The Home Office

It’s 1:00 pm on a Tuesday afternoon.  The dogs are laying on their backs on the Persian rug, legs splayed open in lazy, canine ecstasy.  Two computer screens are glowing not five feet from each other: one a giant, shiny, silver iMac, the other an old black HP.  My husband is in his jammies, focused on a rambling email.  I sit in the swivel office chair, the back of which touches his swivel office chair, facing my own screen filled with Quickbooks entries.  I too, am in my pajamas.  My second cup of tea sits half drunk next to my mouse.  This, my friends, is the grim landscape of the home office on any given day.

I remove my headphones and peruse the less than professional setting.  “This is pathetic”, I utter.

“Are you kidding?  This is the best” my husband responds while enthusiastically rubbing the dogs’ bellies.    “What are you making me for lunch?”

“I made two breakfasts and two lunches for my CHILDREN this morning, I’m not making lunch,” I reply with as much disdain as I can muster.

“Come sit on my lap then” he suggests casually (every day).

“Are we in an episode of Mad Men?  I’m complaining to HR, would you treat your colleagues this way?” I ask.  “And by the way, you are no Don Draper.”

“I am HR and you’re my wife, so it’s not illegal.  I checked with my lawyer.”   He says with what is supposed to be humorous finality.  

Unfortunately this is true, I have no one to blame but myself for my current predicament.  I even reached out to my brother-in-law, the silent voice of reason partner in our family business, to file a complaint.  He told me to go on a girls’ trip or go shopping.  I now realize I am in my own hellish episode of Mad Henderson Men, minus the continuous consumption of spirits and cigarettes.  Now that is a thought, a glass of scotch would make the day go quicker, but would probably lead to increased harassment. 

The cheerful bleep of the computer, indicating that my accounting entries have in fact reconciled, gives me a pitiful amount of satisfaction so I decide to take a break and throw in some laundry.  Another perk of working at home is the endless amount of multi-tasking that can be done. 

Let me fill you in on a little history so you can fully comprehend the change in lifestyle in which I’ve had to accustom myself.  When we got married, my husband traveled 70% of the time.  After grad school, when I worked in high tech, we both traveled a great deal.  After I had my son, we both worked but only he traveled.  After I had my daughter, and stopped working full time, he traveled around the world consistently, and would be away for 2-3 weeks at a time.  Even later, as he started his own business, he had a shared office space and I went to my part time job over the years.  I just ASSUMEd this was the way things would continue on in our relationship and our life.  As we all know, assuming gets us in trouble.  Now that we are both working in the family business and trying to do so economically, I find myself working in a space the size of cubicle with my sexually harassing, significant other/boss, but without even the benevolently intentioned, yet useless divider to give us privacy.

“Our” office features his side, which is a full wall of desk, with drawers, shelves, and files; it even has room for knick-knacks and photos.  His things are neatly stowed away.  My “side” of the office is a lone desk less than 36” wide with one drawer that is barely deep enough to hold my checkbook, and an archaic HP desktop dominating 30 of the 36 available inches of desk space.  Consequently, my shit is piled all over the desk, and the floor.  Because he is on the phone for at least 50% of the day, I usually move my shit to the dining table or kitchen counter so I can focus.  Then the kids get home from school, and their shit gets strewn all over the kitchen counter, dining and great room.  This creates a lively mess of everyone’s shit that is simply a joy to walk into.   

“Mom, can you move these architectural plans off the dining table so I can do my homework?”  my daughter grumbles.

“Can you guys be quiet and turn the music down?  I’m getting on a conference call,” my husband yells from “our” office.

“How long until dinner?” my son inquires casually. 

The dogs start whining and barking as their inner clocks tell them their evening feeding time is approaching. 

Calgon, High West, Don Draper, someone please take me away from the home office….