The working from home experiment officially ends on April 24 as I have accepted an Art Director position for a consulting firm in downtown Denver for a ridiculous amount of money. I learned many things during the home office endeavor:
- When not physically interacting with society on a regular basis I will not change my shorts until I squat down to pick something up and smell the essence of my own ass.
- When not physically interacting with society on a regular basis I will not shower until I squat down to pick something up and smell the essence of my own ass.
- When Divorce Court is on I will not turn it off. Preach on, Judge Toler. Preach on.
- There are times in life when porn is your enemy.
- I do not hate society as much as once initially thought.
- Conference calls are just as worthless as face to face meetings.
- Clients cannot tell when you are calling them from the bathroom.
- Clients cannot tell when you are surfing your RSS feeds instead of taking notes.
- Clients will not take you seriously if your “team” consists of anyone from India or the Philippines.
- Total hours (per week) put in at an office job during a normal work week: 42. Total hours (per week) put in at a home office job during a normal work week: 55.
- Working from home is a lot like bedding a really hot girl and then finding out that she is a lousy lay; at first you cannot believe its happening to you and then you realize its just a means to an end.
Me: The wife and I are moving out of the hood, Joey.
Gay Joe: No way. Are you moving over to Castlegate to run your meth dealing ring from within?
Me: No. We got a house. We put an offer in last Wednesday, got countered on Thursday and we accepted. We now have three mortgages and can officially be called “slumlords.” We may own the whole goddamn town home complex if you are not careful.
Gay Joe: Want to buy my place?
Me: Maybe. Think we can wash the gay off the walls?
Gay Joe: No. That is the selling point, jackass.
Me: “For rent: 2 bedroom suburban town house. Doubles as homosexual circus tent and semen repository.”
Gay Joe: “Home already part of metro area orgy circuit. Ideal for those already suffering from syphilitic dementia.”
Gay Joe: Replace “suffering from” with “enjoying.”
Me: Depending on who we are targeting.
Gay Joe: “Bush-bottoms welcome at double rent.”
Me: “Bear lovers encouraged.”
Gay Joe: I would actually prohibit bear lovers and pets. Too much hair. Anyway, congrats on the new house. Looks nice.
Me: Thanks, killer.
Minutes ago I heard sirens nearby and instantly thought the authorities were raiding another meth lab in the neighboring apartment complex or that another unit in our town home community was on fire. I set foot outside to witness paramedics wheeling out a dead body four units down.’Burb livin’ is hardcore, yo. Represent.
I am tired of your attitude, Winter. This is not the cabin scene from Dr. Zhivago. This is Colorado and we revel in living at high altitude. We are used to eight inches of snow falling one day and then melting by sundown the next. As it stands now, the mountain of plowed snow in the town home parking lot is just growing in size and I am dangerously close to losing the bet I made with the wife in regards as to when it will melt. Granted, it was a friendly wager but just once in this marriage I would like to be right.
A message to all pants-free subway riders in NYC: You are poseurs. I live the pants-free dream everyday. Or at least I did before this cold, arctic air rolled into town. Yesterday I reveled in the sub-tropical 18-degree afternoon by wearing Puma track pants and starting my car without it sounding like Han Solo’s frozen Tauntaun just before it dropped dead. When the temperature gets back to above freezing again, then the pants come and off and sweet freedom returns.
Working from home affords some tremendous opportunities; like watching the incompetence of our home owner’s association labor contractors unfold before my very eyes. Take this afternoon for example. Armed with shovels and picks, Indian Summer Landscaping was out in full force today with orders to chisel away at the layers of ice on the driveways and sidewalks. This work is essential as Colorado is expecting another big storm this Friday and it would be helpful to have unobstructed gutters and walkways so the snow/ice can melt faster. Instead, I watched as the laborers worked hard at dragging their shovels down the middle of the already plowed street, smoking cigarettes and sucking down Giant Big Gulps. I hope we get fifteen inches of snow and you assholes have to work through the weekend.
Here in Denver, we have not pulled an intact, fossilized woolly mammoth out of the permafrost yet but I did just witness a family of Eskimos clubbing a baby seal out in the town home common area. I awoke this morning to another big winter storm (now dubbed “The Storm That Should Not Be”) and the third immense snow dumping in the past three weeks. We are currently sitting on about seven inches of fresh snow here in the northwestern suburbs and it does not appear to be stopping anytime soon.
One of the few things that sucks about working from home is you do not get a snow day unless the power goes out. I spent most of the Hanukkah Blizzard aftermath on the phone with my genial new boss going over job duties and procedures. Around lunch the wife and I went outside to dig my car out as the plow company packed a night’s worth of snow in front of the community parking area. At dusk we strapped on our snowshoes and went for a trek around Lake Arbor Golf Course. It was a beautiful evening of breaking trail and assuaging cabin fever. Now we are hunkering down for a night of terrible 80s movies (Cocktail is on as I post this), a blasting furnace and Amaretto eggnogs.
We get an average of two trick-or-treaters when Halloween is upon our town home complex. Last night we got one; a youngster dressed as Death who got himself a handful of snack-sized Skittles. Halloween is much changed since I donned a costume. Parents did not drive their kids to go trick-or-treating. If you wanted the big candy payoff, you earned it by braving the elements (it is always fifteen degrees colder on All Hallows Eve in Colorado) and walking until your feet bled. You would come home sniffling and collapse from exhaustion, not caring when your Dad stole the Snickers from your sack in the middle of the night. Town home and apartment complexes were like money in the bank for trick-or-treating back then. An orgy of corn syrup, chocolate, caramel and preservatives awaited for a kid who was willing to rip off “Trick or treat” in rapid-fire succession. I thought that with the burned out unit, we would at least get some middle-schoolers around here playing Ouija and worshiping the devil. Nothing. The Wife clicked the front porch light off at 10:15pm and died a little on the inside.
“Doesn’t anyone want candy anymore, Matty?”
“I guess not, honey.”
I just ran into my neighbor outside. In the process of exchanging pleasantries he mentioned that he is on medication for high anxiety. He works as a chef at a locally owned pizza restaurant and I am having a hard time believing he has that much to be anxious about. Unless they just hired a guy from Little Caesars who has more experience.