As most of you know, the husband is being relocated. His company, which shall remain nameless considering they probably don’t want to be associated with me, is a domestic, Fortune 300 company, with corporate and field operations, in a business that is stable and growing. He is on track to grow with this company, which is becoming unusual in this modern world. So, cool, cool, cool. Here is the thing, he’s been working from home for three weeks now. Le sigh. Let me stop here for a second and just say: I LOVE MY HUSBAND. Like LOVE him. I’m not saying that, then going around behind his back telling people that I hate him. Nah. He cool. We cool. And after seventeen years still very much in love and what not. Sex is good, cause I know you were wondering. It took a slight nosedive when we were trying to conceive just cause, well you know the deal, it wasn’t so much fun anymore as work, but after I had my hysterectomy, whew! Through the roof fun, ya know? Discovering parts of ourselves we didn’t know existed. We have this thing…
You know what, I’ve gotten off track.
My husband has been working from home for three weeks now. This isn’t the first time he’s worked from home, but the last time was years ago, back when our son was a toddler and having my husband near was super helpful. Since those days I have always secretly wished he could work from home more. In my head I envisioned us set up in our respective offices, in two different areas of the house (cause I am not a crazy person), and having our coffee together, and sneaking mid-morning kisses, and stealing off to lunch at one of our favorite spots, blah, blah, blah. Cute, right? Cute.
In reality, things have been slightly different. Yes, he takes Jackson to school each morning and lets me sleep in. This is a welcome surprise for both of us. He gets to spend a bit of extra time with his son and I get a few more hours of sleep, which let’s be real, benefits everyone. He usually comes home with my DD coffee, and a smile. Sometimes he cooks us breakfast, sometimes I do. Then, because we live in a small house, he sets up shop at the kitchen island, and I sit down at my desk right behind him.
I start my normal routine. I plop down at my desk and do whatever is on my list for the day. Field emails, cancel doctor appointments, locate a new eye doctor in Georgia, upload documents to DeKalb County Schools, text my friends pictures of Dolly Parton, the normal stuff. And I write, or lately, I TRY to write. Then about 9 a.m. his phone starts ringing. It doesn’t stop ringing till about 6 p.m., so you know, that’s fun. Then the videos start. Because he is changing roles with his relocation, he is taking “classes” on his computer. Sometimes he puts his headphones in to watch the videos, in between phone calls, sometimes he doesn’t. If he isn’t watching videos, then he is talking on the phone with someone who is loosely related to his old job, because they don’t know what they are supposed to do, because they didn’t listen to him when he left. Then there is the new job stuff, which is actually all centered around a plant in Baton Rouge, but he is working on their problems in Charlotte. In our kitchen. Right next to me. This all unfolds as our anxious Standard Poodle hops around him on his hind legs (how the hell is that possible, btw, and is this normal for Poodles to be able to walk like us) begging for love and attention. I sigh heavily from time to time, as he side eyes me, and mouths, “I’m on the phone.” Yeah, I know dude.
At some point mid-morning, my coffee runs out.
By the afternoon I am a bit whiny, and he is listening to some weird-ass podcast on the Home Pod that is conveniently located in the living room, right next to both of us. One of us has started the dishwasher. I have started laundry. Both in close proximately because: Small house. The damn dog is at the front door barking at a bird he thinks is trying to murder us, and the phone is ringing, and the pings of constant email, and pings of the texts from friends who are sending Snoop Dogg pics, and there is the construction on the house across the street. Here, in the cacophony of deafening pings, and creaks, and hammers, my husband seems very content and focused. He gets to a zen-like place. He seems at home, as he should. And that is when I realize, he is sociopath.
So yeah, things are going well. Is that what you asked?