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Where I Prove Conclusively That Work Is Not an Option

I’ve gotten nothing done today. Up at ten, shower at one, lunch breakfast at three. I haven’t accomplished anything substantial since sometime last night at work.

(I did engage in a quasi-philosophical debate on the existence of God in the comments of another blog this afternoon, but really, I don’t think that counts. For one thing, I was just pulling shit out of my ass. And for another, I doubt I could convince anyone of the metaphysical state of wheat bread, much less whether or not there’s a frickin’ deity somewhere up there peering down at us.

The whole mess was an exercise in chasing my existential tail, and not even in an amusing way. And it’s still the most significant thing I’ve managed to tackle in the past eighteen hours or so. Pudsnugglers!)

Anyway, I’m toying with the notion of actually sitting down and doing a bit of work. Real work, like from the office. I was just about ready to dig in, too, when I gave the matter some additional thought. It went something like this:

Gee, I really should get some of that work done. People in the office are counting on me, after all.

Of course, to really work, I’d have to go downstairs and log in on my laptop. My wife is down there right now, working on her laptop. That would be nice, in a way — both of us working away, side by side there in the living room.

On the other hand, I don’t want to disturb her. All that typing I’ve got to do might get on her nerves, and then she’d get really mad. Sure, she wouldn’t say anything, because I’d just be working and not trying to bother her, but still, it might get to her. And then she’d sit on that annoyance and let it fester for years and years, until finally, she’d reach over in the car one day and unhook my seat belt just before crashing the car into a guardrail, just to get me back.

So clearly, I can’t disturb her. That would be bad.

I suppose I could bring the laptop back up here and work. But the dog is up here, sleeping. There’s some adage about what to do when you encounter a sleeping dog — I’m not sure exactly how it goes, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t involve ‘tippy-tippy-tippity-tap’ing all over the damned place right next to said slumbering mutt. And the keys on the laptop keyboard are much louder the ‘quietkey’ dealies I’ve got here, so maybe I don’t want to work here, either. The dog is a pit bull, after all, and she’s overdue for a face-shredding tantrum as it is. Perhaps it’s best if I leave her buttons unpushed as well, lest my nose end up the hors d’oeuvre du jour. I’m rather attached to my nose, you see.

Suddenly, working here in the office doesn’t see like much of an option, either.

Perhaps I could take the laptop to the ‘library’ and lounge on our new but old futon while I work. Surely, that’s safer — there’s no one for me to enrage with my loud typing in there. And the futon’s pretty damned comfortable, too. I spent some time reading on it last weekend… and woke up three hours later, my book soaked with drool.

(Hey, it was a Danielle Steel novel. They’re built to withstand a little slobber here and there, you know?)

(Okay, it wasn’t really a Danielle Steel novel. I don’t think we even have one in the house. But that sounds better than telling you that I was whiling away a Sunday afternoon reading about Grover, doesn’t it? Or does it? Now that I type it out, I’m really not so sure. Eh.)

Anyway, I think the library is out, too. I can just see myself falling asleep, computer on my lap, and slumping forward onto the monitor. Twenty minutes and a couple of good drools later, and suddenly the laptop shorts out and fries my uglies. And my ‘short and curlies’ are already quite short and curly enough, without an electrosinge treatment, thank you very much, Mr. Futon. And that goes for you, too, Mr. Bed. If I’m gonna check out of this world in my bedroom, it is not gonna happen fully clothed and alone, you got me? The drooling and electrocution and all of that… well, I’m flexible on those points. But there’s gonna be some damned nakedness, and there’s gonna be at least one witness / accomplice / night nurse / anatomically-correct lump of plastic there with me, understand?

So what options do I have left? Where can I go to actually get some damned work done? The basement? Too cold. The attic? Too dark. The kitchen? Way too many pointy, stabby things in there — I wouldn’t stand a chance. My wife would find me hours later, impaled on a corkscrew, with those little ends-of-the-ears-of-corn doohickeys jammed in my ears and my naked ass hanging out the doggie door. I don’t know how I’d get that way, you understand — just that somehow, some way, I would. Me and kitchens don’t get along; we go waaay back on this one.

It seems the last possible place I could work here in the house is the bathroom. And while I think I could manage to not frizzle myself in there by splashing water on the laptop, it’s still not the most conducive environment for getting work done, now, is it? For one thing, there’s really only one place you can sit in there to form a ‘lap’ for the ‘laptop’, and an Aeron, it ain’t. It’s drafty, often cold, and there’s no lumbar support at all. You’d think, given that we’ve been using the damned toilet for a few dozen thousand years now, that someone would have made the experience ergonomic by now. But no.

Add to that the cramped spaces in our bathroom — shower to the right of me, sink to the left — and I think I’d spend more time banging my elbows and knees against porcelain fixtures than getting any damned work done. The only possible advantage to working in the crapshack is that if we’re out of toilet paper, I could send my wife an emergency email to come upstairs and bring me more. Finally, a practical use for wireless technology. Now that’s progress!

So that’s that. Nowhere to work equals no work done. I guess I’ll finish up this post and play Madden or something. It’s sad, really — oh, lord knows how I’d like to work, but, alas, it’s just not to be. Woe is me. (Hee!)

Anyway, that’s my story, and I present it to you in the hopes that it’ll help you rationalize your way out of a working weekend, too. I’m only here to help, folks. And now, if you don’t mind, I think my wife has worked long enough. I’m gonna go downstairs, plop my ass on the couch beside her, and say,

‘Jesus, do you have to type so fricking loud?!‘

That oughta get the ball rolling. Pretty soon, she’ll be goofing off and sucking down margaritas from her bra cups with me. It’s a slippery slope to fall down, but all you need is a little tiny nudge, and there’s a big bunch of fluffy pillows at the bottom. (And, you know, the dark specter of unemployment. But that’s ‘weekday’ thinking, dammit!)

In any case, happy goof-off Saturday, folks. Now who’s got that bottle of tequila?