I just got off the phone with a telemarketer. As usual, they asked for Meg when I first answer. I get to say “She’s at work” and hope they give up. And every time I say it, I feel the need to explain that I work from home, have a real career, and am not just sitting here like a parasite living off of Meg. That actually makes me more depressed, once I realized I find the need to justify myself to a damn telemarketer.
Working from home isn’t necessarily as quiet and peaceful as you might think. The constant barrage of telemarketers, coupled with the fact that I usually have to go tearing around the house looking for a phone with a charged battery when they call, is almost as bad as the random drive by cubicle meetings I’d face in the office.
Surprisingly, it’s not the telemarketers that bother me so much as that asshole in the ice cream truck. I started this job in July and have only recently, which is to say within the last two weeks, finally been spared another iteration of the creepy ice cream man theme. At 5:30 every day prior to my new found relief, he would come around the neighborhood. I can’t say that I ever saw anyone buy anything, but that didn’t stop him from finding the need to invest 10 minutes of his day on our block. I literally had to postpone conference calls because my coworkers could not hear me amidst the chaos.
I sometimes wonder if Meg is more conniving than I give her credit for. We started the whole house hunting process right about when I started this job. After a few months of me working from home, she suddenly decides that we may not have to move.
So where’s the scheme? Having the house on the market meant I had to keep it not just clean, but presentable. That meant making the bed in the morning, not leaving dishes in the sink (or for that matter, glasses scattered at various places around the house– no mom and dad, I haven’t outgrown that yet), and making sure the laundry pile didn’t build up to mountain range proportions. On days where we had a showing, I’d run around the house that morning restoring the house to a pristine, unnatural condition.
In other words, I don’t think Meg ever intended to move. I think it was her way of making sure I wouldn’t drag the house into the 8th circle of hell while I was at home all day. It actually worked too, short of the coffee-stain breadcrumb trail Meg could use to figure out not only where I went in the house, but the frequency at which I crossed those areas and my average caffeine intake at the time. For some reason, I do not possess the ability to carry a mug of coffee from the kitchen on the second floor, up one flight of stairs, and into my office without managing to splatter, drip, and otherwise coat the walls, floors, and doors. If anyone is looking for Christmas present ideas for Meg, I suggest buying me the tallest mug you can find. Yes, it’s a present for Meg, since she’s the one that gets pissed off at the dynamic spot decorations I am applying to the house.
Still, I can’t bitch too much. I’m sure most of the readers would get fired if they spent an entire work day in their pajamas.