One of the perks to being a dad is knowing that no matter how much I mess up, my kids will always love me.

There was the science fair project my son and I were working on. Thanks to dad’s help, it didn’t quite turn out the way the book said it would. Brian said it was still the best experiment he ever could have done. And he loved me for helping him.

Or how about the time I painted my daughter’s room the wrong shade of orange. Julie wouldn’t let me repaint it, because, she said, the color wasn’t really that far off. But I knew it was. And she loved me for painting her room.

Leaving my daughter’s dress hanging on her door when I should have put it in the car with everyone else’s clothes. That was a good one, too.  Believe me when I tell you I’ve had my fair share of these “Oh no” moments over the years, and after each one of them, and some were real doozies, my kids still love me.

But not this time. I messed up royally. Okay…if you want to be technical about it, I didn’t actually mess up. I joined the ranks of the unemployed, and it really wasn’t my fault. The economy and all. But when there are tuitions to be paid, the holidays coming up, and all the other kids are going to the Caribbean or will be studying abroad for winter break and mine can’t because dad lost his job, I can’t help but be filled with deep feelings of messing up. Thoughts of being a failure are intensified when I am filled with anxiety over things like paying the bills, feeding the family, and having to choose between putting gas in the car and replacing the cartridges in the printer; I can’t help but feel I’ve messed up big time. And I am convinced that this time, I’ve screwed everything up so completely, that there’s no way they could still love me.

The three-page letter was taped to the mirror in my bathroom. It was signed by my two children. I don’t know how or when they were able to collaborate on it, considering only one of them lives at home.  I found it after yet another rough week of job hunting negatives and financial difficulties. “You have not let us down, and you have not failed us, Dad,” it read. “The only people who fail are those who give up. You are the strongest and best person we know. Not a day goes by when we are not thankful for all the things we DO have, for all that you’ve been able to do for us, and for what you still do for us every day. THANK YOU for being in our lives, because we don’t know who we would be without you.”

Actually, Brian and Julie…thank YOU. I don’t know where I would be without your love.

Yes, indeed… the best perks a dad could ever want.

I recently suffered through a few minutes of a summer replacement reality show, “More To Love” (on Fox! surprise). In this show, a bevy of non-petites willingly insert themselves into an implied fat joke, all for your viewing pleasure.

Sure, the women here are presented in a positive light, none more neurotic or desperate than those on “The Bachelor”. But it’s clear by the show’s title, More To Love, that the women are not supposed to be taken seriously (and neither is the guy they’re vying for). The audience is expected to get the joke and view these women as amusingly plump and lookin’ for love.

Is this how women wished to be perceived? Of course not but… what the hell?   “We are on this show because we are bigger than average. This is a show about love, hope and dreams. And we are… well, we’re fat. That’s why we’re here, to demonstrate what it would be like if a fat woman and a fat dude made a love connection. So laugh at us as we desperately try to get noticed by the guy with the fake smile who will sweep us off into a life of bliss, devoid of fat jokes.”

What does this say about the progress women have made? Or maybe I should ask, what does this say about the regression women are experiencing. I certainly don’t want to make too much out of a summer reality show, especially one as forgettable as this. It just struck me as odd, that’s all, that women are usually defined first by their looks, followed (in the distance) by their intellect, experience, etc. I realize that this isn’t news. But with the considerable recent progress being made regarding the image of women, I find it strange that a show like this made it on network television.

Well, Fox anyway.

Here I sit, at home, watching the kids. The wife’s away on an overnight biz trip and I’m feeding the kids, changing diapers, doing laundry, giving baths… you know, being a mom. But what to do about feeding the newborn? While my chest is quite nice, it just doesn’t cut it in the infant nourishment department.

So, I devise an ingenious plan. I’ll go to the park and ask the mommies there if anyone can spare a quart or two. Sounds strange but hey, my kid needs to eat. As I ready for the park, I get a ‘checking in to see if everyone’s still alive’ call from the wife. After a few minutes of insults where I hear how my memory is shot, and how she told me–5 times!– about how I was going to feed the baby, she informs me that she “pumped” and left 12 bottles in the garage refrigerator. “Pumped?”, I wonder. Pumped what?

So, I walk to the garage, open the fridge and find 12 bottles of yellowish liquid staring back at me. Damn, she wasn’t kidding. I had no idea this could be done. She didn’t do this for the first kid, did she? I was working long hours back then but could I be so deaf, dumb and blind as to not notice or remember that?

What kind of machine must this be, this pumping thing? Does it look like a baby? Or is it like the metallic, machine-like gadget that cows must endure with half-smiles? I gotta see this. So, I begin my search. I check the baby’s room, the closet, the toy chest, the window sill. Nothing. On a whim, I return to the garage and…. there it is: a strangely horrific looking contraption with freaky suction-type things hanging off of tubes. Oh, dear Lord!

I return from the garage shivering with fear. I sit in the kitchen staring out the window, thinking to myself… what kind of a world do I live in where women willingly subject themselves to strange sucking instruments without the promise of even an ounce of satisfaction?! But, as I continue to ponder, a thought comes to mind that makes it all okay. Women are used to this. They’re always sacrificing. It’s just their way.

I fall into a deep sleep there, head on the kitchen counter, hand absently placed in a dirty diaper I forgot to throw out, until my son comes in and asks me what I’m doing? I stand as if nothing’s amiss and tell him not to worry, all is right with the world. “We are men”, I tell him. “And there are women in the world to make everything okay.”

My son looks at me, approaches, and then smacks me on the back of my head. He turns and walk away.

I wonder, what was that for? Guess he doesn’t agree with me. Oh well, what does he know, he’s only four. He’ll learn.

The title here comes from something my wife and I witnessed. Driving along a very busy road one day, we were forced to pull around a car stopped in the middle of traffic. As we passed, we saw the driver, an older man, dangling his foot out the door and tying his shoe. We laughed. Could it be that this dolt actually stopped and held up traffic to tie his *%#@^& shoe? Sure looked that way. Regardless, it brings to light the existence of another segment of our society: The Clueless.

You’ve seen them, the people who blankly push past you in the store, oblivious to how they nearly hip checked you into the frozen peas. Or those pleasant folks who endlessly talk at you about their troubles, and barely seem to be listening when you speak (and you know they’re simply waiting for your lips to stop moving).

The clueless among us are everywhere. And they pose a threat. All kidding aside, how is progress going to be made in areas like work/life integration, when, for example, your boss thinks that work/life integration means giving you the choice of eating your lunch at 12 or 12:15? Or allowing you to work an hour later each night instead of coming in to work on Saturday?

I interviewed at a mid-sized tech company a few years back comprised of nearly all men. And although I hear that single, older female managers often present the most resistance to the younger generation’s quest for balance, let’s not give men a free pass. The man who interviewed me, let’s call him Jack (short for jackass), seemed like a nice guy. We bonded quickly, talking about the industry, his home town, then sports (of course). Then the topic came up, somehow, of women employees. Jack didn’t really know who I was, or who I knew, but he felt confident that he could open up to me (I assume because he and I shared the same type of genitals?).  He said, quite openly, that he was able to offer less money to female employees, and also that he made it a point to avoid hiring women who were in their child-bearing years. I kid you not, I’m not fabricating this for illustration. Since women have kids in their 20’s, 30’s, 40’s and sometimes even 50’s, it’s easy to understand why there were virtually no women in this company. Sad. Infuriating. But par for the course, I’m sure, for more than a few managers out there. You know, the clueless ones whose vision extends about as far out as next week.

So, my fellow work/life strugglers, the struggle is long from over. It’s just beginning in many respects. There are a lot of Jacks, and Jackies, out there to overcome. And although, at times, you may have the overwhelming urge to smack these people upside their misshapen heads, I advise you to take a deep breath and trust that change is coming. Understand, though, that long-term, systemic change doesn’t happen overnight.

But that doesn’t mean you should sit idly waiting to be thrown a crumb. Nor should you throw your hands up in frustrated defeat. Never give up, you women and men of vision. This struggle is one that’s far too important. And you know it.

Visit http://lifeworkalliance.com to do something about it.

I used to have to deal with the race of rats many of you are part of. Depending on the day, it could be exhilarating, frustrating, fulfilling, boring, profitable, draining, inspiring or just plain stupid.

So, I miss some parts of it. But I’m happy now, here in my bunker. I’ve achieved the goal: getting paid to work in my underwear.

But is this my final resting place in the new world order? Am I to never again experience the stomach-twisting anxiety of life underneath a bipolar boss, no smarter than a Ritz cracker? Will I never again feel the accomplishment of arriving home after a hard day of fear and resentment?

Working from home, with all its many ups, has one huge downside: YOU’RE ALWAYS WORKING. Finished dinner? Why don’t I just sit down and read this nice novel—oh, wait, I need to fix that thing—and I just need to check if she emailed as she promised. She didn’t?! Who does she think she is! Five hours later… still at the computer. Mucho unhealthy.

If I was a surgeon, I wouldn’t be able to take my work home. That would be weird. And that’s healthy: go to work, fix gallbladder, wash hands, go home, forget about gallbladder.

Complaining? No, I’m brining up the point that as technology continues to transform the workplace, there’ll be more and more work-from-homers like me. And as with any great shift that promises us so much good, there is the inevitable bad.

At times I remain strong, refusing to be sucked in by the siren call of the computer. I set times that I will work and try to stick to that schedule. But schedules are for losers, man. This is the real world. I got things to do, people to see, places to go… all right, I’m lying. I have nowhere to go. I live here, behind my computer.

But I won’t end on such a sour note. It might be tough, and at times, unhealthy. But to be able to stand up from the desk, at any hour of the day, and run off to the gym for a workout, or to be able to be home when the bus drops the little one off, or to have lunch with my wife several times a week… those are the things that fill me with appreciation for the new world of borderless communication in which we live, work, and play. And for me that world is all right here in my wonderful house/office/playground.