Workin' for a Living

Everybody thinks that working at home is just great, and I’m not complaining but it certainly isn’t as ideal as most people think. First of all, if one is on a project that is somewhat boring—and that happens to me all the time--so many distractions are available such as friends, family, dogs, laundry, food, and saving bugs from drowning and going to a watery grave in the pool. I, single- handedly, have probably saved the entire population of wood beetles in North Georgia. I can’t stand to see them floating on the water, paddling frantically with their little spindly legs and getting nowhere, so I scoop them up with my net and dump them into the monkey grass where they are probably immediately consumed by other insects (or by one another).

You can learn a lot from insects drowning in a pool. In many ways they are like some people. You try to bail them out, but they keep jumping out of the net right back into their original circumstances. But I persist. I’m a one-person insect interventionist.

So I usually drag myself out of bed when some idiot calls me at 8:00 a.m. or so, known as morning business hours for many, but for me known as “I stayed up until 1:00 a. m. last night, you inconsiderate morny-mornington!” Then I do my best to stumble my way through a hall full of dogs that are eager to greet me and to keep one another from doing same. Dogs eat first, then me, and finally I sit down to work with a cup of coffee by my side. Now mind you, this is a flexible routine if I’m pre-warned that it must be flexed, and that’s all I require. Otherwise, I work away with hair greatly askew and pajama-clad until midmorning when I take my now-caffeinated body into the shower.

After 20 years, we are getting a new roof, by necessity, unfortunately. We’ve arranged with an insurance man to come and look at the roof before the project begins in the off chance that we may have some hail damage. I’ve prayed for hail damage as our neighbors have had one, even two replacements, but no such luck and I don’t think acorn damage counts. Even though I’ve been hit in the head with those things quite a lot now that fall is here and those damn things hurt. One even bounced through the door (propped open for dogs) and almost got me as I toiled at the computer.

Anyway, all I ask is for a pre-schedule-change warning but this morning as I saved insects out in the pool clad in my pajamas and in a generally frazzled state, a large flatbed covered with a tarp stopped at the bottom of our driveway and men began jumping from the cab. Oh my gosh, I’d been over this a thousand times with Jack. The roofers were to arrive on Thursday and it’s Tuesday! The dogs are going nuts. I run to the bedroom and frantically start to try and dress myself and make myself look better without first pounding down my Einstein hair with a focused funnel of shower water. There is no remedy. I call Jack who is at an airport in Texas. This week he went from Alabama to California to Texas. I saw him for five hours during the California/Texas layover. As I’m scrambling to get dressed, Jack is calling the roofing office secretary who calls the roofers to tell them they are scheduled for Thursday, not Tuesday. By the time I run outside they’re gone with only a big pile of shingles in the driveway as evidence that they were here.

Okay, now I can take a shower since I’ve worked up quite a sweat. While in the shower, the phone rings. It’s Jack telling me that the roofers are leaving and he’s getting on a plane. I get back in the shower and the dogs go wild again. I keep hearing jingle, jingle, jingle. It sounds like a cowbell. It’s too early for Santa Clause, but now I hear men calling and whistling and jingle, jingle, jingle running through the woods around our house. I get dressed and head down the driveway to discover the source of the annoying sound. My flip flop hits a rock and I catch my skidding fall with the front of all of my bare front toes. As I limp back to the house, a hound dog runs past me jingling all the way. I try to call it but it disappears into a nearby wooded lot. More whistles and calls from afar. Damn it! I get in my Jeep and ride in the direction of the calls only to find two men completely clad in hunting gear with rifles slung over their shoulders holding and patting the dog. I roll down my windows and tell them the dog was on my street. “I tried to call him but I didn’t know his name,” I say.

“Well neither do we!” Har-har-har. I’d like to ask, “What kind of an ass goes around shooting poor, helpless animals out of a field that is the only patch of undeveloped land left in the area?” However, I don’t think it’s a good idea to irritate armed men. So I turn around and go back home, only to hear jingle, jingle, jingle followed by canine madness. The guy is taking a leisurely walk down my street with his hunting dog, rifle in tow! Wow. At least the dog is wearing a bell so that the deer can hear him coming. Stupid is as stupid does.

As Christopher Walken says, “I’ve got a fever and the prescription is more cowbell!”

It’s now past noon. Guess I’d better take another look at the pool. Then I’ll get to work. Yeah, right.