Home Invasion

Today I heard the words that strike fear deep down in my heart. Stop me in my tracks. Fill me with an unshakable dread. The birds stopped singing, the sun hid behind the clouds and the band quit playing. The children ran inside, and even the dust rode out of town on the last sliver of a breeze it could find.

I overheard Clint on his phone telling someone from his office he is working from home again tomorrow. For the third day in a row. I had to resist the compelling urge to scream "Nooooooo!" and throw myself on him like a soldier on a grenade. If you and your spouse are able to work in close proximity together without one of you getting homicidal, I pity admire you. Please note I did not say that I envy you.

Having my other half work from home is especially trying because he is such a Company Joe. No--that doesn't do it justice. I'm sorry for this Joe fellow, but Clint is way more dedicated. He makes Joe look like a lazy fry cook at Burger King. He is a Company Clint. All work, all the time.

When the alarm goes off at ridiculous thirty every other wonderful, happy, normal workday, Clint gets up, I reset the clock, and blissfully get an hour and a half of snore-free slumber. This is my reward for not smothering that snoring giant during the night (continuous sleep deprivation will make you get cagey like that). However, when he works from home, I feel guilty about going back to sleep, so we're both up and at 'em. Which is great, because it makes this quality time filled day even longer.

To say I'm not a morning person is a giant understatement. I hate mornings like a fat kid hates carrot sticks. All I want to do is stumble through breakfast and sit comatose on the couch while the Today show rambles in the background until I absorb enough Diet Coke into my bloodstream to walk without falling down.  But there is no joy in Mudville when the company man is here, so instead of Today Show fluff, we watch the Golf channel. Or ESPN. There isn't enough Diet Coke in North America to help me overcome the tone that sets for the day. And there goes Days of Our Lives at lunch. Like sands through the hourglass be damned; the man has no appreciation for fine daytime drama.

Then there are the "You can" and "I am" statements. The "You can"s are basically verbal permission slips for me to abide by whilst being supervised. As in, "you can turn off the TV now," "you can go ahead and walk the dog," or "you can eat lunch when you're ready." How do I function on a daily basis without these helpful directives? It's a wonder. The "I am"s are a running monologue of his activities. All. Day. "I am going on a conference call in 10 minutes." "I am checking email for a while." "I am going to the bathroom." Now the first two were bad enough, but this is not Miss Susie's preschool and I need not be aware of everyone's bathroom business. Knock yourself out.

The phone, remote control, and ability to move freely throughout my home are all commandeered. I spend the entire day quietly tiptoeing around while Company Clint is on the phone, and making sure that at no time do I appear to be unbusy, not working, or enjoying myself. God forbid the dog bark because that is not allowed now that our house has been transformed into a ginormous cubicle. I find myself doing things to occupy time like staring at the washing machine and watching it go through the cycles. Refolding all the towels in the linen closet. Making lists of lists I need to make. Organizing the scissor drawer. Fantasizing about this ridiculous day being over.

So, to my micro manager for the day: I've got a "You can/I am" for you. You can go back to the office any time now. I am counting the minutes.

Because once he goes back to work, I go back to play.