Happy -- achoo! -- holidays

Dear friends:

I’d like to thank all of you who recently shared your germs and viruses with me. Nothing says "special friendship" like a dripping nose.

Thanksgiving weekend marks the traditional start of the annual holiday blitz of shopping and parties and cockles-warming. 'Tis the season when we work-at-home types actually leave the house and interact with other humans, and we can count on contracting miserable illnesses while we're out there.

(The word "holidays" comes from the Greek holidakos, which translates to "cold and flu season." People have known since ancient times that holiday gatherings were the best places to pick up rampaging colds.)

Home-office workers are extra-susceptible to these viral onslaughts. We’re not out there in the workaday world, regularly exposed to the latest bugs, so our immunity is suppressed. Viruses take one look at our pasty indoor faces and virgin nasal passages, and you can almost hear their evil little laughs: Heh-heh-heh.

Then, whammo, they attack.

We victims are like small children who haven’t yet been exposed to the world’s germs and viruses. This is why smart parents urge their offspring to roll in the dirt and make mud pies and lick the dog. Children need to collect all the resulting immunities. We adults lose our accumulated immunities if we never go out in the world and get a booster shot of germs.

(When I was growing up in the South, we called such people “shut-ins.” They were too elderly and/or infirm to leave their homes, and they always rated a special place in prayers. I remember, as a child, being very curious about the shut-ins. I couldn’t understand why people didn’t just go to the shut-ins' homes and let them out. Why were they locked up anyway? I was an odd child.)

Most of the year, we shut-ins get our viruses directly from our own children. Every weekday, the kids go to school, where viruses hang out in the hallways like juvenile delinquents, picking their teeth and waiting for a ride. Our children embrace these miscreants and bring them home, where they run amok among the household adults.

Here’s the unfair part: The kids barely get sick, but we parents will be laid low. My teen-age son brings home some dread disease, and he’ll have the sniffles for a day or two, maybe sleep an extra hour, and he’s fine. The same virus hits my puny immune system, and I’m groaning in a bed for a week.

This time of year, though, we hermits acquire our viruses first-hand. We go to holiday parties and family gatherings, and we shake hands and kiss cheeks and dole out big hugs. During these moments of unguarded human contact, the viruses leap over onto us and sprint right up our noses.

If you’re like me, you’ll recover from your Thanksgiving cold just in time to pick up a fresh batch of viruses at Christmas. Colds and flu truly are the "gifts that keep on giving."

So thanks again, friends, for sharing with me. I hope to recover in time to see you at the New Year’s party.

You might want to skip that midnight kiss.

Up your rhubarb

(Editor’s note: To stay within the confines of language permissible in a family newspaper -- and spam filters -- all profanities in the column below were replaced with the word “rhubarb.”)

Profanity has become as common as rhubarb in workplaces and throughout society, and I’ve recently been informed that it proliferates in the home office as well.

For a decade, I worked alone at home, my only coworker our dog Elvis (who didn’t give a good rhubarb what people said as long as he regularly got scratched behind the ears). In the past two years, however, my wife has worked at home with me, and I now have an audience for my bad habits.

Turns out that I mutter curses all day long. Who knew?

Apparently, I cuss like a rhubarb when things go wrong, which, as any writer will tell you, is most of the rhubarbing time. I swear after hanging up the phone. I curse my computer. I say “rhubarb” when the words don’t fit together right. And I bray “rhubarb” in amazement when things go well.

I recognize this is a bad habit. Many people, especially those in the older generations, feel that profanity is only for rhubarbs who don’t know any better. I rarely use such language in public, if you don’t count the time I spend behind the wheel of a car. But at home, at my desk, I spew rhubarbs all day long.

(Driving time doesn’t count. I feel it is my duty to advise those rhubarbing motorists who don’t know how to drive any better than rhubarb. Plus, it contains my road rage to the spoken word, which is better than ramming every rhubarbing one of them with my minivan.)

A new study has found swearing in the workplace can actually boost morale. I know, I know. It sounded like rhubarb to me, too, at first, but the researchers found bad language creates a sort of solidarity among coworkers.

The study, reported in the British publication “Leadership and Organizational Development Journal” and at Marketwatch.com, found that men used cursing to jokingly insult each other, while women used it to assert themselves. But overdoing it can create an unpleasant work environment, the study warned. You know what a bunch of priggish rhubarbs those Brits can be.

Here in the United States, 44 percent of those polled reported hearing profanity “often” in daily life, according to a 2002 study by the research group Public Agenda. No doubt it’s only gotten worse in the past five years. Television taboos have been loosened, so we now hear words on TV that would’ve made earlier generations rhubarb all over themselves. Today’s youth seems unable to communicate without sprinkling every sentence with rhubarbs. And rap music? Holy rhubarb.

I, personally, am trying to clean up my act. My wife (who’s been known to unleash the occasional rhubarb herself) doesn’t buy the whole “coworker solidarity” rhubarb.

She’s sick of listening to me mutter rhubarbs all day. When she gets like that, you’d better cover your rhubarb, if you know what’s good for you.

I’m sure I will be a better, happier person if I eliminate profanity from my home workplace. And if you don’t believe me, you can go rhubarb yourself.

Whoops, there I go again. Sorry. I get so rhubarbing mad at myself when I slip. Whoops. Aw, rhubarb.

This may be more difficult that I anticipated. I may need help. Anyone know the address of a Rhubarbers Anonymous meeting?

Hunker in the bunker

In these troubled times of international saber-rattling, missile-wielding madmen, rising gasoline prices and daily "booga-booga" terrorism alerts, nobody could blame Americans for wanting to spend all their time at home.

Our homes are comforting hidey-holes, quiet sanctuaries where we can shut out the tumult of this crazy, mixed-up world. They're the only places where we'll feel relatively safe for the foreseeable future or, at least, until the next presidential election.

But there are dangers to hunkering down at home. Chief among these: You can become a hermit, cut off from friends and relatives and fellow citizens.

The isolation hazard is especially severe for those of us who work in home offices. If we don't have to leave the house to go to a job, why leave at all? Next thing you know, we're indoors all the time, unwashed and ungroomed, fearfully monitoring CNN and mumbling to ourselves.

It's a fine line between cautious "cocooner" and full-blown paranoid, crazy-as-an-outhouse-rat hermit. But how to tell the difference? If you spend all your time at home, how do you know you haven't already crossed the line?

What follows is a handy quiz for determining whether you've become a wartime hermit. Ask yourself the following questions:

--Do you spend more than 22 hours a day inside your home?

--Are you afraid to fly? To drive? To walk in any position other than a crouch?

--Is your only form of human interaction via e-mail?

--Do you remember the names of your neighbors? Your friends? Your children?

--Can you use the term "cocooning" without smirking?

--Do you carefully monitor the federal government's indicators of terrorism danger? Can you recite the color code by heart?

--Do sonic booms make you "duck and cover?"

--Do you watch so much television news that you've started referring to the anchormen by their first names? Do you find yourself harboring a "crush" on Wolf Blitzer?

--Do you consider television to be a "weapon of mass destruction?"

--Do you keep careful written inventory of your duct tape, flashlight batteries and canned goods?

--Does your idea of "casual wear" include a gas mask? Kevlar pajamas?

--Have you drilled your family on how to respond in case of an airborne bioterrorism gas attack? Have the drills included seeing how long you can hold your breath? Have they included the phrase, "Pull my finger?"

--Do you have a backyard bomb shelter? How about an "entrenching tool?"

--Do your neighbors describe you as "a quiet person who always kept to himself?"

--Do your neighbors provide such descriptions to the FBI?

--Are you afraid of strangers? Arabs? The French? All foreigners? Men with mustaches? The Avon lady? Teen-agers who wear their baseball caps backward? Your mother-in-law?

--Do you answer to the term "shut-in?"

--If you encounter a stranger and he smiles at you, is your first reaction: "What's wrong with that guy? Maybe I should call the FBI!"

--Are you so lonely that you welcome calls from telemarketers? What about obscene phone calls?

--Do you fantasize about visiting the airport, just to get a strip-search?

If you answered "yes" to any of these questions, then you're in danger of becoming too isolated, also known as "Hermit Code Orange." You should immediately get up and go outside and breathe some fresh air. Maybe have a chat with your neighbors.

If it goes all right, signal to the rest of us hermits that it's safe to come out. Send word via CNN.

Time for work

For those of us who work at home, the work can become a guilty secret, something we slip away from our families to do in private, like toe-picking or nose-mining.

During busy times, we're always searching for that few minutes when everyone else in the house is otherwise occupied, so we can sneak around and get a little work done. Our families call our names and demand to know what we're doing in there, and we (having learned from our children) say, "Nuh-u-u-uh-thing."

This constant sneaking to squeeze in more work is part of the balancing act of the home office, which centers on preserving the work time against the demands of the household. It's a teetery arrangement at best.

Some working parents put family and household first. They keep their homes tidy, they chaperone field trips and they bake cookes. They no doubt pull corporate coups on their cell phones while driving their minivans full of well-mannered children to yet another soccer practice.

I'm not one of those working parents. When I'm deep into a project, the housework, field trips and social activities all get overlooked. My kids are lucky if I can remember to pick them up from school.

I jealously guard my designated work hours, then chip away at the time that should be reserved for family/housework/recreation/personal maintenance. Sneaking off to my desk, a few minutes here, a few minutes there, until the household's gone to hell and I resemble Howard Hughes on his deathbed.

I recently completed seven months' work on a new book. (Granted, a novel's the type of work that lends itself to obsession, but the same would apply to any other seven-month-long work project that consumes every waking minute and invades one's dreams.) During the months I was writing, everything else got ignored or, at best, treated as an interruption. Family, chores, school and other responsibilities were given short shrift while I galloped toward "The End."

By the time I got there, I was a wreck and so was the house. The yard looked like the aftermath of some horrible accident at the dandelion farm. I'd ignored my friends and family so long, it was a wonder anyone was still speaking to me.

I emerged from my book, blinking like a bear coming out of hibernation, and turned my attention to hearth and home. It only took a month to get things squared away. I scrubbed and organized and patched up the house and the yard and my relationships. I even cleaned my desk, preparing for the next obsession to come.

Do other work-at-home types function this way? Burrowed deep into projects, coming up for air long enough to get their lives in order, then plunging into the next fanatical undertaking?

Part of my work pattern no doubt is simple insanity, but another part is driven by years of protecting my work time. When you work at home and everyone knows it, you must be prepared to say "no" a lot. People want babysitters or volunteers or chaperones, and they know you're just sitting around the house all day anyway and wouldn't it be nice if you'd help out. Whoops, next thing you know, your workweek's gone and all your deadlines were yesterday.

We must guard our work time, but it's easy to carry such vigilance too far. As the fixation grows, the project inches out other areas of life until everything, at least temporarily, is about the work. Then the project's finished, and we can relax. But no, there's all the housework, yardwork, parenting and shopping that's gone lagging while we sprinted to our latest deadline. So we spend another month or two getting our households and interpersonal relationships in order, making the most of the "down time."

Then we can relax, and we should. Because before long, another project will arise, with its deadlines and obstacles and endless demands. And it will become an obsession, consuming every private moment. Friends and family will be neglected while we sneak off to work. Outside responsibilities will be ignored. The house will be left in the dust.

So I'm teaching my kids, when they see a dusty tabletop, don't use their fingers to write "wash me." That only calls attention to Daddy's problem. Instead, they should write: "Work in progress."

Ol' Whatsisname

Sometimes, we work-at-home hermits must go out into the greater world, where we run into old friends and strike up conversations and generally act like we haven't become total social misfits.

And we're reminded that other people have lives, too, even if we're too caught up in our own domestic melodramas to keep in touch. Not only that, but they have names, and they expect us to remember them.

Seems like everywhere I go, I run into familiar faces. The swimming pool, the supermarket, the bank. All my old acquaintances are out and about, ready with a handshake and a smile. And I have no idea who these people are.

I know I should know them. I recognize their faces. Sometimes, I can even put them into context -- I know this person from my kid's school or from some party or from a story I covered back when I had a regular newspaper job. But their names? Gone. Forgotten. Erased from the memory banks.

If people were computers, I could just display an "Insufficient memory at this time" message and go on my merry way. Users understand that when it comes from machines. But they expect me -- a fellow human -- to remember their names, which leads to some awkward conversations:

"Hi there. You look so familiar. I know that face, but your name escapes me. Yes, yes, of course. I remember you. You just were out of context. I’m not used to seeing you all dressed up like that. Heh, heh. That's right, we went to school together. And then there was college. Right. Roomed together, you say? Uh-huh. Then there were those ten years we worked together at the newspaper. Sure. Oh, yeah, I DID see you last weekend at that cookout. Of course. Sorry. I’m terrible with names. "

How did this happen? I'd hate to blame creeping age. I prefer not to think about that, though the mirror tells the cruel truth. And I don't want to blame the excesses of my youth, when millions of brain cells gave up their lives to the cause of tequila.

Instead, I'll blame my children.

I trace my memory loss to the moment I chose to become a stay-at-home-dad. I isolated myself from the world, working at home and spending most of my time with two young boys. And without regular contact with other adults, I began to forget about them. In particular, their names.

My social circle shrank to the number of guys who can fit around a poker table. One close friend I see regularly, the occasional lunch out with others, but that's it. The rest of the time, I'm home with the boys, forgetting everyone else.

Meanwhile, my sons' social circle keeps growing. As they get older, they make more friends and I'm expected to remember the friends' names. And those friends have parents. And they all have names, too. Most of the parents I know have just given up. Now we greet each other with, "Hi, you're So-and-so's Dad." And we nod, knowing that's enough.

(That brings me to Today's Parenting Theory: The section of the human brain that holds other people's names is erased by high-pitched squeals, such as those frequently emitted by children. Enough yowling around the house, and our brains are washed clean.)

There's one more factor here: I write fiction as well as this column (which isn't exactly the same thing), so I spend a lot of time with my imaginary friends. More time, actually, than I spend with real, breathing adults. All day long I'm in the company of characters like Bubba Mabry and Felicia Quattlebaum and Otis Edgewater and Benjamin Dover. (Get it? Ben Dover? Har.) Those names are easy to remember because I made them up.

Maybe that's the answer in the real world, too. I'll invent new names for the people I meet. Give them some moniker I'll be more likely to remember.

So, if you run into me somewhere and I call you "Gertrude Beeblefitz," I'm sure you'll understand. You can call me "So-and-so's Dad."