As a fellow writer, I thought you would enjoy these. I wish I had written them, but, alas, they arrived in an email. Kudos to the author!

• Don’t sweat the petty things and don’t pet the sweaty things.
• One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.
• Atheism is a non-prophet organization.
• If man evolved from monkeys and apes, why do we still have monkeys and apes?
• The main reason that Santa is so jolly is because he knows where all the bad girls live.
• I went to a bookstore and asked the saleswoman, “Where’s the self-help section?” She said if she told me, it would defeat the purpose.
• What if there were no hypothetical questions?
• Is there another word for synonym?
• If a parsley farmer is sued, can they garnish his wages?
• If the police arrest a mime, do they tell him he has the right to remain silent?
• One nice thing about egotists: They don’t talk about other people.
• Does the Little Mermaid wear an algaebra?
• Do infants enjoy infancy as much as adults enjoy adultery?
• Is it possible to have a Civil War?
• If one synchronized swimmer drowns, do the rest drown too?
• If you ate both pasta and antipasto, would you still be hungry?
• If you try to fail and succeed, which have you done?
• Why are hemorrhoids call “hemorrhoids” instead of “assteroids”?
• Why is there an expiration date on sour cream?
• Can an atheist get insurance against acts of God?

NOTE: I wrote this piece years ago, when my daughter was a babe and I was syndicating “Sunshine,” my parenting column. Ah, the memories it revives — eeek!!

I’m a mom who works at home. For those who think I’m being redundant — what mom doesn’t work at home? — let me be specific: I work for a living in my living room.

It’s not exactly an executive suite. There are blocks and rattles where leather chairs and oak filing cabinets should be. But it’s mine, at least a small corner of it, from which I write pieces like this one and others on parenting issues.

Working at home has its advantages. The dress is informal. It’s an easy commute, and there’s an eating establishment right around the corner (unfortunately). But it also has its drawbacks, especially if you have an infant around, as I do.

My daughter, as much as she loves me, has little respect for my work. For while she devours what I write — when I can’t get it out of her mouth — she’d rather I spend my time on other, more important things, namely her.

To be able to spend time with her is why I decided to work at home in the first place. Before she was born, I envisioned myself floating effortlessly from writing table to changing table, producing wonderful tracts on motherhood while producing a wonderful child. I would work as she slept, or so the plan went. It never occurred to me that I would give birth to an insomniac, or that I’d be trading a 9-5 job for one that began at 6 a.m. and ended at midnight.

To work at home, I quickly discovered, is to work in snatches of time and to pray that you can pick up something as quickly as you’ve put it down.

To work at home — as a writer at least — is to be foolhardy. You’re always chancing that the legislator or educator you’ve called for a quote won’t call back at an inopportune moment (e.g., when you kid’s pretending her cereal is hair mousse or when she’s looking for just the right light socket to stick her finger into.)

But inevitably, the phone does ring.

For example, one evening several months ago, I was wrapping presents on the living room floor when the physician I had been trying to reach called. Just as I picked up the receiver, I heard a loud gurgle coming from my daughter’s diaper. She had let loose a mudslide on the rug.

What to do? Hang up? Scream out that I’d call back later?

Unfortunately, if the doctor and I didn’t talk then, we couldn’t talk until after my deadline. So I went ahead with the interview, taking notes with one hand, while wrapping my daughter’s backside in wrapping paper and tape with the other.

Luckily, things like this don’t happen often. Neither my rug nor I could take it. But that’s not to say that most other workdays pass uneventfully or efficiently. Not when I’m playing working mom one moment and just plain mom the next.

Slowly, however, I’m getting used to feeling that I’ve got a split personality. And I’m getting used to the interruptions. I’ve even come to welcome them. After all, one of the greatest pleasures of work is goofing off from work. And what better way to goof off than to have a willing accomplice, one who can’t snitch because she can’t yet talk.

This is offered by an English professor from the University of Colorado as an actual class assignment:

The Creative Writing professor told his class one day:

“Today we will experiment with a new form called the tandem story. The process is simple. Each person will pair off with the person sitting next to his or her desk.

“As homework tonight, one of you will write the first paragraph of a short story. You will e-mail your partner that paragraph and send another copy to me. The partner will read the first paragraph and then add another paragraph to the story and send it back, also sending another copy to me.

“The first person will then add a third paragraph, and so on back-and-forth. Remember to re-read what has been written each time in order to keep the story coherent. There is to be absolutely NO talking outside of the e-mails and anything you wish to say must be written in the e-mail. The story is over when both agree a conclusion has been reached.”

The following was actually turned in by two of his English students:

The story:

First paragraph by Rebecca: At first, Laurie couldn’t decide which kind of tea she wanted. The chamomile, which used to be her favorite for lazy evenings at home, now reminded her too much of Carl, who once said, in happier times, that he liked chamomile. But she felt she must now, at all costs, keep her mind off Carl. His possessiveness was suffocating, and if she thought about him too much her asthma started acting up again. So chamomile was out of the question.

Second paragraph by Bill: Meanwhile, Advance Sergeant Carl Harris, leader of the attack squadron now in orbit over Skylon 4, had more important things to think about than the neuroses of an air-headed asthmatic bimbo named Laurie with whom he had spent one sweaty night over a year ago. “A.S. Harris to Geostation 17,” he said into his transgalactic communicator. “Polar orbit established. No sign of resistance so far…” But before he could sign off a bluish particle beam flashed out of nowhere and blasted a hole through his ship’s cargo bay. The jolt from the direct hit sent him flying out of his seat and across the cockpit.

Rebecca:

He bumped his head and died almost immediately, but not before he felt one last pang of regret for psychically brutalizing the one woman who had ever had feelings for him. Soon afterwards, Earth stopped its pointless hostilities towards the peaceful farmers of Skylon 4. ”Congress Passes Law Permanently Abolishing War and Space Travel,” Laurie read in her newspaper one morning. The news simultaneously excited her and bored her. She stared out the window, dreaming of her youth, when the days had passed unhurriedly and carefree, with no newspaper to read, no television to distract her from her sense of innocent wonder at all the beautiful things around her. “Why must one lose one’s innocence to become a woman?” she pondered wistfully.

Bill:

Little did she know, but she had less than 10 seconds to live. Thousands of miles above the city, the Anu’udrian mothership launched the first of its lithium fusion missiles. The dimwitted wimpy peaceniks who pushed the Unilateral Aerospace disarmament Treaty through the Congress had left Earth a defenseless target for the hostile alien empires who were determined to destroy the human race. Within two hours after the passage of the treaty the Anu’udrian ships were on course for Earth, carrying enough firepower to pulverize the entire planet. With no one to stop them, they swiftly initiated their diabolical plan. The lithium fusion missile entered the atmosphere unimpeded. The President, in his top-secret mobile submarine headquarters on the ocean floor off the coast  of Guam, felt the inconceivably massive explosion, which vaporized even poor, stupid Laurie.

Rebecca

This is absurd. I refuse to continue this mockery of literature. My writing partner is a violent, chauvinistic semi-literate adolescent.

Bill:

Yeah? Well, my writing partner is a self-centered tedious neurotic whose attempts at writing are the literary equivalent of Valium. ”Oh, shall I have chamomile tea? Or shall I have some other sort of F–KING TEA??? Oh no, what am I to do? I’m such an air headed bimbo. I guess I’ve read too many Danielle Steele novels!”

Rebecca:

A$$h@le.

Bill:

B*tch!

Rebecca:

F*** YOU – YOU NEANDERTHAL!!

Bill:

In your dreams, Ho. Go drink some tea.

TEACHER: A+ — I really liked this one.

I’m sitting in the Coffee Table, which is the absolute best coffee shop in the world. I don’t drink coffee, as you know. I hate the taste (which makes me wonder about your working at Starbucks … a subconscious, hostile act?). Anyway, I love this place because they all know me by name and even know what I like to drink and eat. That shouldn’t be too surprising because I order the same thing just about every time: iced tea and a toasted cinnamon bagel with plain cream cheese.

When I come here, I sit at a special table. It’s a two-seater in the corner. I like the privacy, but it also makes me feel less guilty. I am here for HOURS at a time, and I don’t want to take up too much space should there be a lunchtime rush. The owner tells me not to worry about it. I’m a regular. Still, I don’t want to overstay my visit.

I usually get here around 7:30 and have the place pretty much to myself. People come in to get coffees-to-go. Every once in a while someone comes in to read the paper, and then, of course, there are the moms who come in with their kids who make far too much noise and run all over the place. The shop has a small kids’ area with games like Candyland. When they play, the kids fight over cards and pieces, and they never clean up after themselves although their moms say things like “I’m not going to say it again, put away that game … I’m going to count to three … one, two, three … I’m not going to say it again … ” Ad infinitum. Kids — they should be outlawed from coffee shops where there are writers sipping iced tea and munching on bagels and trying to write the Great (or good-enough) American novel.

But I digress.

So I get here at 7:30 and there’s a guy camped out at my favorite table!!! He’s on a laptop and it is plugged into the outlet (my favorite outlet), which is not a good sign because it means he’s hunkering down. Plus he has his iPod surgically attached to his ears, and that means he doesn’t want distractions because he is in the “zone,” and anyone in the zone isn’t about to leave it. I should challenge him to a duel — his mouse against mine — but I can’t suggest this because he is too darn absorbed in his work.

When I went up to the counter to order my food, I jokingly mentioned to Linda that my space had been violated. She said she thought the same thing when he came in. She also said that I could call in advance (they open at 5:30 a.m.), and she would put a “reserved” sign on the table. Isn’t that wonderful?!

(Crap — there’s a little girl a few tables away. She’s got one of those pink plastic ponies with the Lady GaGa hair. She’s throwing it and her mother is saying, “I’m not going to say it again, pick up your pony … I’m going to count to three … “)

Oh no!!!! The guy’s wife just came in. They’re talking and talking and talking about his new job. She’s brought their toddler with her and the kid, of course, is making a mess of his chocolate cupcake, and she’s saying “I’m not going to say it again …” You won’t believe this — they’re now playing Candyland. I am NOT making this up.

Well, to heck with all that. I am going to stay here, until closing if need be. I am going to get my table back! Maybe I should go sit on the guy’s lap …

A screenwriter comes home to a burned down house. His sobbing and slightly singed wife is standing outside.

“What happened, honey?” the man asks.

“Oh, John, it was terrible,” she weeps. “I was cooking, the phone rang. It was your agent. Because I was on the phone, I didn’t notice the stove was on fire. It went up in second. Everything is gone. I nearly didn’t make it out of the house. Poor Fluffy is – ”

“Wait, wait. Back up a minute,” the man says. “My agent called?