your toothbrush to pumice their bunions. Good by you?"

"OK. Just one more shoe after this one."

I admire her focus and dedication. In return, you'd think she'd admire mine, as best displayed in this clip from one of my favorite TV shows, "Ed" (uh, this is a name, not ED -- the abbreviation for erectile dysfunction, smartass):



How will My Love react to my blogging about this most intimate of subjects? Probably not well.

But this being a Tuesday during Thanksgiving week, not much of a loss.

---------------------------------
Are you randy? Then give me a smiley at Humor-Blogs.com because I'm desperate for your love.

My Year of At-Home Dadness

A former colleague dropped me a line to say she had a change in daytime contact information. Since we both worked in corporate communications (motto: "Using words, charts and video to tell you nothing!"), I knew this was code.

She'd been downsized, right-sized, RIF-ed, sacked, separated and sent packing.

She was one of many friends, neighbors, former co-workers and random strangers I've meet in the past few months who had also been shown the door at their places of work. Every time I hear of this, I have one and one thought only:

"You slackers! I got the heave-ho in October. Of 2007!"

Me -- a trendsetter, a pioneer. This must be how James T. Kirk felt every day at the helm of his star ship, but without the velour pants and vinyl captain's chair causing stickiness in the nether regions.

With this reminder of the recent passing of my first can-iversary (pink paper, naturally), I realized I was due for a performance review. Twelve months of emancipation from corporate dronery and, subsequently, as head of Uncool Enterprises Unincorporated deserved some serious evaluation. I sought guidance from our in-house executive HR goddess -- My Love.

"Sorry, I'm slammed," she said. "I've got 16 deadlines and three bosses breathing down my neck. Meanwhile, I've got to make PowerPoint deck salad for the Region Seven Niblick Overlay assembly and dial in to a conference call with Burpakistanbul in five minutes."

Still, it was one of the best meetings I've ever had with HR.

When I was told to meet with the HR rep at my last company for details on my separation package, she offered such insights as "I don't have any of your papers in front of me," "I'm not sure" and "I don't know how we handle that."

She ended up quitting a week before my effective termination date. I swear, I am innocent.

With no assistance from My Love, I went looking for some bottom-up feedback from the Things.

"Children, how's Daddy doing? Am I exceeding the expectations I've set for you as main proprietor of all-things parenting?"

"You're still a dork," Thing 1 said.

"I'll look into that. Thing 2, do you concur with your sister's evaluation of my performance as Dad-in-chief?"

"Can you buy me some more Pokémon cards?" he said.

"I'll have to see if you are within your budgetary allowances for this quarter. Do have the proper paperwork in triplicate with the pre-approval stamp and signature of the chief financial officer?"

"I have black stuff in my bellybutton."

Next, I tried my closest work associate, Murphy the Rabbit Killer. Unfortunately, he couldn't offer an opinion. He was in a meeting of the nasty bits with the fetid-smelling golden retriever next door.

Looks like, as usual, I'll have to fend for myself. Rather than dwell on the past, I'll move right into the goal-setting portion of my review:

Take more naps. I'm not much for siestas, but medical evidence of their benefits continues to grow. Who am I to argue with science?

Wear pajamas all day. If I'm going to be stereotyped as a work-at-home parent, why not go full throttle? This, of course, will require me to buy some pajamas. Bright side, walking the kids to school will be less breezy.

Play more golf. I remember one division president at my last company telling an audience of employees about his meeting with the executive management consultant the CEO hired to evaluate his top people. The consultant told the DP he spent too much time in the office and on job sites. Instead, he recommended the DP get out and play more golf during business hours. Which reminds me …

Expand consulting services. Time management skills, perhaps?

Practice my bass. It looks really cool on the stand in my office, but what if I finally have a potential business client over and he demands I nail The Who's "The Real Me" or else the deal is off? I heard that's how the Microsoft-Yahoo deal collapsed. Frickin' Bill fumble-fingers Gates.

Get blog readers to vote for me at Humor-Blogs.com. Why? Because I expose you to rockin' song parodies like this one:


Video: "Stay-at-Home Dad," Jon Lajoie

The Padded Cell of Uncoolness

A fellow blogger who I may be related to challenged me and the rest of her minions to let our readers peer behind our cyberspace curtains. Everyone buddy up, mind the empties on the floor and, please, no flash photography.

This is my home office, or as my accountant calls it, "The Big Write Off."

Should look familiar as it is featured in my blog banner. Note the relocation of a few key items. The beaver statue, a gift from my best friend in college, is atop the left speaker. The black-and-blue talisman, a gift My Love brought home from Istanbul (not Constantinople), is protecting me from the evil eye from a perch on right speaker. Don't stare directly at it! Some of you may go blind!

Now, let's pan and zoom.

This is the nerve center. A 5.8 GHz cordless phone. Well-fingered Rolodex (eeew, that didn't come out right). And, my baby -- 100 watts of Sharp sound! Five CD changer! AM-FM tuner! iPod slot! XM satellite radio! Dual remote controls! Oh, God. Oh, God! Yes! YES!

First reader to correctly name the three CDs visible on the left will receive a copy of the unlabeled mix CD seen right above the newspaper. It's a goodie.

Not much on this side. Yes, I am drinking tea. I've been getting the shakes from making the homebrew a bit too strong. Jeez, what's next? Geritol? Depends? White patent leather loafers with a matching belt?

The remote is for the TV you can't see to the right. It's only on for Mets games and the occasional AM glimpse of Kelly Ripa's fine self. Much MUCH more potent than caffeine. God, when will My Love get home from Turkmenistan?

The beverage warmer on the far right is a Christmas gift from Thing 2. Picked it out on his own and bought it with his own cash. It can't melt an ice cube but, for some reason, I found it to be the most impressive gift a 5-year-old without a fake ID for his old man some hooch could buy.

We bought this Wyeth print (any one know which Wyeth?) shortly after we brought home Murphy's predecessor, Kiner, in 1998. This hung over our bed in the old house.

Sometimes Kiner would actually curl up like this on our Marital Mattress and snooze underneath it. I miss him ...

… especially when my current assistant here starts nudging my wrists when I'm trying to type. OK OK OK OK! I'll let you out again! How often can you pee in an hour?

I do leave my office once in a while. Often, but not always, to use the bathroom. Sometimes, I move to this chair in the living room. I've highlighted the key features.

This is where I have lunch, read the newspapers and, when the reality of at-home dadness has become too much, I catch up on TiVo'd episodes of "Mythbusters" and daydream of me, Kari, a roll of Mentos and a few liters of Pepsi One.

But when I'm really blocked and need to get the creative juices flowing, I go here:


Then, I push the secret button on top the handle.


Kelly Clarkson! Are my wrists really that hairy?

And viola!

My muses. They are sooo good to me. Thank you, Sheinhardt Wig Company and all your subsidaries, for providing me with the fine piece of refridgeration equipment to keep my friends chilling at a quench-tastic 40 degrees, and ...!

Wait a second.

Who put the frickin' bottle of Life Water in there! Blasphemy! Blasphemy!

That's it. I was going to show you Thing 1's bedroom since that's where most of the Diva Discourses take place, but letting you see where my 8-year-old daughter sleeps … that's a little creepy.

Now go, and never darken my towels again!

But before you do, stop by the gift shop and pick up something for the kids.

Telecommuting Works … Unless You Backed McGovern in '72

In case you missed it, Tony Schwartz, the guy who created the infamous "daisy girl" ad for Lyndon Johnson, died last month.

Three things are fascinating about this:

1. When I watched the below Slate.com video, I was shocked to realize how many of his ads I remembered from childhood … and I mean very early childhood. It's a testament to how innovative they were and how often I was parked in front of the TV as a toddler. What will my kids remember? Probably ads for erectile dysfunction drugs.


2. The New York Times obit on Schwartz describes him as an agoraphobic since age 13. Nearly all his work was done without straying more than a few blocks from his Manhattan home. A telecommuter without parallel well before his time. Bring this up next time Dinosaur Boss puts the kibosh on your work-at-home plans. Of course, Dinosaur Boss also probably voted for Nixon, twice, and will sack your ass on the spot. Hey, you're better off without him.


3. Schwartz's obit ran 382 words longer than Cyd Charisse's did the next day in the Times even though I heard he had the worst white man's overbite ever when he did the Electric Boogaloo.
   
   
   

"Stick Out Your Can …"

Not only does Craigslist allow me to foist my useless crap unto others for small, nontaxable sums (further justification for maintaining my at-home Dad status - I'm the Fred Sanford of daddy bloggers), but it also presents a great challenge to me as a "writer." For how does one make my useless crap sound essential and life altering enough that some wise soul would not only buy it, but also be willing to drive to my house, hand me the cash and haul it away?

I thought I finally wrote my Craigslist masterpiece with this one for two wobbly barstools:

"They make your bottom comfy when the conversation is not. They swivel so you don't need alcohol to make the whole room pivot around you. Dimensions: 3 ft high (2 ft from seat to floor), 18-in wide. Black metal frame. Seat padding is red and gold. Really, a good deal that your tush deserves."

I was shocked that it took me 10 days to unload them. Including a phone number or e-mail address during that first week of posting might have hastened things along.

Still, my favorite part of Craigslist is checking out the writing gigs. Usually, 15 out of 16 offer no pay, no benefits and nothing beyond clips for dimeadozenpseudohipzineforposuers.com. (Note to self: Update resume.)

Now, the 16th gig is usually for pay. Good pay. It also usually requires reviewing male-on-male porn.

Fellow blogger Adam Bernard, under the influence of many a Guinness, recently suggested that this could be my calling.

"Think of the niche -- the first married, straight father to write gay porn reviews online for a living," said Adam. His own niche is being a very white, bespectacled, suburb-dwelling, cat-owning, Mets-loving … hip-hop music journalist. Simply, he's a genius bundle of contradictions in a "Hogan Family" T-shirt. I'd marry him, but that would throw off my entire marketing plan.

Yes, I am giving Adam B's idea deep, deep consideration. I can imagine my future appearances at school Career Days now.

"Now, Thing 2's dad, Mr. Uncool, will talk about his work. So, what do you do, Mr. Uncool?"

"Boys and girls, have you ever seen one male dog hop on the back of another male dog? Well, imagine that scenario but with two oiled-up beefcakes, a bottle of butterscotch Magic Shell and a popping bass and wah-wah pedal soundtrack …"
___________________________________________________
Please click Humor-Blogs.com to tell the world that someone likes me!

I got a desk full of papers that mean nothing at all

Office Dwelling Subcreatures and others -- I give you your Friday getaway song:



I have a new goal in life -- just once, in concert, I'd like to show off my rhythm egg skills on this song with the Fountains of Wayne folk. No harmonies will be attempted, just some shake 'n' bake. Trust me, I've got the wrist action down.

Can you arrange that, My Love? You know what a poor helpless "man" I am, and you are an all-powerful being I was never worthy of procreating with based on my continued inability to provide our happy home with anything other than a dishwasher in which all items are sequenced in proper spatial relationship by size, shape and material.

At least, that's what Murphy implied the other night during "South Park" reruns. See, what you miss when you "executive goddess" too much for the Healthy Snack Conglomerate and need to sack out with the kids by 9 p.m.? Your assistant really needs to enter these meetings of the Uncool Domesticated Workers and Animals Committee into your Outlook Calendar.

Oh, yeah. He also wants a bigger max on his Visa (your area) and only Aquafina in his bowl (mine).

Excuse me now, I've got overpriced shrubs from Designs By Lee to plant and mulch to spread. The manure, obviously, has already been put down.

Cheers!

Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions: At-home Dad Style

Much to my mother's chagrin, I owe much of my sense of humor to the usual gang of idiots at Mad Magazine. Imagine my reaction when I read this weekend that Al Jaffee, mastermind of back page fold-in, received a long overdue Reuben for Outstanding Cartoonist of the Year from his peers at the National Cartoonist Society.

Vin-di-CAAA-tion!

Where would I have been without Al Jaffee, Mort Drucker's movie and TV satires, Sergio Aragones' "Spy vs. Spy" tales, Don Martin's "Adventures of Captain Klutz" and the rest? Probably on my yacht in the Caribbean, counting the millions I made in a real profession.

But I'd be counting very, very dourly.

So, in tribute to one of Mr. Jaffe's most influential works in my life, here are some "Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions" about being an at-home dad:

Q. Do you miss going to an office every day?
A. Definitely, because nothing matches the thrill of sitting in rush-hour traffic.
A. Yes, I just can't seem to get enough exposure to florescent lighting on my own these days.
A. Sorry. I was too busy enjoying life to hear what you said.

Q. Does it bother you that your wife is the family breadwinner?
A. Of course, it does. I graduated with a degree in journalism specifically because the field offered such lucrative earning potential.
A. Well, it is completely throwing off my plans of living off welfare and food stamps.
A. I have a wife?

Q. Do you must miss interacting with other people every day?
A. The telemarketers fill the void, assuming you stretch the definition of "people."
A. Like a Greenwich trophy wife misses her wrinkles and saggy breasts.
A. With a credit card and an Internet connection, I interact all I like for $3.99 a minute.

Q. You must love doing housework?
A. Yes, especially in stilettos and a frilly French maid outfit.
A. Have you seen my house?
A. Yes, and if I don't get a hit of Pledge, Windex and Clorox fumes soon, I'm going to go postal on your ass.

Q. Your children must enjoy having you around all the time?
A. Those aren't my children. I rented them from a real working couple.
A. I have a court order here that says differently.
A. Shhh, they'll find me.

Q. Do the mothers look at you strangely when you show up to your children's events during the school day?
A. Strangely? No. Lustily? Yes.
A. Only when I forget my pants.
A. It's jealousy over how much better I fill out my sundress.

Q. Does being an at-home dad make you feel like less of man?
A. Yes, but I make up for it in beer consumption and poor hygiene.
A. No. Do you feel like more of a jerk for asking?
A. Yes … yes, it does. Excuse me, I need to cry now.
A. Not after I restore the balance by opening this can of whoop-ass on you.
___________________________________________________
Please click Humor-Blogs.com to tell the world that someone likes me!

Get your rock salt, honey!

This goes out to my poor friends trapped in cubicle hell on this beautiful Friday afternoon. Me, I'm heading to the 'fridge to start happy hour.



(If you're not finding this funny, it's because you're not realizing that half the images are misinterpretations of the lyrics. The chorus, for example, is actually "Get your rocks off, honey." Man, you take all the fun out of this sometimes.)

This is who we are … at 40

So here it is. The big 4-0.

Forty.

The beginning of the slippery slope downhill. Unless you go by my Blue Zone score, which says I will make it to the ripe age of 94 but spend the last 15 years paying for the indiscretions of my youth.

I feel cheated. Had I known way back when, I would have picked way better indiscretions.

So, let me start the 40th anniversary of my birth by thanking my Mom. After witnessing the birth of my own two children, I can only hope she got a real long, solid buzz from the painkillers that day.

Of course, the fact my birthday occasionally coincides with Mother's Day pretty much relegates me to second-class status every few years, but that's not your fault, Mom. We'll blame Dad, you dirty dog, you.

Next, I'm happy to report there have been no major injuries yet to mark my 40th year. My Love, who is three years wiser than I, warned me back when I turned 30 that little aches and pains that never bothered me before would now start to appear. The next day, I promptly strained my back attempting a few laps in the pool.

On the plus side, my hair didn't suddenly fall out overnight. But I knew that wasn't going to happen. I was thinking more along the lines that it would go completely shock-white like it did for Lance Henriksen's character after he watched his wife die of the apocalyptic plague in "Millennium." Now, how cool would that have been?

Instead, I'm fighting the creep of a David Letterman-esque floating isle of hair above my forehead. I'm still only at the peninsula stage but I fear the shores are literally receding. Put me down as another victim of global warming.

So what have I accomplished after four decades?

Anyone? I'm open for ideas here.

Haven't writing the Great American Novel, Short Story or Pop Song. But neither have you* … so there!

Never had true, physical carnal knowledge of Cindy Crawford.

Sorry. … Wiping drool off keyboard.

My only great regret is never having mastered a musical instrument. But, I'm still surprised that I faked musical competence well enough to sing in a band in high school, even if we never played anywhere but the drummer's basement, and play some Casio riffs for the short-lived garage band we had in my newspaper days.

Thankfully, I have erased all the tapes. I think. The memory and the reflexes are always first to go.

Some may question whether I truly lived up to being voted "most likely to succeed" in high school. I know that, in at least one area, I fared better than my female counterpart. Last I heard, through an e-mail she circulated before the 20th class reunion, she was on the prowl for husband No. 3. I'm sorry I missed that party.

I guess it depends on your definition of success. I've had jobs in which I was underpaid and overworked, overpaid and underutilized, and paid a fair wage but completely unfulfilled. I had one great job and it paid only in free admission to movies (intern in the press office of the American Film Institute in Washington, D.C.).

But the best job, honestly, has been being able to hack away on a laptop from home over the past four years. That's because it means I:

1) never have to wear a tie,
2) never have to attend meetings in which I must pretend to be enraptured by the "insights" of my CEO-ass-kissing boss," and
3) get to spend lots of time raising Thing 1, Thing 2 and the Murphinator.

I owe it all to Al Gore, for inventing the Internet, and having a wife with far more ambition, business acumen and earning potential than I.

Also, she loathes shopping and housework. I, by contrast, feel it is my duty to read the care labels on clothes and sort them appropriately before washing. This arrangement of ours is what someone in her profession would call "having complimentary skill sets."

That means, if she ever used the phrase "having complimentary skill sets" in my presence, it would send the beer I'm drinking straight out my nose. It's all about balance.

I only wished she traveled less so we could be a family more often.

OK, I also wish she was Cindy Crawford. But then, she wishes I looked like Denzel Washington and did home repair like Ty Pennington. Someday, we'll start a really successful fantasy spouse league.

Well, here's to me at 40. Always home and uncool, but pretty OK with life as it is.

***

NOTE: An entry on the surprise party My Love threw for me last weekend will be coming soon. My colon needs more time to process the 60 pounds of barbecue and birthday cake that I wedged into it.

* Unless you are Marshall Crenshaw. Then you have written many Great American Pop Songs. Why you would be reading my blog is also a topic for later.

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.