Naked truth

Before we go any further, let me say I am fully clothed while I write this. Just for the record.

Once word of a recent survey gets around, such intimate information may be required before any business transaction. For instance, when answering the phone: "Hello, this is Joe Beeblefitz at Kumquat Industries. I am not naked. Now how may I help you?"

It seems that the folks at Ikea, the international furniture dealer, did a survey of men and one of the questions the snoops asked was whether the men had any desire to work naked. Three percent of men who work in traditional offices admitted they'd like to toil in the buff.

Look around your workplace. If you've got 100 people there, three of them harbor a secret desire to strip off their clothes and get busy in their cubicles. They're probably the ones who smile to themselves a lot.

You have to wonder what they're thinking. Maybe they long for the feeling of freedom that would come with going around in the nude. Perhaps they have a philosophical antagonism toward fashion. Maybe they feel that clothing not only doesn't make the man, but it hides us from our true selves. Or, maybe they just have a problem with their shorts binding.
Whatever the reason, I'd avoid them if I were you.

The survey asked the same question of men who worked at home and none of them expressed a desire to shuck their clothes while working, even though 12 percent said their home offices are in their bedrooms, where nakedness might well be expected.

The newspaper item that exposed these survey results said, "You'd think it would be the other way around." Clearly, the poor misguided person who wrote the article doesn't work at home.
It's much too dangerous at home to go around naked all the time. The home office is full of sharp corners and electrical cords and whirring machinery. A naked man should think twice before leaning over an operating fax machine. He might end up sending the wrong message.

And how can a naked person get the house cleaned and the meals prepared? Besides the obvious questions about sanitary conditions, housework is fraught with peril. Spattering grease while cooking. Hot water splashing out of the sink. Spilled coffee. Power tools. Ginzu knives. Weed-whackers. Romping pets with their sharp claws and snapping teeth. That potted cactus over in the corner.

These dangers exist in the era of modern conveniences. Imagine if you had to cook over an open flame or sweep with a broom made from twigs or gather your own blackberries. And remember wringer washers? They were so dangerous to various dangling portions of the anatomy that it became a cliche to mention something caught in a wringer.

I find that a thick bathrobe is the absolute minimum protection required to insulate me from the dangers of my own home. Sure, my robe is covered with cigarette burns and scratches and stains, but I figure it's better to sacrifice the terry-cloth than my own bare skin. I can always get a new robe. A new hide is harder to come by.

The more I ponder the hazards around me, the more I think it would be a good idea to do the housework in one of those armored suits like the bomb squad guys wear. It might restrict my mobility, might be a little warm in the summer, but it would sure be safer than jiggling around naked.

Even if nudity was so important to me that I was willing to brave these dangers, there are other people to consider. Salespeople ring the doorbell occasionally. I have to go outside to pick up the newspaper and would undoubtedly bump into the neighbors. My own children would point and snicker. Who needs the aggravation?

But the No. 1 reason you won't catch this work-at-home dad laboring in the nude is that I spend most of my workday in a high-backed swivel chair made of black leather. Can you imagine what that would be like in the good ole summertime?

Taking the plunge

So maybe you've been reading this column for a while and you're thinking: Boy, this jerk's got a sweet deal. Putter around the house, watch over a couple of kids, contemplate his navel, all while his wife's bringing home the family bacon.

You're right, of course. It is a sweet deal. But it took years of mental and financial preparation before I could quit the 9-to-5 world and become a full-time writer and househusband. Only the strong of mind and spirit (and wallet) can withstand the daily onslaught of housework and home repairs, kids and pets, computer crashes and culinary catastrophes.

If you've been thinking of starting an at-home business, you should first check your mental readiness. Can you work productively without adult supervision? Do you panic when faced with unstructured time? Are you too attached to your necktie, your co-workers, your salary to leave it all behind?

We have formulated a handy quiz to test your mental preparedness. Think of it as a checklist of your coping resources. Sort of like those inventories of supplies kept in bomb shelters.

The test is self-scoring. There are no wrong answers. If you're honest with yourself, however, you'll soon realize you're crazy as a loon for even considering quitting your day job.

Q. The thing I fear most about working at home is:

a) Solitude.

b) Loneliness.

c) Forgetting the niceties of social interaction, such as table manners.

d) All of the above.

Q. The thing I would most enjoy about working at home would be:

a) Solitude.

b) Setting my own schedule.

c) Being allowed to smoke at my desk.

d) "Oprah."

Q. When I'm working, I like to wear:

a) Stylish clothes that catch the eye.

b) Conservative business attire.

c) Sweatpants.

d) Nothing.

Q. When the doorbell rings, I know it will be someone trying to sell me:

a) Avon.

b) Fresh fruit.

c) Salvation.

d) All of the above.

Q. When working on a computer, the error message I fear most is:

a) "Insufficient memory at this time."

b) "A fatal exception has occurred."

c) "General failure."

d) What's an error message?

Q. My child is stuck up a tree, screaming for help. I would:

a) Call the fire department.

b) Climb up the tree and help him down.

c) Stand below, ready to catch him, while I gently coax him down.

d) Hide in the house until he figures it out on his own.

Q. When the phone rings, I expect it to be:

a) An important client.

b) A telemarketer.

c) My spouse, wondering whether I've accomplished anything today.

d) The state Children, Youth and Families Department.

Q. Faced with two inches of water on the laundry room floor, I would:

a) Unplug all the electrical appliances, clean up the mess and try to find the problem.

b) Call a plumber.

c) Call my spouse and whimper into the phone.

d) Tell the kids we're having a pool party.

Q. To make my home the perfect place to work, I need:

a) A supportive family.

b) A loyal dog.

c) E-mail.

d) A straitjacket.

Phone at your own risk

I was talking to a bookseller the other day -- long-distance, on my dime -- when I suddenly realized our chat had strayed far from business. And I was the one doing all the talking.

That's one of the dangers of working at home all day, without colleagues to harangue and complain and share gossip. The telephone becomes your only shot at adult conversation during the workday. Business calls soon turn to chitchat, which turns into big phone bills.

Now you could argue that it's all business, that talking about fishing or cigars or cars with a client is as important as getting to the point. You could say: Let them see our human side, so they'll feel loyalty toward us and our products.

You would be wrong. People in regular offices don't have time for such idle yammering. Their other phones are ringing, their workmates are trying to get their attention, their deadlines loom. They're searching their desks for Maalox while we yak away, telling them about our day at home. Believe me, they don't care how many loads of laundry you did or that the dog ate your sneakers. They're busy.

I know this, yet it's nearly impossible to restrain myself. After a minute or two on the phone, I find myself warming to the conversation. I'm a naturally gregarious person. I love to talk, even when I know the person on the other end of the phone has other, more urgent, things to do.

This talkiness doesn't fit with the other parts of my personality. I'm generally a misanthrope, and I enjoy working all by myself. I remember taking one of those tests they give you in middle school, the ones aimed at helping you settle on a career, and the test found that my personality was best-suited for jobs as a forest ranger or a fire watcher. In other words, I should be working in the forest, all alone, like Bigfoot.

But put me in a group of people, and I'm Mr. Chatty, telling jokes and windy anecdotes, relating the latest news and gossip, dishing out the bon mots like they were bonbons. And since I'm home all day and such opportunities are rare, telephone conversations become my outlet.

Anyone who phones my house is in danger of being tied up for a long time. It's a short hop from "hello" to "did I ever tell you about that time I was in Mexico and we were running out of gas in the desert--" Next thing you know, an hour has passed, and neither of us has gotten any work done.

Sometimes, I get so starved for adult conversation, I even listen to the telemarketers' spiels. Normally, they get two lines into their pitches, and I give them the quick "no thanks" and slam down the phone. But the other day I listened to some woman in North Carolina tell all about the wonderful prizes I would receive if I'd only order some magazines. I still told her "no thanks," but at least I'd heard an adult voice for a while. I wonder if she knew she'd been used.

Notice I keep saying "adult" conversation. This being summertime, I have my two sons at home with me most of the time. They have plenty to say, but the bulk of it centers on Pokemon and X-Men and who-hit-whom-first, and I can only listen to so much of it before my ears start bleeding.

Naturally, a lot of their conversation with me occurs while I'm on the phone with somebody else. Nothing is more magnetic to children than a parent talking on the phone. To them, the ringing of the telephone is like the bell in a boxing ring. It sends them rocketing into action, surrounding Dad, tugging at his sleeve, trying to show him the latest Game Boy victory or missing tooth.

Clients aren't impressed by all the noise in the background. You can only cup your hand over the receiver to say "not now" so many times before the client says "no thanks" and slams down the phone.

So call me up sometime. It'll be a treat. But the conversation could take a while. You've been warned.

Holidays for the housebound

Now that the holiday weekend has drawn to a close, many of us who work at home can take a deep breath and say: What holiday weekend?

Holidays don't mean much to work-at-home spouses. Neither do weekends. No matter how special the time off may be for you regular workaday types, for us they're just more of the same. Deadlines still must be met, laundry must be done, meals must be cooked, trash must be bagged, kids must be rounded up and hosed off.

Sometimes, the workload even increases on weekends. Spouse and children go into a sloppy who-cares-it's-the-weekend mode, and the spouse-in-charge becomes ever more harried,
trying to keep the household together.

Weekends and holidays are the times when people come to visit. Those people know which spouse is in charge of keeping up the house, so we become hyperaware of the dust bunnies and the dirty socks and the strewn toys. We bustle around, trying to pick up the candy wrappers and newspapers and individual shoes that the other family members shed around the house like dandruff. And there's no way we can keep up because we're outnumbered.

All this, plus we try to pack in recreational activities, so our spouses won't discover we've become total drudges who've forgotten how to have fun.

By the time Monday rolls around, we almost welcome it. Sure, the work has piled up over the weekend, but at least fewer people are underfoot and we can clean and scrape and put away and replenish. This can take several days, particularly if a non-housework project deadline looms, but eventually order is restored to the household. By then it's Friday, and the weekend bedlam hits again.

This nonstop, seven-day-a-week workload is one reason it's so important for at-home workers to occasionally treat themselves to a real day off. Pack the kids off to Grandma's and let them wreck her house for a change. Ignore the clutter and dust and dirty socks. Avoid the computer and the telephone and the fax machine. Take some time just for yourself, luxuriate in the lack of demands, get a massage, go to a movie, read undisturbed. Or just sit quietly, shell-shocked, not quite believing that you have a day to yourself.

How best to spend a day alone? We here at The Home Front have taken an informal poll of housespouses and have ranked the popularity of their suggestions. We offer them to you, as a public service, so you can make the most of those rare days of solitude:

1. Sleep.
2. Nap.
3. Drink beer.
4. Doze.
5. Sit in quiet repose, plotting how to get more days off.
6. Gardening (although this comes dangerously close to working).
7. Lounge by the pool.
8. Sleep by the pool.
9. Treat sunburn.
10. Go to the movies and pig out on popcorn.
11. Watch rented videos and pig out on microwave popcorn.
12. Purge.
13. Indulge in a bubble bath and hours of personal grooming.
14. Stare longingly into the mirror, wishing that grooming made a difference.
15. Go to a park, lie on your back in the soft grass and count clouds. Awaken hours later to treat sunburn and insect bites.
16. Sit in the cool indoors and meditate. Try to ignore squeaky sound the air conditioner suddenly is making.
17. Read good books.
18. Read trashy books.
19. Thumb through magazines.
20. Thumb a ride to the next town so your family can't find you when they get back. .

Repairmen to the rescue

A recent TV ad shows a woman desperately phoning locksmiths because her husband accidentally locked himself in the bathroom. As with most clever advertising, I have no idea what they were selling. I only remember chuckling the first time I saw it because the guy was killing time by putting some kind of green cosmetic gunk on his face.

Advertising and the media in general portray the American male as being inept. We can't fix anything around the house without causing a minor explosion. We're embarrassed to talk to our kids about sex. We wear stupid "Kiss the Cook" aprons while charring burgers on smoky backyard grills. We think Air Guitar is a spectator sport.

This stereotype omits a huge chunk of the male population, those savvy types who know how to fix things. Handymen, plumbers, locksmiths, carpenters, boxing promoters. Some men are never more comfortable than when presented with a knotty problem to solve.

I'm not one of those men. Faced with an emergency repair around the house, I curse and mutter and fume. I make feeble attempts that usually result in skinned knuckles and a worse problem, maybe even a minor explosion. I've learned that the best tool to use in times of crisis is a ballpoint pen -- for writing the check to the real repairman who rides to our rescue.

A case in point: We recently needed a locksmith because a bathroom door was locked and we had no key. Unlike the TV commercial, no one was locked in the bathroom. We were all locked out. One of my sons slammed the door behind him as he exited, the latch caught and we were stuck. Might not seem like much of a crisis, especially since other bathrooms were available for the most urgent reasons people need a bathroom. But this was the master bathroom, which contains all the cosmetics and hair dryers and razors and magazines. We needed in there.

I write crime novels in which people are always picking locks. They insert a couple of little metal doodads, give them a twist and -- voila! -- the door opens. The real world doesn't work that way. After twenty minutes of scratching up the doorknob with Allen wrenches and straightened paper clips, I called the locksmith. He arrived at our house, went directly to the door and, using a gizmo that looked like a pistol with a nail jutting from the barrel, had the door open in one minute flat. I wrote him a check for $42.

An hour later, our idiot dog Elvis mistook a large plate-glass window for an exit. The window shattered, surprising Elvis and everyone else in the house. The dog was unharmed, but jagged shards went everywhere. After the initial shock, I was pretty calm. Here was a repair job I knew I shouldn't even attempt. Phone calls were made. Repairmen arrived. We wrote a check for $200 and the window soon was good as new. The dog forgot all about the trauma. We put a potted plant in front of the window as a preventive measure. Next time, when Elvis excitedly heads that way, maybe he'll stop to smell the flowers before lunging through the glass.

We were so grateful for the quick repair that the cost didn't even matter (much). That's the way it always is when repairmen are summoned. We're just happy that someone, somewhere, has the know-how to fix the sudden leaks and the plumbing disasters and the nights without heat.
And we're not alone. The country is full of homeowners tensely awaiting the next major repair, checkbooks in hand, ready to do our part to support the service economy.

So the next time you see the media depicting American males as incompetent boobs, remember that there are those who greet every catastrophe as a challenge, those who are well-paid to fix the problems we can't conquer on our own. Maybe I should even mount my own media campaign, one in praise of repairmen everywhere. But not right now. I'm too busy. I've got to put on my apron and smear green gunk on my face.