Work-at-home tip, No. 1

Inevitably, you will be on a conference call and someone will make a crack about you working in your pajamas. This "original" witticism gets old fast.

Solution: After they make their sniggering PJ remark, respond with: "Actually, I sleep in the nude."

Who's fooling who today?

Choice Pet Supply on High Ridge Road -- you have the right to charge whatever the market demands. If you are, by far, the most overpriced pet store in Stamford yet year after year you survive, good for you.

But when you ask $48.99 for the same 40-pound bag of dog food I can buy at Sport-N-Life on Glenbrook Road for $34.99, you need to remove from your storefront that three-window-wide, crimson red sign that reads "Discount Pet Supply."

Now. I'm waiting.

Ring, ring. "Hello, Attorney General Dickie B.? Yes. Press conference."

If there's a camera present, you know he'll attend. You've been warned.

OK, the rabbits you have up front are always adorable. Your salespeople are pleasant. And usually helpful.

Jeez.

Just overcharge me for this bag of cheese-and-egg flavored Charlie Bear treats before the guilt overwhelms me.

Curse this white boy pain of mine!

Where have you gone, Keith Osik?

I know the Red Sox and A's played two games in Japan last week.

Yes, Ryan Zimmerman homered in the bottom of the ninth so the Washington Nationals could beat those evil Atlanta Braves in D.C. last night and officially break in their new stadium with a win.

But to me, the baseball season doesn't start until the game is played both on American soil and under the sun.

Even when the Mets opened in Japan a few years ago, it didn't count as far as I was concerned. My Love, who woke me at 4 in the morning so I could watch that game and made me a breakfast of Lit'l Smokies, spicy mustard and Shiner Bock, understands, too. God bless her.

The following comes from Greg Shea, author of one of the first Web sites/e-mail digests I ever subscribed to back in the dark days. It was called "The Closer," a funny, insightful summary of the day's baseball action. I miss it. I think Greg later got a job with ESPN.com. He deserved it.

I like to circulate his poem at this time every year because it's a perfect description of how I feel about this day.

Except for that cola reference. Sorry, dear.

TODAY

Today you'll dig in the closet for your glove and snap a ball into it while sipping your morning coffee.
Today as the toast comes out of the toaster, you'll still remember how to execute a perfect "pop-up" slide.
Today you'll drive to work and admonish yourself to "keep your head down" and your eye on the road.
Today your team will be in first and planning to stay there.
Today you'll end your contract holdout.
Today you'll still be able to turn the double play.
Today you won't lose a business deal in the sun.
Today you'll find yourself rotating your arm around your head to stretch the shoulder and keep it loose.
Today someone asks if you'll be at the meeting and you respond by saying, "Let's play two."
Today you spend an hour in the attic with old baseball cards and dusty Sports Illustrateds.
Today sunflower seeds strangely find their way into your back pocket.
Today you find yourself muttering something about "Bill freakin' Buckner."
Today you'll think of wearing a black suit to match the eye black.
Today you'll have the steal sign.
Today you slip up in a meeting and mention "our sales team ... vs. lefties."
Today a hot dog and peanuts for lunch will sound about right.
Today you tell a co-worker to "warm up."
Today the only strike you'll know about is above the knees and below the armpits.
Today you'll wear your jacket only on your pitching arm.
Today you'll buy two packs of gum and stuff them in the side of your mouth.
Today, during lunch, you'll wonder why Coke doesn't come in a wood can.
Today you'll scratch yourself and spit for no apparent reason.
Today you'll wonder why stirrup socks never caught on.
Today you'll be the rookie looking to make it big.
Today you'll be the wily vet with just a little something left.
Today you'll look for the AM dial on your radio.
Today your glove is hanging off the handlebars of your bike.
Today seems like a good day for an ice cream before you head home.
Today is box scores and "Baseball Tonight."
Today is Donnie Sadler and Keith Osik.
Today is Sammy Sosa and Barry Bonds.
Today your first coach is cheering. Still.
Today mom's watching.
Today dad's in the backyard -- with his glove.
Today it'll still be a kids' game.
Today you'll be a kid.
Today is Opening Day.

March 31, 2002 - By Greg Shea
Copyright © 2000 The Closer

But the box is a good source of fiber

I'm not exactly sure when my kids' addiction to French toast sticks started. In any case, it ends today.

A few months ago, the brand (Farm Rich) I usually buy Thing 1 and Thing 2 stopped appearing in my grocer's frozen food section. That bites. They were tasty, not too greasy and contained some general semblance of nutrition, at least compared to the entire line of Entenmann's donuts and danishes I grew up on.

So we tried Murry's Double Cinnamon French toast sticks. Seemed to satisfy the brood, all right. Then, one day, I read the nutritional information on the side of the box.

What follows is the actually e-mail exchange between me and a senior VP at Murry's:

Me: I've bought your French toast sticks for my kids many times. I notice the box says they are "vitamin fortified," but the nutrition panel lists the only detectable amount of vitamin or mineral is iron at 2% of the daily recommended allowance. Isn't the "vitamin fortified" statement (on the cover of the box) a bit misleading?

French toast guy: This correspondence is in regards to your inquiry regarding the use of the phrase "vitamin fortified" as it appears on our Murry's French toast items. The bread utilized in the production of the Toast is baked in accordance with our Murry's bread specification that states that the Enriched flour must be utilized. The term "enriched" means that when formulating the flour for the bread a standard component of vitamins is added into the process. When looking at the ingredient statement on the French toast carton, you will see that the first ingredient says "Enriched Flour" follow by parentheses that include a series of terms that define the enrichment. Each of those ingredients is a vitamin. Hence, the use of the term "vitamin fortified." However, when you look at the vitamin content in the Nutritional facts panel it read "0" for 3 of the 4 vitamins. Unfortunately, the cartons have been misprinted and should show the percentage of vitamins used in the enrichment of the flour. When we produce French toast cartons millions are printed at one time. There is a very long time frame before the next printing for us to correct the problem. Both the Quality Assurance and purchasing departments are aware of this error and have taken the necessary steps to correct. I thank you for taking the time to inquiry about our product and for being a customer for Murry's.

I've had to handle consumer complaints in a prior life. I've made mistakes (this blog possibly being the latest; once entering an Achy Breaky Heart dance contest being among the ugliest) and I'm willing to cut people some slack. It was a misprint on the box, so rather than drop a kajillion dollars and hike up the price of my kids' breakfast food, they are going let the supply of boxes run out and then put the ones with the correct info out there. They care! I feel the love!

But one thing bothered me about the French toast guy's reply. I mean, aside from the Random capitalization Of words his Company Thinks are Important. So, I wrote back.

Me: Thanks for your reply. So, what are the correct vitamin levels that will appear on the new boxes?

French toast guy: The percent of enrichment for each of the items would be 2% based on the final formulation.

To clarify, that means 2% of the recommended daily allowance of Vitamins A, C and D. And don't forget the 2% of iron currently listed on the box.

Kids, tomorrow, it's Crumb Coffee Cake and Rich Frosted Donuts for the lot of you. Chow down.

Not letting sleeping dogs lie

My Love has decided that our dog should start sleeping in our room. This could be yet another subtle plot of hers to avoid my advances. She claims otherwise.

"I want to get rid of that dog gate at the bottom of the stairs," she said.

The gate prevents Murphy, who is still in puppy adolescence at 22 months, from sneaking up to the second floor. When up there, he inevitably goes straight to one of The Things' room in search of one of their stuffed animals.

If he goes to our boy's room, he either slobbers over Greenie, a bear won at Dave & Buster's two years ago, or Mommy Beaver, a stuffed beaver a friend bought for me years ago because … well, because my nickname is "Beaver." (Not sure why our son is convinced this is a female and a mom, but never try to reason with a kindergartener set in his stuffed animal beliefs.) If Murphy heads to our girl's room, he takes his pick from among 1,604 Webkinz.

"We just need to make sure the doors upstairs are closed," I said, apparently expressing far too much husbandly confidence than I should. Suffice it to say, I was overruled.

Then, I brought up that Murphy sleeps in his crate at night. Which is locked. And in my office. Downstairs.

See where I'm coming from on the "avoid my advances" angle?

So, on Monday night, Murphy was brought upstairs from his comfy crate. He quickly jumped up on the bed, and demonstrated how happy he was to be here by using his tongue to give free facial dermabrasion. After a brief struggle, he rotated around and planted his yellow Lab rump on my pillow.

"How about a good night kiss, hun?" I asked My Love. She didn't fall for the bait.

Murphy eventually turned his 72 pounds of fur and flesh around and, thankfully, downwind. All was well, although I'm pretty sure this goes against every "Dog Whisperer" episode I've ever TiVo-ed. Forgive me, Cesar, but you are married and we both know that "pack leader" crap only works for dogs, wolves and cults.

Tuesday night, My Love suggested bringing Murphy's dog bed upstairs to see if he would sleep in it. I was going to suggest it the night before, but unlike the dog, I had learned better by now. I know, I know. I'm the one who took the dog to training, watched the videos, clicked the clicker, picked up the poop, and so on, but how am I to argue with an empowered woman's determination to do things her way? You think Bill tries to talk Hillary out of those god-awful pants suits? Hmm, let me rephrase that …

So, for the next hour, it was "Murphy, go to your spot. Go to your spot." Followed by "Muphy, dowwwwn. Dowwwwn." Followed by a lot of cussing.

Honestly, I have no problem with the dog being upstairs. Our first dog, another Lab, would start on our bed before jumping off and crawling underneath it for the night. It worked well until you dropped something and it rolled under the bed. He wouldn't eat it, but crawling under there to get it meant coming out with a two-inch layer of fuzzy yellow ex-dog on you.

Finally last night, Murphy settled on his dog bed. He jumped up only once. It was about 4 a.m. and he did it to give the wife a wake-up lick.

She then took him downstairs and let him outside to do what he needed to do.

Then, she put him in his crate, locked it and came back to bed.

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.