A shaggy dog story

It can be a lonely workday for those of us who labor at home, but here's the answer: a dog.

(OK, don't all you cat lovers write in to complain. I'm sure cats are wonderful, too, but I'm allergic to them. I'll take your word for it. No catty letters.)

I recently returned to the world of canine companionship after a 10-year hiatus. Our last pet had been a mutant Airedale named Scotch, who still thought he was a fidgety lap dog when he reached 85 pounds. Scotch nearly caused me to swear off pets forever. He ruined the yard. He left tooth marks in the doorknob, trying to get inside. He barked all day while my wife and I were at work, prompting the neighbors to leave anonymous threatening notes. I realize now that he was lonely and neurotic and way too excitable. We found him a nice home before our first son was born.

While that was a terrible experience in pet-owning, it was, I learned later, pretty good training for parenthood.

I wasn't in any hurry to try another dog, but my wife and kids wore me down. My best ammunition -- a dog would be lonely and loud if left alone all day -- became a dud once I started working at home.

A couple of months ago, we adopted a puppy. Actually, at $75, it was more like ransom. He's a shaggy mutt named Elvis. My sons say "he ain't nothin' but a hound dog," but I believe he is part Clydesdale. He nearly doubled in size the first month we had him. He's only six months old, but we're already sizing him for a saddle. We can tell the boys we got them a pony.

So far, Elvis is rowdy with the kids, apparently thinking they're puppies, too, which isn't so far from the truth. But he thinks I'm the Alpha Male, in charge of things around here (ha, ha!), and his job is to follow me around the house.

When I go to the kitchen for coffee, he comes along, watching carefully, as if he's trying to learn to brew French Roast. (Which wouldn't be a bad trick to teach him, come to think of it.) When I'm working at my desk, he sleeps. He's delighted to go outside and play by himself.

He is, in fact, the perfect co-worker.

He doesn't talk back. He doesn't complain. He does exactly what is requested of him (sure, that's essentially nothing, but he's good at it). He never tries to sell me band candy.

He doesn't goldbrick and then hog all the credit. Indeed, a dog can even provide a good excuse for your own lolly-gagging. This has been true since the days of "the dog ate my homework," though it pays to be more sophisticated than that now. Your grandmother can pass away only so many times, but your dog can have repeated miraculous recoveries.

A dog makes sure you don't sit too long at your desk. You have to let him outside and later you have to let him back inside. He'll let you know when. One way or the other. Get too wrapped up in your work and the carpet suffers.

There are other disadvantages. Elvis sheds hairballs, something you don't see much with human co-workers. And humans don't usually snore and drool while you work. Well, some do. But they don't usually chase rabbits while they're sleeping. That can be distracting.

Because Elvis follows me wherever I go, I have a good excuse when walking around the house, talking to myself. See, I'm not really talking to myself like a lunatic, I'm talking to the DOG. Maybe he doesn't answer, but it helps to have someone to bounce ideas off. I find myself muttering, "Elvis, where did I leave that invoice?" And then, "Ah, here it is!" He shares my delight, naturally, though he may just be scamming for another Milk-Bone.

But the No. 1 reason a dog is best is this: You can rarely get your human co-workers to lie on your feet and keep them warm.

Work-at-home wardrobe rules

Memo to those who work at home:

It has come to our attention that you folks who don't go to an office every day do not adhere to an enforceable dress code.

Granted, many of you bailed out of the 9-to-5 world to escape jobs that required suits and ties or heels and hose. But how do you expect clients and the outside world in general to take you seriously if you don't dress for success? And wouldn't you feel more professional if you followed a basic dress code?

Therefore, we here in the main office have drafted a proposed dress code for those of you who never leave your homes to perform your valuable work functions. We will conduct an open comment period during which we'll seek your input. Then, without warning, the following rules will become mandatory:

1. Pajamas are not proper office attire. Ditto for bathrobes.

2. Blue jeans are acceptable, of course, as long as you're not meeting clients face-to-face. But there are limits, people. Blue jeans that have been worn for more than six days in a row without washing will be considered a violation of the dress code.

3. Jeans with holes, slashes, patches, burn marks, tire tread patterns, coffee stains or large ink spills are verboten. Legs of said jeans should be approximately the same length.

4. Baby formula spit-up on your shoulder is not to be considered an accessory. Dried spit-up on both shoulders cannot be passed off as epaulets.

5. T-shirts are acceptable as long as they are in good condition (see Item 3 above). T-shirts should not bear beer slogans, rock band logos, curse words or depictions of naked people. Remember: Even if you don't see any clients all day, you'll probably run into your child's teacher at the supermarket.

6. Sweatshirts. See Item 5.

7. Sweatpants are comfortable work-at-home attire, but wearing them anyplace public should be reconsidered. No one's backside looks good in sweatpants.

8. Even though you're no longer going to a proper workplace, underwear still should be changed and laundered regularly. Turning it wrongside out doesn't count.

9. Flannel shirts are proper attire, if you're a lumberjack. However, we recognize that many of you work in poorly heated spaces and therefore need to layer on warm shirts, so we are willing to overlook these. Flannel shirts should have at least 50 percent of their original buttons. Any flannel shirt you owned in high school probably should be discarded.

10. Denim shirts. See Item 9.

11. Clothes should be put on hangers after they are laundered. Valuable work time is wasted sorting through that pile on the floor of your closet, trying to select a garment on the basis of crunchiness.

12. We here at the main office recognize that many of you enjoy the comfort of bare feet. But there are many hazards lurking in your home. Sharp-cornered plastic Legos. Need we say more?

13. Similarly, working in the nude to circumvent these regulations is not recommended. That coffee is hot. Trust us.

14. Personal hygiene remains important, even for those who work all alone. Here, we will refer you to the Rule of Doubles. You can safely double whatever your practices were when you worked at a regular job without risking dismissal or divorce. For example, if you showered daily when you went to the office, you can now shower every other day. Ditto for shaving your face or legs. However, if you were one of those pigs who only showered once a week to begin with, you might want to consider taking the math the other direction. Teeth should be brushed regularly and deodorant applied every day. You may be working at home, but there's still your family to consider. And, believe us, they'll let you hear about this.

There, that wasn't so painful, was it? No neckties. No high heels. Just a few basic rules for maintaining a professional appearance, even when there is no one around to see it. You'll look better and feel better. And you'll be ready to get right to work every morning, which is all we here at the main office care about anyway..

When I'm calling yoo-oo-ooo-oou...

At my house, we greet the dawn yelling.

Every morning, it's a mad scramble to get the kids off to school on time. I'm busy getting ready for the day, too, racing through a shower and hunting up yesterday's blue jeans in preparation for another day in the home office. My two sons and I end up in opposite ends of the house, shouting back and forth. I demand that they get dressed and brush their teeth. They scream back excuses and complaints and pledges of compliance.

The result often is strange, as in this recent exchange:

Me (from the living room): "Achoo!"

Six-year-old (from his room): "I'm hurrying!"

Such miscommunication comes because we live in The House That Devours All Sound.
It's an old brick house, solidly built, with lath-and-plaster walls instead of modern Sheetrock. It does a good job of keeping out street noise and muffling altercations in distant rooms.

Sometimes, the boys resolve their arguments before a parent is even sure what's going on in there. Other times, we go running at the piercing cry of a child in pain, only to find the child shrieking with laughter when we arrive. It's hard to tell exactly what you're hearing in a house that chews up sound waves and spits them out as garbled noises.

So we have a lot of room-to-room conversations that go like this:

Kid: "Augu tanay ob myma neff!"

Me: "What?"

Kid: "Augu tanay ob myma neff!"

Me: "What?!"

Kid, frustrated, louder: "Augu tanAY ob myma NEFF!"

Me, starting to stew: "Come in here if you want to talk to me!"

Kid, shambling into room, rolling his eyes: "I got an 'A' on my math test."

Me: "Oh, why didn't you say so? That's great."

Kid stalks away, shaking his head.

Confusion can ruin even the best moments of child-parent relations.

Partly for this reason, and partly because the old vocal cords were going, I sought a high-tech solution. For Father's Day, I requested as my annual tribute an intercom system for the house.

My wish was granted.

It's your basic Radio Shack model, three anonymous gray boxes, each with a button to push when you want to be heard. Essentially, they're walkie-talkies for the home. Plug them in, push the button and your voice booms into the farthest reaches of your property. Use a deep voice, and it sounds like a message from God. If that still doesn't get the kids' attention (and you'd be surprised how often that's the case), the boxes also have a button labeled "call." Push that button, and the intercom emits a high-pitched squeal, one that can't be easily ignored, one that says, "Come over to the intercom right now and listen to what I'm saying." The intercoms also have a button labeled "lock" that keeps the channel open so you can eavesdrop on whoever's at the other end of the line.

We installed the intercoms in the living room, in the detached studio where I work and in the basement, which doubles as a rec room for the kids. Now, when I want the boys to turn off the blaring TV downstairs, obedience is as close as the nearest intercom. And if they pretend they can't hear me, there's always the dreaded "call" button.

The system isn't foolproof. The 6-year-old tries to play songs with the shrill call tone. And, as I learned, the "lock" button is dangerous.

I was in the studio, supposedly working, while my wife was in the house with the kids. I didn't realize one of the kids had left the intercom locked on. When my computer game cheated (really!) and I suddenly was defeated, I uttered a very bad word. A series of words, actually. Multisyllabic and blue.

My wife came on the intercom and said calmly: "Are you all right out there?"

I quickly realized what had happened and was forced to explain that I was playing instead of working and the computer had gotten me riled.

"Oh," she said, "I thought maybe you'd fallen down again."

At least I think that's what she said. I couldn't really tell. Somebody was pushing the "call" button.

Laughing at deadlines

A kindly old editor once explained to me the facts of life in journalism: “Deadlines are simple. Cross the line, and you’re dead.”

Probably not an original thought, and he had a gleam in his eye when he said it, but I took it to heart. Through two decades in the news business, I rarely missed a deadline. In fact, I usually got my stories turned in early. It left more time to argue with the editors.

Deadlines are more extreme in the newspaper business, as the old editor’s advice shows, but every industry has them. That's why you see people using laptop computers at the beach. It's why the businessman with the car phone to his ear nearly mowed you down in traffic this morning. And it's one reason ulcer medications sell so well (parenting being the other reason).

When you work at home, with no boss looming over your desk, deadlines are largely self-imposed. Granted, clients make demands and there are only so many hours in each day. But when you work at home, your schedule is your own. If you need to work all night to meet a deadline, then you do it. You can catch up on your sleep when you’re done. The trick is to pace yourself, so you don’t end up pulling too many all-nighters. Keep busy every day, plan ahead, make a schedule. Stay on top of the work before it gets on top of you.

OK, you can stop laughing now. No really. Stop it.

It truly is possible to keep a normal schedule when you work at home. Divide up the amount of work you have to do in a given week by the number of days you can actually work on it. Then set daily goals. Meet each goal, and -- voila! -- you’ve met the deadline.

Stop that chortling. You think I can’t hear that? Enough already.

So the secret is all in the planning. Set aside time for e-mail and paperwork and phone calls that’ll interrupt your progress. Remember that Monday is grocery day and Wednesday is laundry and Friday is the dental appointment. Write it all down so you don’t forget. Then chart the available hours that remain.

Cut it out now. I mean it. I’m trying to give you good advice here and you’re still snickering.

OK, so you’ve figured out how many hours you have left. Did you leave room for all this weekly planning? Getting organized takes time. And you’ll need more time later in the week to re-evaluate your plan and make sure it’s working. Interruptions happen. You can’t anticipate that quick trip to the emergency room or that computer meltdown. So if things go wrong, you’ll need time to reconfigure your plans. If it means doubling up your work hours for a day or two to still hit that deadline, it’ll be worth it, won’t it? A happy client is a client for keeps. And an unhappy client won’t care that you were called away from your work by an equally unhappy schoolteacher who wants to discuss little Johnny’s spitball habit.

See? There you go again. Are you serious about making your deadlines or not? All right then, stop snorting and listen.

We’re talking about discipline here. If you’re going to be a success working at home, it takes discipline and dedication and determination and several other traits that start with the letter "D." Just like Deadline. And only you can do it. No one’s going to monitor your progress or suggest a shortcut or recommend that a briefer lunch hour would mean more efficiency. It’s up to you.

A pep talk does you no good, huh? Just more hilarity at the notion of keeping on top of everything and never having to burn that midnight oil. All right, fine. Forget the whole thing.
Find your own method for meeting your deadlines.

I don’t have time for any more of this anyway. I’ve got a project to complete. And if it’s not finished on time, I’m dead.

Flame wars in the 'hood

I called a man a "twit" the other day.

This isn't like me. Don't get me wrong, I can be as guilty of name-calling as the next purported grown-up. But, like most people, I prefer to spread my slurs in the usually safe zone behind the other man's back. If I get riled enough to go face-to-face with somebody, we've usually moved beyond the "twit" stage and into the shouting of unprintables.

But this wasn't a face-off. It was via e-mail. And this guy had said something so, so twittish that somebody had to call him on it.

The occasion arose on a mailing list called DorothyL, which is for readers and writers of mysteries. Delivered daily by e-mail, the list resembles an extended conversation about books among its 3,000 or so members.

One member is facing a serious illness, and asked others to send her messages that said they were burning candles for her. She was making a map with these "points of light" all over the globe as an inspiration to get well. Hundreds of us replied and it was going sweetly until one snarky guy complained that these messages had nothing to do with the topic of the list -- mystery stories.

Now, I don't know this guy. I don't know the ailing woman, either. So why did his message enrage me so? Within seconds, I was boiling. Within minutes, the message had been sent. Zoom, with all the speed of e-mail. Delivered to the list for all to see. Twit.

As is typical of these virtual conversations, a flame war quickly ignited. Some defended the twit. Others pounced on him, as I had. After two days of bickering, the manager of the list told everybody to cool it and was obeyed. Within a week, the list was in an uproar over some other slight and I cackled loudly while watching the battle from the safety of my home office. This time, I stayed out of it.

For those of us who work at home, such virtual neighborhoods can become too familiar. There are mailing lists and newsgroups out there on the Internet for every interest, everything from sheepdogs to Sherlock Holmes. What begins as a fount of information soon becomes a source of camaraderie. We develop virtual friendships. And, like kids on a playground choosing up sides, we make virtual enemies, too. Before you know it, you're calling somebody a twit. Or somebody's saying the same about you.

Because it's all said via e-mail, it carries the protection of anonymity and distance. Sure, you might attach your name to the flame, but there's no danger that the guy you call a twit is going to take a poke at you. The worst that can happen is someone who's wittier or meaner will get you back, that you'll become the butt of the joke or the target of the attacks. It may sting, but it's only e-mail, right? That's why computers come with a "delete" button.

The intriguing part is how something so remote becomes so emotional. I sometimes laugh aloud at others' posts. I was near tears when a distraught DorothyL member recently reported the death of a well-loved author. And I clearly can be moved to anger by the occasional twitticism.
None of it is real. We're all alone, all of us, sitting at our computers, playing at friendship and enmity and debate. Yet it feels like a cocktail party, clamorous with gossip and argument and inane chatter.

When pollsters ask telecommuters what they miss most about not going to a regular office, the answer usually has nothing to do with the work itself. Thanks to computers and modems and the Internet, most of us can do our work anywhere. What we miss is the office environment: the internal politics and the hearsay and the lunchtime conversations. We miss the water cooler.

And now the computer supplies that, too.