What Benefits Do You Receive From Being President

So the election has come and gone and Obama is now the president elect. It leads me along a line of thought that I have two stepped through before and that is what sort of benefits do you get by being president.

Before we go any farther, yes Shmata Queen that is a reference to two stepping, or don't you remember that night... ;) Hah, I am laughing. Richard Dawson is still dead.

Anyhoo, here is a short list of things that I wonder about.

Does the president carry a wallet?
Does the president carry house keys?
Does the president have the option of driving his own car?
How much freedom does the president have to alter his own schedule?
How much vacation and sick time is the president allotted?
Are those tallied up separately or do they come from one bucket of personal time?
Does the president accrue vacation time?

Sometimes I have wondered what would happen if the president decided that he didn't feel like working and just started delegating responsibility. As things stand the president has to delegate a lot of the responsibilities. I know that in some companies senior management can sluff off a ton of work on subordinates to the point that they hardly have anything to do.

Does the president pack his own clothes for trips to summits and the like or is that something that goes to a trusted aide?

I have a ton of other questions, but I'll save those. For now here is some information that I came across that you might find to be of interest.

Here is a link to White House Facts:

There are 132 rooms, 35 bathrooms, and 6 levels in the Residence. There are also 412 doors, 147 windows, 28 fireplaces, 8 staircases, and 3 elevators.

At various times in history, the White House has been known as the "President's Palace," the "President's House," and the "Executive Mansion." President Theodore Roosevelt officially gave the White House its current name in 1901.

Presidential Firsts while in office... President James Polk (1845-49) was the first President to have his photograph taken... President Theodore Roosevelt (1901-09) was not only the first President to ride in an automobile, but also the first President to travel outside the country when he visited Panama... President Franklin Roosevelt (1933-45) was the first President to ride in an airplane.

With five full-time chefs, the White House kitchen is able to serve dinner to as many as 140 guests and hors d'oeuvres to more than 1,000.

The White House requires 570 gallons of paint to cover its outside surface.

For recreation, the White House has a variety of facilities available to its residents, including a tennis court, jogging track, swimming pool, movie theater, and bowling lane.

For those who are curious about the V.P. here is a relevant link.

Before 1974, Vice Presidents and their families lived in their own home, but the cost of securing these private homes had grown substantially over the years. After years of debate, Congress agreed to refurbish the house at the Naval Observatory as a home for the Vice President.

Although Number One Observatory Circle was available to the Vice President in 1974, three years passed before a Vice President lived in the home. Vice President Ford became President Ford before he could use the home, and his Vice President, Nelson Rockefeller, only used the home for entertaining. Vice President Mondale was the first Vice President to move into the home. It has since been home to the
Bushes, the Quayles and the Gores.

This link has all sorts of information about the benefits. I haven't had time to properly vet all of the information so some of this might need to be doublechecked. Some of it seems to be in line so we'll cite a few sections.

Modern Presidents enjoy many non-salary benefits such as living and working in the spacious White House mansion in Washington, DC. While traveling, the President is able to conduct all the functions of the office aboard several specially built Boeing 747s, which take the call sign Air Force One when the President is aboard. The President travels around Washington in an armored Cadillac limousine, equipped with bullet-proof windows and tires and a self-contained ventilation system in the event of a biological or chemical attack. When traveling longer distances around the Washington area or on presidential trips, the President travels aboard the presidential helicopter, which takes the call sign Marine One when the president is aboard. Additionally, the President has full use of Camp David in Maryland, a sprawling retreat occasionally used as a casual setting for hosting foreign dignitaries.

The President and his family are protected at all times by an extensive Secret Service detail. Until 1997, all former Presidents and their families were protected by the Secret Service until the President's death. The last President to have lifetime Secret Service protection is Bill Clinton; George W. Bush and all subsequent Presidents will be protected by the Secret Service for a maximum of 10 years after leaving office.

Presidents continue to enjoy other benefits after leaving office such as free mailing privileges, free office space, the right to hold a diplomatic passport and budgets for office help and staff assistance. However, it was not until after Harry S. Truman (1958) that Presidents received a pension after they left office. Additionally, since the presidency of Herbert Hoover, Presidents receive funding from the National Archives and Records Administration upon leaving office to establish their own presidential library. These are not traditional libraries, but rather repositories for preserving and making available the papers, records, and other historical materials for each President since Herbert Hoover.

Crossposted here.

The Home Office

In my line of work I work out of more than one office. At times the nomadic nature of this sort of employment can be tiresome. There is something to be said for establishing one central base, but then again most of the time I enjoy the changes. It makes it easier to keep things fresh.

One of my offices is a home office. While it can be quite nice to go to work wearing a pair of shorts and a tank top it brings with it a unique set of challenges that I call "The children."

When the kids are in school it is normally pretty easy. I just bear down and do what I need to do. However on days when they are home it can be really tough. The house isn't big enough to carve out the space I really want. At this time it is just not possible to work in a separate wing with a closed door.

I have a short term solution that I want to implement. I need a wireless connection so that I can wander through the house as necessary. It won't fix everything, but it should give me enough space that I can work without constant interruption.

A Father's Lament- Go Back To School

Most of the time I love having a home office. I have the best commute in the world. I roll out of bed, walk down the hall and sit down at my desk. As the computer boots up I make a bowl of oatmeal, grab a cup of coffee and look at my list of things to do.

As I sip my coffee I check my messages to see if there are any pressing issues. When needed I act as a fireman and jump on whatever needs to be handled. Most of the time the fires are few and far between so I grab my oatmeal and start reading/writing contracts, proposals or what have you.

Scattered in amongst all this are brief interruptions in which the kids come by to ask questions and or hug/kiss me goodbye. It is only once they are all out the door that the day really gets moving. That is not to say that I don't get things done prior to their departure, but some things require more focus so I don't deal with them unless I have quiet.

Summer vacation screws that all up. There I said it and yes I mean it.  Summer vacation wrecks my home office and sends my plans every which way. The worst part of it is that sometimes it turns me into a crazy monster.

The children see me and want to come talk/play with me. They understand that I am working, but can't help themselves. "Dad, look at this," "abba, can you get this open for me," "I am hungry.........." In short they act like normal kids and I can't fault them for it. But I can't half ass this stuff or things get screwed up and clients get irritated.

So I start to become short and ask them to go talk to their mother. Sometimes I see them heading my direction and I start telling them to go away before they get close, even though they haven't said anything to me. I feel badly about all this. It bothers me a lot, but there are things that I can't get around.

At the moment we live in a house that is modest, but there is no office that I can hide in. I am exposed and they all forget that laughter on my part doesn't indicate that I am done working or on a break. They can't be completely faulted or blamed for this.

And I can't make the kids understand that part of why I get so crazed is that I am killing myself for them. I am working hard to build something that won't require as much time later on. I am doing it all for the family and for the selfish reason of hoping to be able to retire one day.

Oy, it makes my head hurt sometimes. So children, don't take this the wrong way. Don't think that I don't love you or that I don't like spending time with you. But I can't wait until you go back to school and I have some peace and quiet again.

The Challenge of Working From the Home Office

A number of years ago I decided that it would be nice to have a job in which I was able to work out of a home office. I won't bore you with the list of reasons why it interested me other than who doesn't like the idea of working in a t-shirt and a pair of shorts.

Eventually I was able to make the dream come true and I found myself making my way from the bedroom, to the bathroom and then to my office. It has its perks. I don't find myself screaming at the guy shaving in his car or the woman applying eye liner in her minivan as often. There are times when it is among my greatest pleasures and moments when it is...not.

I have often written about how my children are my greatest joy. I derive such pleasure from them. They are nothing but a blessing and they add far more to my life than I can ever express. However, they haven't realized that when I am at the desk I am surrounded by the Cone of Silence. Unfortunately it works about as well in real life as it did on television.

So as I sit at the 'puter taking care of business I am besieged by laughter, crying, screaming, beach balls, power rangers, Dora The Explorer, Legos, Lincoln Logs, dolls, The Justice League, Diego, books and a thousand requests such as"Open this dad," "Abba! Look at me now!" "I can do this," etc.

As you can imagine it makes it challenging to get things done. I once finished negotiating terms for a contract while enjoying a tea party and fending off Lex Luthor and The Joker. As a matter of fact I think that my clients would want to pay extra for a man who can multi task as well as I can.

Fortunately for my sanity and everyone else I don't always work out of the house and the kids go to school. So there are large blocks of time in which we are not in each others hair. I try hard to do most of my work when the children are not around. It is not really fair to them to say that even though they see me I am not available to spend time with them.

And I'd be lying if I said that sometimes that they distract me even when they aren't trying to. Sometimes when I am wrestling with something particularly onerous it is easy to look their direction and think about switching places. As a matter of fact they often ask if they can come to work and do what I do.

This morning I was positively giddy thinking about how much fun it would be to watch my daughter handle one of my challenging assignments. She'd put her hands on her hips and start barking orders at them. It wouldn't matter what they said because at a few weeks short of three she is still the queen of the world. The Tyrant Tike doesn't brook any backtalk.

I have no doubt that in about fifteen minutes the other side would collapse and agree to her terms. If you'll excuse me I am going to go prep her for this. I think that maybe it is time to bring in the big guns.

Keep The Bars Open Later & We'll Be Nicer

This story about the British and their pubs made me shake my head.

"LONDON -- It all seemed like such a good idea when the government proposed the law change in 2001: Eliminate Britain's notorious 11 p.m. bar closing times, and the nation would become a more civilized place.

Nightlife would thrive; residents and tourists alike would drink and eat continental-style into the early hours; and, most important, the British would start to lose their international reputation for drinking too heavily and getting into trouble. This was, after all, the 21st Century, nearly 100 years after the 11 p.m. closing was imposed to keep munitions workers producing shells for World War I.

But that was 2001. Four years later and with the deadline for licensing applications under the pending law nearing, there are screams of alarm throughout the news media, police, courts and parliamentary circles that allowing Britons to drink longer will make matters worse. They will, so the new argument goes, get more drunk over more time, cause more trouble and fill up more hospitals, courtrooms and jails."

Ok, call me crazy but I kind of suspect that the latter paragraph makes more sense. Give people more time to get drunk and watch the lunacy on the streets increase. Especially if the following is true:

"Binge drinking is considered so bad in England and Wales that senior judges have told the government's Home Office to expect alcohol-fueled violence to soar when the new law allows bars to stay open up to 24 hours a day.

"The situation is already grave, if not grotesque," wrote Warwick Judge Charles Harris in a report to the Home Office. "And to facilitate this by making drinking facilities more widely available is close to lunacy. It simply means that our towns and city centers are abandoned every night to tribes of pugnacious, drunk, noisy, vomiting louts."

But even the conservative Daily Telegraph has said it is not the pub hours that are the problem, it's the British character.

Culture of non-teetotalers

"There is no doubt we have a problem in this country in the way we drink alcohol," said a Telegraph editorial. "This is partly a lack of personal responsibility: We have never quite caught the continental habit of combining sensible amounts of wine with the related pleasures of fine food."

Historically, the British have been among Europe's heaviest drinkers, statistically imbibing not quite as much as the Germans or Finns but drinking heavily in short bursts."

One of these days I'll blog about my experiences in various pubs as I routinely slammed the sport of soccer/football as being a children's game suggested that if the hooligans really were men they wouldn't need such stupid excuses to run wild.

There is nothing like attacking the fragile male ego, trust me, I know.

Death By Blogging

The Old Grey Lady has an article about how hard it is to make a living by blogging. Some of the comments make me wonder. I very much enjoy blogging and I suspect that if I found a way to make it my livelihood I would, but not at the expense of my health. No job is worth that.

"SAN FRANCISCO — They work long hours, often to exhaustion. Many are paid by the piece — not garments, but blog posts. This is the digital-era sweatshop. You may know it by a different name: home.

A growing work force of home-office laborers and entrepreneurs, armed with computers and smartphones and wired to the hilt, are toiling under great physical and emotional stress created by the around-the-clock Internet economy that demands a constant stream of news and comment.

Of course, the bloggers can work elsewhere, and they profess a love of the nonstop action and perhaps the chance to create a global media outlet without a major up-front investment. At the same time, some are starting to wonder if something has gone very wrong. In the last few months, two among their ranks have died suddenly.

Two weeks ago in North Lauderdale, Fla., funeral services were held for Russell Shaw, a prolific blogger on technology subjects who died at 60 of a heart attack. In December, another tech blogger, Marc Orchant, died at 50 of a massive coronary. A third, Om Malik, 41, survived a heart attack in December.

Other bloggers complain of weight loss or gain, sleep disorders, exhaustion and other maladies born of the nonstop strain of producing for a news and information cycle that is as always-on as the Internet.

To be sure, there is no official diagnosis of death by blogging, and the premature demise of two people obviously does not qualify as an epidemic. There is also no certainty that the stress of the work contributed to their deaths. But friends and family of the deceased, and fellow information workers, say those deaths have them thinking about the dangers of their work style.

The pressure even gets to those who work for themselves — and are being well-compensated for it.

“I haven’t died yet,” said Michael Arrington, the founder and co-editor of TechCrunch, a popular technology blog. The site has brought in millions in advertising revenue, but there has been a hefty cost. Mr. Arrington says he has gained 30 pounds in the last three years, developed a severe sleeping disorder and turned his home into an office for him and four employees. “At some point, I’ll have a nervous breakdown and be admitted to the hospital, or something else will happen.”

“This is not sustainable,” he said."

Three Little Girls

The call just came in. Three little girls are on their way home. Less than a full week of school remains and they are determined to get in as many playdates as they can before summer vacation begins. Three little girls are on their way here, waiting to unleash their madcap ways upon my home office.

Uh oh, the house is a wreck and I look like the guy from a bad sitcom. Dressed in a tank top and boxers I am in need of a shave and a shower. Been working like a fiend on a couple of projects, determined to finish them sooner than later because the plan was to take the dog for a walk and then head to the garage for some time on the heavy bag.

But people plan and god laughs so I dash into the bedroom and grab a pair of shorts. The dog looks up at me, wondering why we haven't left the house yet. I rub his head and promise to take him soon. Three little girls are on their way home and there is no telling what kind of craziness they'll bring with them.

Last time they played 1,769,891 games including chase the giant (me), put makeup on the giant (me) and beg the giant (me) to give them piggy back rides through the house. In a matter of minutes this place will be filled with three little girls who will scream, giggle and shout.

I'll put in my earphones and try to ignore them. Joe Cocker, Johnny Cash and Ray Charles will accompany me. Companions who will sing songs of life, love lost and love found all the while I will study spreadsheets and scratch notes. In between I'll stare off into space and dream of things that haven't been but could be. Get lost in thoughts of what I want and what I have.  Wonder if they can't find a way to turn back the clock just a little bit.

Three little girls will march into the house. First in line will be the dark haired beauty, the queen. She'll prance around our home and have a grand time playing with her pals. I'll try to sneak away, my laptop, wifi and I. Sneak away so that I can try to get it done, whatever it is I do.

In between now and then I sit here typing, trying to catch my breath. No time to start a new project, not while three little girls are on their way. Better to wait and let them get situated.

I am pleased and aggravated by their presence. Pleased because I take great joy in watching my girl in her element. Almost six going on 30 the time will come when she won't let me witness what it is she does. For now I am daddy or abba, the superman who at times she views as a big playmate.

Yesterday she asked for candy for breakfast. When I said no she glared and stomped her feet. I told her that one more stomp would leave her feeling hungry and alone in her room. So she changed tactics, hugged and kissed me. I smiled, hugged and kissed her back and said no again.

She shrugged her shoulders and asked for some cereal. Oy, I see the future. She has too much time to study me, too much time to try to figure out how to manipulate me.

Just moments remain before three little girls arrive so I must bid you adieu. There is work to be done, things to be shuffled and hidden- papers to be collected...For when they do arrive it will be as if a great wind accompanies them. Three little girls will prance and dance around this home. They'll shriek and giggle and have fun.

It is too late- got to run because three little girls have....

Jack & The "Mortgage Broker"

One of the benefits to having a home office is the opportunity to interact with the fine fellows who call my home. If you're one of the 17 long term readers you know that I am not adverse to interacting with telemarketers.

I suppose that it might be considered a bit unfair to play this way, but I find them to be a never ending source of fun. In part it is because I am consistently amazed by the reactions or lack thereof I get to some of the comments I make. I suspect that it is because some of them are bored and with others it is because they don't understand English well enough to follow what is going on.

Here is a recap of a recent conversation:

Jack: Hello.
Mortgage Broker: I am calling for Mr. Jack. May I speak with him?

Jack: This is his personal assistant. Who should I say is calling?
Mortgage Broker: Tell him it is me.

Jack: You want me to say that it is me. He'll be confused if I say it is me calling.
Mortgage Broker: Sorry sir, I am only playing fun with you. Tell him it is John from Marin calling about his mortgage.

Jack: How do you play fun?
Mortgage Broker: It is an expression, like we are having very good times talking.

Jack: Ok, John. Are you sure that you're name is John?
Mortgage Broker: Yes, I am sure. Please get Mr. Jack.

Jack: Hello, this is Mr. Jack.
Mortgage Broker: Are you sure? You sound a lot like his personal assistant.

Jack: And you sound like someone who is about to hear a dial tone. Talk to me.
Mortgage Broker: I am calling because you are paying too much for your mortgage.

Jack: That is not what the bank says.
Mortgage Broker: Sir, I am prepared to help you with a loan modification program.

Jack: Is this like body modification, I don't want any piercings.
Mortgage Broker: No, we can help you save money by giving you a better loan.

Jack: Can you get me a bigger house?
Mortgage Broker: Would you like a bigger house?

Jack: Absolutely. The Shmata Queen likes a big room to romp in.
Mortgage Broker: What sort of romping do you do?

Jack: Did you just ask me what sort of romping The Shmata Queen and I are doing?
Mortgage Broker: Yes sir, what sort of romping do you do? If I understand better I can provide better assistance.

Jack: Well that is sort of a personal question, but I guess that I can answer. The best thing to do is to pull out your copy of the Kama Sutra and turn to page 376. Follow the diagrams there.
Mortgage Broker: Oh sir, you misunderstand me. I am not asking to have sex with you.

Jack: That is good, because I am not offering.
Mortgage Broker: I apologize.

Jack: Ok. What is it that you want to talk about?
Mortgage Broker: We want to give you a better interest rate on your mortgage.

Jack: Ok. What is my rate?
Mortgage Broker: I don't know.

Jack: You just called me and said that you can give me a better rate and you don't know what my rate is.
Mortgage Broker: No, I need you tell me what your current rate is.

Jack: I am disappointed. First you ask about my romping and now the whole interest thing.
Mortgage Broker: Sir, you misunderstand me. Tell me more about your interest and romping and I'll be better able to assist you.

Jack: I am a healthy man with a healthy interest in romping, but I still fail to see how that is any of your business. Where in Marin are you? I don't think you are really there.
Mortgage Broker: I am in Marin in an office.

Jack: Is it the big red building on State Street. The one that has all the cubicles in it. You know, each cubicle has a desk, a telephone and a computer.
Mortgage Broker: Yes, that is the one.

Jack: Oh, that building. It also has a small store on the first floor that sells cards, candy and newspapers. It is the one that Babe Ruth runs.
Mortgage Broker: Yes, that is it.

Jack: Hah, Marin isn't a city. It is a county.
Mortgage Broker: Click, followed by a dial tone.

I was surprised that he hung on for the full five minutes. Where do they get these people anyway.

My Childhood Home

I was tempted to begin this post with the usual crack about not being able to go back home again but it just doesn't feel right. You see, I am home. This post is being composed from the same bedroom in my parent's house that I grew up in. Right here, in this very room I planned and plotted a million different schemes.

Here in this bedroom I lay in the dark and dreamed dreams about the life I thought I was going to live. This is where I was when I decided that I wanted to live in Israel. This is where I was when I realized that I was in love with my high school sweetheart. She of course had figured that out long before and was unhappy because I refused to say those three words. This is the same room in which I retreated after I had my heart broken. This is the same room that I lived and died many different lives in.

Except it is not really that room any longer. I haven't lived here in decades and it shows. There is not one single piece of furniture left from my time, certainly not the very cool flat screen hanging on the wall. I would have died for that one. The office furniture isn't mine, nor the changing table.

About the only thing that is the same is the wood floor, but even that has been refinished since I was here, so...In the time since I left it has served as a room for the dog, my grandfather's domicile, a nursery of sorts for grandchildren and now, an office.

The house is quiet now, everyone is asleep. In the old days I would have tried to have arranged to spend the night with the boys or go on a date. During the summer of my college years I might have brought home a girlfriend. Technically she wouldn't have been allowed to stay in my room, but we would have spent a few minutes in here anyway. It would have been rude not to show her the places that had made me who I was/am.

Now I find myself sitting here dreaming about the future. Some of those dreams are quite different from those I used to have, yet some are not that different. It might not be my room anymore, but there is a quiet familiarity here that I appreciate. The shadows whisper lovingly to me and I can't help but feel like a piece of me that is missing lives on in this place.

The Most Expensive Words You'll Ever Hear

If you have ever engaged in any sort of remodeling of your home there are some words that you probably don't want to hear. They include "oops," "uh oh," "that is going to hurt," "you might as well" and "as long as."

These are the saddest of possible words:
"Tinker to Evers to Chance."
Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds,
Tinker and Evers and Chance.
Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,
Making a Giant hit into a double-
Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble:
"Tinker to Evers to Chance."
Franklin Pierce Adams

If I had the wherewithal I'd come up with something similar using the words "as long as" to construct a sad ditty about how those three simple words are among the most expensive you will ever hear.

The reason being that they come with a price tag. "As long as you are working in this room you probably should do the two rooms that are connected to it," "As long as you are going to redo this bathroom you should do the other because the house just won't look right etc."

These are the things you find yourself saying because as long as you are doing the work in one part of your house you might as well try and do the rest or so you convince yourself.

You have already signed onto a indefinite amount of chaos, dust and upheaval in your home. You have already hired someone to come and do this work so why shouldn't you have him fix that little doohickey in the closet and properly patch that hole in the ceiling or fix the paint that is peeling.

And though you know that you didn't want to spend that much cash you begin to justify these extras because you knew in advance that there would be some unforeseen circumstances that force you to spend a little bit more.

The crazy thing is that it makes perfect sense. It is your home, your castle, your own Fortress of Solitude so why wouldn't you do everything you could to improve it and make it nicer. Improve your quality of living and your entire life improves.

Just think, if you are happier at home you end up being happier everywhere, including the office. In fact you are so happy you become twice as productive at the office and your boss gives you a raise and a promotion. What a deal.

But the problem is that after taxes the raise works out to be enough to cover one third of the additional cost of your construction and now you find that the improved quality of life is diminished because you are still struggling financially.

And how did all of this come to be? Well it started way back when you bitched at your spouse about how you didn't have time to spend every weekend on the house and they suggested that you consider hiring a contractor because you might as well do it right. And as long as you were going to do this you ought to do that one other thing.

Oy, I think that I might as well take a vacation because as long as I have this construction going on around me I am going to need it.

The Bills Keep On Coming

Sammy O extended his arms over his head and sighed aloud. It was another Monday morning, not even 9 am and he was already counting the minutes until he could leave the office and go somewhere else. It didn't really matter where, just somewhere else that wasn't here.

In a different time he would have left work and gone straight home. In a different time he would have smiled the whole way home, eagerly anticipating the warm greeting that he would receive from his family. The kids would have screamed in delight, "daddy's home" and his wife would have given him that smile that she saved for him alone.

He wouldn't have made it three feet before those giggling kids would be climbing all over him. They would rolled around on the floor in a big heap of laughter. And then he would have threatened to punch them all in the nose. The girls would squeal again with laughter and take off running and he would have chased them, all the while threatening to tickle them until they couldn't take it anymore.

Those were good days. Daddy was a monster, but a monster of the best sort. He was fun. He was loving. He was hopeful and excited about the possibilities.

But that was then and this is now. Now every day was a struggle. The job wasn't bad because it was a grind. It was bad because he didn't earn enough to pay all of his bills, not to mention that his supervisor bore a distinct resemblance in looks and skills to Bozo the Clown.

Good old Bozo, he remembered being a kid and watching the show. It had been fun then. But now it was just a symbol of his frustration and ineptitude. His Bozo liked to tell him how lucky he was to have a job and how many people didn't.

Every day he would go off on a rant about how grateful they should be for what they had. And every day Sammy O secretly rolled his eyes and wondered if there was a way to throw Bozo down the stairs. He didn't really want to hurt him, but he couldn't think of another way to get him to leave for a while. All he wanted were a few days alone, just some peace and quiet. But that wasn't likely to happen.

Bozo was on his third marriage and a dozen different prescriptions for various anxieties and ailments. But the job was his refuge and secret hiding place from the world. The job was his life so the chances of Bozo leaving for any length of time were about as good as the odds of the cleveland Browns winning the Superbowl.

Another big stretch followed the sigh. Sammy looked down at the piles of paper on his desk and stared off into space. They were a mixture of personal and professional matters that had to be dealt with A.S.A.P. The stack included three Post-It Notes from Bozo.

They were supposed to provide instructions for how to handle the projects that Bozo had assigned him. As usual the notes contradicted each other. Sammy O had long since learned not to bother mentioning that to Bozo. All it would do is piss him off and lead to a lecture about reading comprehension.

It made him angry to be subject to the whims of a crazy man. He knew that his tolerance for all things was low. If he earned enough to pay his bills it would be much easier to deal with Bozo and if he had wings he could fly.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he could hear a silent chant begin about not giving up, something about finding a way to adapt and overcome it all. He wanted to believe in it. He wanted to believe that there was a way to find daylight and to enjoy the sunshine again, but he didn't know how.

Bozo was right, it was better to work than not. But this wasn't going to get it done. So he sent out applications for other positions. He networked and prayed that somehow, some way something better would come through.

But it didn't.

And the days passed. The pile of bills grew higher and the hole he was in grew deeper. In the interim the Feds bailed out the banks. The same banks that had leveraged themselves into insolvency. The same banks that wouldn't loan him any money for his business or allow him to refinance his home.

Those banks had been bailed out almost immediately. And it had been done using his tax dollars. It was beyond absurd.

And through it all the banks grew strong again while Sammy O grew weaker. In a few months those banks would hand out millions of dollars in bonuses to the same executives whose bad decisions had created the conditions in which they failed.

Unless things changed soon those same executives would use Sammy O's hard earned tax dollars to go on five figure vacations while Sammy O and his family went on their own vacation. The difference was in the name. The executives would hit the exotic island of Jamaica while Sammy O and company would visit the mythical land of foreclosure.

It was the thought of the mythical land of foreclosure that made Sammy O not want to go home. He couldn't stand to look around his home and know that soon it would be gone. He couldn't begin to imagine having to tell the children that it wasn't their house any longer.

Their fairy tale was over and the nightmare was beginning, only this time they would be awake for it all.

Children and Playdates- Then and Now

"Our house it has a crowd
There's always something happening
And it's usually quite loud
Our mum, she's so house-proud
Nothing ever slows her down
And a mess is not allowed"
Our House- Madness

This past Monday afternoon my son finished school and then went over to his best friend's house for a playdate. On a side note I seriously dislike that term, playdate. There is something about it that just rubs me the wrong way. I am not quite sure what it is, but I suspect that has something to do with the organized nature of play.

It is not how we did it when we were kids. Our parents didn't organize playdates for us. After school we'd play outside all afternoon long with the neighborhood kids. Or sometimes we'd walk over to their house, knock on the door and ask them if they could play.

Did I mention that we walked unaccompanied. We didn't live in fear and our parents didn't either. Times are different now for a variety of reasons.

In regard to my kids much of it has to do with their attending a private school. It is not particularly far from home by car but too far to walk or bike to. Since this is LA there is no good public transportation to rely upon. The RTD, (sorry, showing my age)er MetroLink doesn't pass their school so they can't take that either.

The end result is that we drive them to and from. I suspect that this is what happens with most of the students there. It is a great school and we all love it. But sometimes I am sorry that they miss out on some of the things that we had.

Did I mention that I grew up in a home that usually had six thousand kids running through it. My sisters and I always had friends over. It was organized chaos. That place was loud and fun.

It is hard to do here not only because of the transportation issue but because I have a home office that is not sound proof. Sometimes I feel badly about it. I don't want ten thousand children roaming through her during the day. That is not to say that we never have playdates here, but I have to be more circumspect.

During busy times it is really hard. But life is about compromise. My father worked downtown. He didn't come to soccer or baseball practices. Didn't drive my sisters to ballet or do a lot of things that I do. Not because he was uninterested but because it wasn't possible to do that and work.

He was always at the important things, never missed those, but you rarely saw him at other times. The kids teachers know me. The other parents recognize me. I am a fixture.

Push and pull, balance- I constantly am adjusting as I seek it.

Another change I have noticed is that it is not unusual for parents to hang out during playdates. That is not a terrible thing. If you are lucky you like the parents of your childrens' friends. So sometimes their playdate is one for you too. A chance to have adult conversation.

Although I should add that as the children have gotten older I have seen this happen less and less.

Who knows, maybe I am wrong about a lot of this. I sometimes wonder if the memories of the child that live insides me is true to that which really happened. Hard to say, a child's perception isn't always going to be the same as an adult's.

I wonder.

Teach Your Children- Crosby Stills and Nash

Time Management

The dark haired beauty is sitting in a tent, er excuse me, in her secret hideaway that no one knows about. It is the same secret hideaway that is located five feet behind my chair. Tomorrow she'll go back to school or I'll lose my mind.

Don't get me wrong, I love that little girl like nobodys business. She means more to me than words can express, I even share my Beef Jerky with her and if that is not love, I don't know what is.  Last week she was truly sick.

She had a fever that kept coming and going and a double ear infection. Here at the home office she was frequently parked next to me, but spent large chunks of that time sleeping. Two trips to the docs to confirm that she didn't have H1N1 and a bit of worry ate up large amounts of time.

A low grade fever yesterday and some caution kept her home today. The just in case theory played a role in all of this. You know, we'll keep her home just in case there is something still wrong. Not to mention that last week 47% of her class was out sick.

Well I am pleased to say that she is feeling well. She is singing songs and reading books to me. She is brushing my hair and making me beautiful. I keep trying to tell her that you can't make me beautiful and that I don't mind having this ugly mug. It has character.

But you can't argue with her. You may recall that I have some simple rules for Dating my Daughter. I am beginning to think that she doesn't need my help and that any boy that chooses to take her out will soon learn to their chagrin that they are no longer in control of their own life. Heck this little powerhouse of energy might take over the world in her sleep.

She is so stubborn and determined I may send her to Iran. After ten minutes that meshugehneh Ahmedinajad will be in tears. Of course I will have to go with her because after the past few years he deserves to feel my size 12 boot in his ass.

But I digress. You see this post is about time management. In simple terms that is me crying for help, wondering if she'll watch a movie or sleep so that I can get a little work done. I thought that she was occupied with her doll and tried making a telephone call to a client.

Midway through she wandered over and tried to get my attention. I smiled at her and gave the one minute sign. She disappeared for a moment and then came back. This time she started tapping my leg.I smiled and gave her the sign again. Walked into the room and turned on Spongebob for her.

Boy, I felt like superdad. Got the client eating out of my hand and my girl taken care of, life is good. A few moments later I learned not to be cocky. She came and found me. I could see by the look on her face she wasn't going to last much longer, so I gave her the one minute sign and smiled again.

As I turned to walk away she reached out and grabbed me. Now I can assure you that what she grabbed was not was she was reaching for. But it doesn't matter. Thanks to that moment I can tell you a few things. Those spam emails that offer pills that help you grow are not needed anymore. Thanks to that moment horses would be jealous of me.

Ok, I am exaggerating a bit. But trust me when I say that I am not exaggerating about the squeak that issued from my throat when this took place. If you have listened to any of my audio posts you know that my voice is relatively deep, at least it was. All I know is that for a moment I sounded like Mike Tyson.

So here I am a little while later. The voice is back to normal and I obviously back at the computer. She is occupied for the moment, but I think that today is going to be tough. She has bounced back from her illness and for that I am grateful. But after having been sidelined for a while what she really wants to do is run around.

In fact you can see little electrical charges shooting from her. Her batteries are completely recharged and she is ready to run. I am just praying that I can use the secret hideaway to keep her busy until the Calvary can come charging in. I can almost hear the bugle signaling charge. I just hope that they are better than the boys at F-Troop.

A Father's Responsibility

Sunday night my father and I had a good old fashioned fight that reminded me of that guy that used to live in their house. He looked a lot like me, but he had more hair and drove a bitchin' Camaro. Five

Image via Wikipedia

points to anyone who gets the musical reference.

Anyhoo, the old man and I screamed at each other for a bit and followed it up by glaring at each other in a way that would have melted steel. I won't bore you with the particulars of the disagreement other than to say that ultimately we were both coming from the same place, a twilight zone I like to call A Father's Responsibility.

A Father's Responsibility is a catch all for all of the obligations that we fathers have upon our shoulders and it is a load. Before the mothers erupt in a huff this isn't a competition about who has more work or more responsibility. It is not about who suffers more for the sake of the family.

Those types of discussions are bootless, fruitless and useless.

I am not the kind of guy who makes to do lists and gets off on checking off items as I complete them. I am goal oriented, but in a different sort of way. I am the guy that gets lost in thought for a thousand hours and then comes out of the day dream trying to figure out a good reason why I can't make it reality.

Not unlike most parents I have sacrificed many things for the sake of my children and my family. For many years it was a traditional set up while mom stayed home I went to work and functioned as the sole provider. It is an awesome responsibility and one I gladly took on. But I won't lie and say that it wasn't a relief to get some help there.

When we were robbed at Target it hurt for many reasons, not the least of which was because it was an affront to my fragile male ego. It is my job to protect my family and I felt like I had failed. I was face to face with the guy. It is probably a good thing that I didn't try to take him down. There is no telling what could have happened, but it grated on my nerves. I don't ever want the family to be afraid that I won't protect them because I never forget about their safety.

That is because it is A Father's Responsibility to handle that. When there are repairs to be made around the house I make a point of involving my children. There are two reasons that I do that. One is that it helps to teach them that we all have responsibilities and that they are not exempt from them. And it also provides a practical teaching experience. One day they'll have to fix a toilet, change a tire or take apart a sink.

I do my best to try to make time to play with them. It is not always easy, especially given the current economic climate. There may be some traditional role playing going on now, but I want them to always feel comfortable coming to me. I am not always as good about that as I should be.

The dark haired beauty sometimes brushes my hair while I am working at the computer. Fancy Nancy sometimes hears stories while the BlackBerry buzzes. These are moments that I struggle with because A Father's Responsibility means providing and playing. It is sometimes hard to weigh which is more important.

So I try to compromise and set aside time where the turn off the phone and walk away from the computer. It is these moments when having a home office really is a double edged sword. But at the same time who else is going to pick them up and swing them around. Who is going to wrestle and tickle them. It is A Father's Responsibility to get them totally amped up before bedtime.

Anyhoo, when my old man (he just loves when I refer to him that way) got irritated with me much of it had to do with his perception of his current responsibilities towards me. He is good about it. I tend not to hear criticism unless he sees it as a safety issue or I ask. This time I asked a question and he didn't like my response and we ended up jumping all over each other.

But the best part about taking a trip back in time was that instead of having to stew inside my room I could just get up and go home. On a side note, I probably should apologize to my mother. Our voices carry and since our cone of silence is broken she was forced to endure 400 pounds of angry men.

Later on when the dust had settled my father called and reminded me that the good news is that I only have another 30 years or so before I get to retire. I asked him why that is good news and he said, "you're grandparents are 95" the last thing I heard before he disconnected was him laughing.

He may have been laughing, but I know better, A Father's Responsibility never goes away.

Dick Tracy Never Had It So Good

Imagine what it would be like if you could view your favorite full-length film while in the comfort of your office chair, riding on the train, waiting at the doctor's office, or even while waiting in line at the coffee shop! Your colleagues will want to share the headphones with you on your next plane ride. Your friends and family will be eager to spend time with you so they can catch a glimpse of the coolest watch on the market: The Home Theater Watch.

Just like the name suggests, The Home Theater Watch is designed to give you the experience of a home theater with the functionality of a watch. This means that you can tell time and watch your favorite movie right from your very own wrist. Complete strangers will be in awe as they stand in line with complete boredom at the Department of Motor Vehicles and you are watching the latest releases on your wrist.

It is an interesting idea but I would think that the screen size is prohibitive.

Exchanging Pleasantries

Consider this to be a cautionary tale or whatever the hell you want to call it. As the 17 longtime readers know I have a home office that I work out of. Some of you may recall that my children finished school yesterday and began their summer break.

And so it was that I found myself sharing the house/office with lots of little people who had given up their work responsibilities and not a single care about my own. Granted at the same age I wouldn't have spent a moment wondering or worrying about whether my father was working so I can't fault my own offspring for their behavior.

Anyhoo, I made a point of scheduling a mid day haircut. As my locks had grown long and fuzzy it seemed to be an appropriate time to have them shorn as well as a good opportunity to catch my breath and clear my head. However I was inundated with work and overwhelmed by a giant caseload of crap so the escape didn't feel like time away. I spent most of the time at the barbershop worrying about how I was going to get it all done.

So you can imagine that upon my return to my domicile I wasn't in the mood to engage in small talk, play games or deal with any shenanigans. My kids recognized this and made a point of providing me with a quick hug and an abbreviated pledge of allegiance. It is only right, I am Lord of the Manor and Master of My Domain, but I digress.

In addition to my own children the house contained some friends of theirs and another parent who upon seeing me learned that I don't like exchanging silly pleasantries. She asked me how I was doing and I said that I have been better. The look of shock on her face spoke volumes. Had I not been in haste I would have added that I don't like to be asked how I am doing unless one is truly interested in hearing my response.

Those who know me well are aware of this and have seen me offer some shocking responses to those who use these silly remarks frivolously. Comments like, "I hope you are doing well" are often met with "not really, that fungus has returned and it is highly contagious." Or if I am feeling saucy I might mention that my probation officer is not going to be happy when he hears about my day.

One day I think that I shall have to record these exchanges on tape as the facial expressions are priceless.

What Are You Doing In There

The dark haired beauty looks up at me through a mass of dark curls and giggles. She is up to something, I know it and she knows that I know it. The key question is what has she done and why are her eyes sparkling.

I won't have to wait long for the answer. In a matter of moments she'll be unable to contain herself and she'll confess. I already know from experience it is unlikely to be serious because when she thinks she is in trouble she remains silent. Of course her older brother is usually happy to try and tip me off, getting the little sister in trouble remains one of the joys of being an older sibling.

Of course it goes both directions as she is more than happy to try and tweak his nose. They are typical siblings and exhibit the standard behavior of love/hate for each other. Most of the time they get along beautifully, but they have their moments. Ah, the joy of children.

*********************

Sometimes when those moments come I find myself asking questions that many parents ask, such as why didn't I wear 19 condoms or if I leave now can I be in Vegas before nightfall. A half second later reality sets in and I go to the second set of options.

That famous second set which consists of wondering how long I let them try to work it out before I get involved and if I get involved, how many years will I ground them for.

It is a serious thing. You have to teach them how to cope when things don't go the way that they want. You have to help them learn how to share and negotiate their way through life. So when I wonder how long I need to wait before interceding there is an educational component to it. But there is also the question of my sanity.

How long can I listen to them kvetching at each other. And of course the joy of having a home office is that during the summer you have substantially more exposure to the joys of your life.

*********************

Sometimes if you are me you have also adopted a strategy of heading off to the second office. You can blame this on having watched Happy Days as a kid. Fonzie always took Ritchie into the bathroom and we all know that he was the coolest guy ever, at least until he jumped the shark.

Anyhoo, there have been some occasions when I have opted to answer the call of nature during these little dust ups. And upon occasion inquiries have been made as to whether I really was busy or not as it seemed far too convenient for me to be in there at moment.

I of course have always offered to provide proof and was always turned down, until recently. That dark haired beauty decided that she wanted to see for herself. Standing outside the door, she asks me to open it so that she can see for herself. I pause for a moment and suggest that she find something else to do.

Without missing a beat she tells me that she is almost five and besides she has seen boys go to the bathroom before. So I open the door and just as I am about to tell her what I think about all that she starts laughing because she knows that she has gotten me.

Then for good measure she steps inside, sniffs the air and proclaims, "it doesn't stink in here, you are just hiding from us."

And people ask me why I am losing my hair.

Why I Am Not Getting Much Done

Several weeks ago I wrote about the challenge of working out of a home office. Today the challenge is even greater than normal because of a favor. A friend had to drop her children off so that she could attend to some business.

The influx of children has raised the terror alert to its highest level. In fact I would argue that I have already survived numerous terror attacks. Let's use the shrieking as an example.

Why dear lord must little girls shriek. My ears are ringing and the neighborhood dogs and I are considering the benefits of heading for the hills. The incessant shrieking has shattered three plate glass windows and caused every car alarm within a three mile radius to go off.

But the boys are not about to be outdone by the girls. Oh no, they wouldn't consider the advantages of building a clubhouse outside. Instead they have constructed a racetrack inside the house. Since they are too big for a simple oval track they have made sure that it runs around the entire house, including the little corner I call my office.

In between the races they have decided to engage in simple imaginary play. It is kind of nice to see them use their imaginations and not rely upon things that beep, whistle or tweet. They're pretending to be superheroes and supervillains.

Apparently I am supposed to be one of them too. I am some kind of giant. I don't know if I am good or bad, just that I am included. Did I mention that this involves being attacked with various objects and body parts.

Fake rays have blasted me. Pillows that are supposed to be some sort of device or something have been used to assault my person. And as mentioned body parts have been used. It seems that I have been struck by kryptonite hands, radioactive feet and a host of other items.

It also seems that telling the boys that I don't want to play and that I am angry enough to spit blood is not a deterrent. Instead it is viewed as encouragement to continue.

Of course my clients may not accept any of this as a reason for why I want an extension. Perhaps a better excuse such as my dog ate my homework would suffice.

Excuse me, I was just attacked by the Joker and Batman. I think that Giant Man is going to respond. Back later.

I Never Stop Thinking About You

Another insert for Fragments of Fiction

"Oh, I know (oh, I know)
That the music's fine
Like sparkling wine
Go and have your fun
Laugh and sing
But while we're apart
Don't give your heart to anyone
But don't forget who's taking you home
And in whose arms you're gonna be
So darlin', save the last dance for me, mmmm"


Baby, don't you know
I love you so
Can't you feel it when we touch
I will never, never let you go
I love you oh, so much

You can dance (you can dance)
Go and carry on
'Til the night is gone
And it's time to go
If he asks if you're all alone
Can he take you home you must tell him no
'Cause don't forget who's taking you home
And in whose arm's you're gonna be
So, darlin', save the last dance for me
Save The Last Dance for Me- The Drifters


"Just another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody
I've got some money cause I just got paid
How I wish I had some chick to talk to
I'm in an awful way"
Another Saturday Night & I Ain't Got Nobody- Sam Cooke

"Action speaks louder than words
And I'm a man of great experience
I know you got another man
But I can love you better than him

Take my hand, don't be afraid
I'm wanna prove every word I say
I'm advertisin' love for free
So, you can place your ad with me"
Hard to Handle- Otis Redding

In a different life a woman once told me that because men weren't as in touch with our feelings it takes us longer to figure out what women know in less than half the time. It was the sort of comment that most men dislike hearing at any age, but as a twenty-something I was even less interested.

The future was nothing but endless highway filled with opportunities. I couldn't see anything but pots of gold waiting to be discovered. Not to mention that an overblown fragile male ego was completely unprepared to do more than feign being interested in the conversation.

Can't tell you exactly what happened after that, but I can remember a few things. She said something, I said something in reply and went straight into foreplay. Decades later I realize that her participation in the festivities was not tacit approval of the aforementioned non response. If anything it was a check mark that she used on the wrong side of the mental list of things she like and didn't like about me.

But like I said, I was young and foolish. Who knew. Time passed and she and I found ourselves entangled in a weave of differing interests. She wanted to pursue her dreams in different cities than I did. We talked a lot about what we wanted as individuals, at least that is how I remember it. She might see it differently, might even claim that I am engaged in revisionist history. But I truly don't remember talking as a 'we.'

The end result was that we went our separate ways. It wasn't because of major issues with each other, just bad timing.

Some years later we found each other and picked up where we had left off. Being a child of technology and history I call it relationship 1.5. It started out relatively quietly. There were a few emails and then some conversations followed by a meal.

We met in front of the restaurant and hugged each other. I didn't realize until we got inside that I had buried my nose in her hair. It was instinct really, she always smelled good. Three minutes later we sat down and I got lost in her. I know that sounds goofy, pull my man card. But I did. Her scent was still stuck in my nose and all I could think about was taking her home as quickly as possible.

Apparently I wasn't alone in my thoughts because right after we ordered she suddenly came down with a migraine. At least she thought that is what it was going to be. While we waited for the waiter to box our food I offered to walk her home and she said yes.

Along the way she told me that the night air had helped to clear her head and asked if I wanted to come up and eat at her place. Did I mention that it took me until the next day to realize how she had set me up. I spent most of the walk back to her place silently lamenting the crash and burn of the evening.

Anyway, we set the table, enjoyed a bottle of wine with our meal and then woke up together. As I said earlier it was part of relationship 1.5. And if you haven't guessed it didn't last long. Her company transferred her to an office in the Southwest. I was climbing the corporate ladder and too close to a major promotion to move.

Time passed and we drifted apart again. Another case of two people who probably could make it work if they could find a way to be together.

And now I find myself saying that more than I'd like to. Two people who could probably make it work if they could find a way to be together. Oh, did I mention that relationship 1.5 was the most intense that I have ever been in.

It was the kind of love affair that makes you write stupid poetry and plays. Did I tell you that I apologized to her for being so stupid when we were younger? Well I did. I told her that I wished that I had never let her go. I said that it was the mistake that haunted me and that she really was the love of my life.

She told me that was great and that she wished that I had said it earlier but that we missed our window. And then came the fights and accusations. The hurt feelings built up and over time we stopped communicating. That is sort of the filler part of what happened when relationship 1.5 moved on.

So I find myself in quiet moments thinking about my girl. Not sure that it is right or fair to say that, but I can't help it. I like to think that she still thinks of herself that way. I like to think that sometimes she thinks about me and wonders if maybe someday we can find a way.

Although we can give the standard laundry list of he said, she said issues the reality is that we didn't really end things because of issues with the other. It didn't fall apart because I stand her incessant need to make lists for everything or desire to keep Laura Ashley in business. The things that killed us were external issues and those can be dealt with.

Maybe it is one of those once in a lifetime opportunities in which you grab that brass ring or you don't. Maybe it is something that I'll look back upon and smile. But I hope not. For a long time she was more than my best friend. I am still holding out hope that she can be again because I never have stopped thinking about her.

Dancing With Reckless Abandon

Two weeks ago the Traveling Jack show left the comfortable confines of the home office in paradise for a quick trip across country. A lovely experience in which your favorite father's plane departed California at 10:30 P.M. and arrived at Dulles at 6:30 A.M.

Twelve hours later the crazy man boarded a plane back home. Stuffed full of coffee, a bagel and 17 gallons of Pho he spent the entire plane ride wondering if the crazy clevelander behind him would do him a favor and swallow her tongue.

Ok, in the interest of disclosure I don't know where that woman was from nor did I pray for her to swallow her tongue. Rather I silently begged G-d to sew her mouth shut or make her move to a different seat. I blame that upon extreme fatigue and the foul smell of caviar that was emanating from her bag. Who brings caviar on a plane and more importantly, who eats it while sitting in coach. Really.

But none of that is important nor tied into the real point of this post. Because what this is about is dancing with reckless abandon. Yep, it is about standing up and shaking your ass without any regard for rhythm or rhyme. It is about being completely unaware of just how awful you look.

It is standing in a room with no one but your children and you and finding out that three of you are moving your bodies to the music. You don't know how or why it started but you don't care. Don't care because your daughter is laughing so hard you wonder how she hasn't wet her pants. Don't care because her big brother is a part of this moment too.

This crazy and special moment that has spontaneously appeared. You are smart enough not to run get a camera because you don't know how long it will last and you fear missing it. You don't stop to blog or tweet about it because again it is unclear whether it will be 30 seconds or 30 minutes.

For a moment time stands still and you who are exceptionally self conscious about dancing move because you don't care. The kids haven't a clue and more importantly they are having way too much fun. You do all you can to enjoy the moment for no other reason than just because. You smile because you know that this is something that you will all remember. You laugh because it is contagious and you can never laugh too hard or too long.

For that moment in time all is perfect in the world and there is no doubt that you will all pass through the coming storms. And again you are reminded that a life is made up of these moments in time. Pieces of a puzzle that you continue to build and shape as you go.

And so you dance with your children and wonder if their laughter isn't the same sort of sound that the angels in heaven might make.