I was enjoying watching teen daughter's high school soccer game yesterday, under a blue and white marbled sky, the bright sun sparkling over the fields, the perfect mid September afternoon, when I got chatting with another mom whose pilot husband hasn't flown in 27 days.
"I know," I said, nodding my head, with an understanding only those whose husbands work from home or those whose significant other has a fluid schedule could know. And of course, those whose husbands are retired. I've seen their spouses weary faces as they push their shopping carts down the narrow aisles, the husbands either following them so closely, stepping on their aerosoles or wandering off without a word, only to meet up in the check out with identical items. "You really must stick with me or you'll have to stay home," they want to shout.
My husband works from his home office, a mere twenty feet away from my mine, and although I love the guy dearly, living and working in such close proximity should earn me a medal of freedom or at least get me on the fast track to heaven.
When he is out on calls, and he insists he loves being on the road, I regress to that 15 year old teenager whose parents have gone out of town. No, I don't hit the liquor cabinet (unless it's after 5.00pm) or text my buddies, but I do turn up the radio and have an extra bounce to my step, a wider smile on my face, a gleam in my eyes. I am tempted to throw the door open and scream, "I'm free. I'm free!"
I work better when the house is quiet- just the gentle hum of the fridge, the quirky meow of my cat, but since the husband sticks around the house more than my infirm 16 year old cat, it's never quiet. The hubby,for a British fellow, is very loud, though he swears that he floats around the house, and I am the one who is the loud American. Everything he does or owns generates excessive noise from his squeaky chair to his shredder to his heavy footed gait, sending missiles of extraneous noise right down into my open air office. Even if he closes the door to his office, the noises blast right through the drywall.
Add that to how drawn out his morning routine has become, and you'll nod when you see me with an Adavan drip.
It takes the hubby forever to get showered. Up at 5.30, he heads straight into his office and despite my attempts at getting him cleaned up at a reasonable hour, he'll end up hoping into the shower in the late morning, and working often until mid afternoon in the green monster- his forest bathrobe. He loves his green tattered robe and says that nothing dries him off better than lounging in the terry towelling for hours- or me using a washcloth.
It's holey, has smears of toothpaste running down the arms and backside (hey teens, can you use a towel instead of 'the robe," please?) and hasn't seen the spin cycle for months. I can only hope that those damn fibers give way and he is finally forced to throw it on one of our bonfires. I am sure, if he could get away with it, he'd drive off and see his clients in 'the robe.' I've told him that I will bury him in his robe, but he has no shame. Besides, he says he is getting cremated.
So while he is rocking back and forth in his squeaky office chair, his bare feet perched on his desk, the robe splayed open for all to see, it's the steady stream of noises that really drive me mad.
I rue the day when he discovered the joys of shredding. Want to pry out my deepest, darkest secrets? Lock me in a room and put the shredder on automatic. I'd break within minutes. Give you my passwords, my secret crab cake recipe, even my beloved cat, James Jones. That man loves the shredder. He could shred all day and eagerly piles stacks of used paper and junk mail in box, waiting for the box to fill so he can fire up the shredder. He even likes getting catalogues, now. I've resorted to throwing away as much paper as I can, quickly balling it up and pushing it into the bowels of the kitchen waste bin. I know it's not environmentally sound, but I place a premium on my sanity, and so do the teens.
Now, I know this may read a bit harsh, but really, I do love the guy but spouses need a bit of space. I remember when my friend told me that her husband worked from home and how it drove her crazy. I really couldn't relate. "Really," I asked as she showed me his study, a desk next to the furnace in the unfinished basement. I raised my eyebrow, feeling sorry for the poor guy whose desk was only steps from the litter box. I'd have him upstairs. I'd never put my husband in the basement. Never.
But now, several years later, our basement is looking like a nice spot to relocate the shredder, the chair, the man in the robe.
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