It’s harder than I thought it’d be, this working on my own schedule and not in an office. It’s after midnight and I’m taking a break because I have four more hours of work to do to get a report in front of a client by tomorrow morning. I need a minute away from analysis. I know that Monday will see me free and clear to do whatever I want until Wednesday — I’m talking matinee movies, a full-on spa experience, long walks and knitting up stuff to finish for the Renegade Show in December. That’s all fun and good. Right now, though, I am beat!
My hour-break got me thinking about the great and tragic things about working from home. Tragic might be an exaggeration, but right now, in this little moment in time, it’s 100% apropos! Of everything.
It’s great that I get to exercise on my own time. If I don’t have to drive anywhere to do my work, that means I get a leisurely morning walk with Russell Jenkins in (for pooping — we go until he does) and another morning walk by myself in (for exercise – I go until the TAL podcast is done). I also don’t have to worry if I’m in the mood for a curry for lunch that it’ll smell up the office kitchen and piss the pregnant ladies off. I can eat saag paneer all day long and no one cares. It’s great that I have time to take an online photography class, and when the light is good, to rig up my cowboy studio photobox and photograph not only the Renegade products, but every skein, fat quarter and fabric remnant in the stash. (Projected end date, sometime in 2015. There’s a lotta textiles going on around here. See below from Ravelry — just a start!)
But, it’s tragic that I don’t have a connection to what’s going on in the world in the way I would if I were around people with different perspectives than what’s on BuzzFeed, HuffPo, Facebook, and MSNBC about Ebola, Obama, the Paleo diet, Kerry Washington’s ‘serious’ hair on Scandal, why The View’s ratings are sagging, whether or not it matters that Renee Zellweger may or may not have had plastic surgery and what that may or may not mean for feminism and Annie Lennox and Beyonce … it’s just too much! I’m largely left to my own devices to figure that stuff out, and I seriously don’t trust me.
The one thing that I learned today, though, is that sometimes the ecstasy and tragedy of home-bound work meet up in a way that’s tremendous. Because today, (and all last night), one Russell Jenkins had the trots. Not like little trots that should be what small-ish dogs have, but rather, it was as if RJ was starving and encountered a dead horse that had only eaten cottage cheese infected with salmonella and E.coli its whole life, and was like, “I’ll eat all of you” and while he was licking the bones, felt a rumble in his belly and thought that the next best thing to do would be to diarrhea it out. I know diarrhea isn’t a verb, but it should be because … well, I lived it. Oh, the glory of being home for the effluent. I twice got a wee-wee pad under him just in time. A conservative estimate would put it at right around 8000 other times, I was late and forced to just get out the papertowels, bleach and Pine-sol and deal with the aftermath. (Thank you, Pergo floors! You are the best!) Been to the corner store 3 times for Pepto-Bismol and more paper towels, and the garbage dumpster 4 times today. But how happy am I that I didn’t come home from a long day at work … with people … most of whom give me the heebs … to find what could have been had I not been Jenny-on-the-spot with the cleaning? I’ll answer that for you: ENORMOUSLY HAPPY!
Packing now for travel on Saturday to start the slog — dosing the pup with Pepto until I leave. Seriously hoping that tomorrow sees some roly-poly-poo so I don’t have to put the kennel on notice!