Our House Smells Like Plastic (which, by the way, totally sucks)

A few months ago, a wind storm hit Pasadena.  I talked about it here, here and here (with tons of photos).  The hurricane-force winds tore shingles off our roof.  At first, we thought the damage was minimal; but the next time it rained, we discovered some fun new drips.   

Long story short, we are getting a new roof.  We have our roofer lined up, but it might be another week or two before the construction starts (they have to get permits, survey the roof and other boring stuff). 

As a telecommuter, I cannot tell you how excited I am to work in the house while a new roof is being installed.  It is going to be awesome!  So much fun!  I bet I'll barely hear the roofers as they pound thousands of shingles into the beams above my head.  (In case the tone is lost in print, my words are dripping with sarcasm.  And hey, does anyone know what sarcasm looks like when it drips?   I bet it's a dark gooey substance that smells like roadkill.) 

In the meantime, we had our roof tarped.  This was a smart move.  It has already rained several times this month, and water was dripping into the light fixture in my bathroom.  But now, the vent in our roof is covered with a heavy sheet of plastic.  Guess what happens when the plastic gets hit by the afternoon sun?  The house smells like burning plastic!

Many products are scented with a pleasing smell.  You can buy laundry detergent that smells like lavender, soap that smells like citrus, and candles that smell like vanilla.  But have you ever seen a product that is made to smell like "burning plastic"?  Of course not!  You know why?  BECAUSE THE SMELL OF BURNING PLASTIC WILL MAKE YOU THROW UP IN YOUR MOUTH.

Our house's Eau De Burning Plastic has put a slight damper on my telecommuting gig.  But not really.  If I had to choose between working in an office that smells like fresh citrus or working from home in a house that reeks of burning plastic, I'd choose the burning plastic in a heartbeat.

I just hope the plastic fumes are not poisoning my brain.  I'm quite fond of my brain cells and don't want to lose too many before our new roof is installed.  

Telecommuting Confessions

Last week, I got dressed in a really respectable outfit, with pants, a clean shirt and a cute cardigan ... but only because a new dryer was being delivered and I did not want the delivery men to see me in my fleece sweatpants.  I changed back into my pajama bottoms at 12:44 p.m.

Most days, I only get dressed for a few hours, at most, if I'm leaving the house to run errands.  Sometimes I get dressed at 5 p.m. so Nathan can pretend his wife spent the day in real clothes.  We both know this is a lie.

Sometimes, I wear the same "I'm Running Errands And Want To Look Pretty Outfit" two days in a row.  Because, hey, I only wore the outfit for 45 minutes while I was at Target, so it's clean, and why should I expend the energy putting together a new pants-shirt combination?
Sometimes, I wear the same "I'm Running Errands And Want To Look Pretty Outfit" five days in a row. Because I am so shameful.  I'm putting this confession in really small font so maybe my mother won't read it.  Shh, don't tell her. 

p.s. I went to Catholic school for twelve years and wore a uniform five days a week.  If you think my aversion to picking out new weekday outfits is pathetic, blame the nuns. 

Mmm, Chili (and oh yeah, the Super Bowl)

The Super Bowl is on Sunday!  Woo hoo!  I'm not really that excited!  But I thought I should use some exclamation marks!  Super Bowl!!!

I will be watching the Super Bowl, mostly for the commercials, Madonna and the possibility of inclement weather.  If it's snowing or raining, it's amusing to watch the shivering players and fans.  (My parents like to watch news footage of blizzards, especially if cars are sliding down roads.  So I blame them).  

During the Super Bowl, I'll be eating this chili.  It is outstanding and ridiculously easy to make.  Seriously, if you have a can opener, you can make this chili.  We eat it with sour cream, shredded cheese and Fritos.  When I am feeling virtuous, I just eat the chili by itself - it's still delicious.  But since it's the Super Bowl, I don't think I'll be feeling virtuous on Sunday.

I realize people have a lot of strong opinions about chili.  There are probably competing academic societies and if there's ever a Chili Symposium, it will end in violence.  My favorite chili recipe belongs to the "ground beef and kidney beans" genre.  If you like that type of chili, then you will love this recipe.  If you prefer chunks of beef in your chili (shudder), then don't even click the link.

I hope something interesting happens during the Super Bowl.  Then, on Monday, while I am telecommuting, I can have a conversation with myself at the water cooler about the crazy thing Madonna did.  But even if the Super Bowl is boring, I know my chili dinner will be delicious.

Courtney the Curdmudgeon; Or, "Hey, Kids! Stop Touching My Rocks!"

As I telecommuter, I often work from the luxury of my living room couch.  Our living room is in the front of the house, and the couch is right next to a big window that overlooks our street.  I have a prime view of our front lawn, parkway, and all the neighborhood shenanigans. 

Our parkway (aka the strip of land between the street and the sidewalk) used to be a frightening mess of ivy.  It was disgusting and infested by who-knows-what.  We had the ivy removed and replaced with small white river pebbles.  

The neighborhood children, ages 2-7, are fascinated with the pebbles in front of my house.  They stop, stare, touch, scatter, kick, manhandle and steal my pebbles.  Overall, it does not matter.  The pebbles are in good condition and the parkway looks attractive, no matter how many children stop and steal.  Besides, childhood is such a precious, fleeting moment and children should be encouraged to enjoy nature and the wonders of the world.

But it still bugs the hell out of me.

I love children, but whenever I see a child crouching before my pebbles, I cringe.  I stop whatever I am doing and watch through the blinds.  I have to resist the urge to run outside and shout something like, "Hey you kid!  Get away from my rocks!" 

My reaction baffles me.  I sat on a crowded bus in Paris and exchanged silly faces with a Parisian five-year-old.  I worked at a summer day camp for four years not for the easy riches but because it was fun.  Once, in a hotel room in D.C., I let my best friend's baby sleep on top of me for over an hour, even though my need to use the bathroom was dire.  I just love children so much.

Except when they are stealing my freaking rocks.  STOP.  STEALING.  MY.  ROCKS.  Hey, kids, if you like my pebbles so much, I have an idea: grow up; get a job; and buy your own freaking rocks.  Seriously, you probably already have an iPhone, a video game system and a robot slave.  Must you steal my pebbles as well? 

Telecommuting Confession: The UPS Truck

I have two confessions to make.

Confession One: I can identify the sound of my neighborhood's UPS truck with 100% accuracy.  I know the sound of that engine better than I know the sound of my own breathing.  Once I hear the UPS engine, I can immediately discern whether the truck is (a) speeding down the street towards its next delivery or (b) making a stop on my block.  If the truck is stopping, I can predict, with 95% accuracy, whether or not the UPS guy is delivering a package to my house.  

Now it is time for my second and truly pathetic confession...

Confession Two: A moment before I started typing this blog entry, I heard the UPS truck stop in front of my house.  Then, I heard the tell-tale thud of a package being left at my doorstop.  I am so excited.  I LOVE PACKAGES FROM UPS!!! I want to open the door and claim my package NOW, but I am forcing myself to wait five minutes because I am a mature adult with an exciting and interesting life.  But really, I can't stand the idea that I'm sitting here, on my leather chair, and the package is out there, shivering on the front porch. 

If I'm going to be completely honest, I must confess that I am only writing this blog entry to help myself pass the time before I am allowed to retrieve the newly delivered cardboard box.

Yay!  Time to get my new box!  I hope it's from Amazon!

And I've reached a new low. 

Telecommuting + Pasadena = November Picnic

It's late November. By all rights, I should be wearing sweaters and huddling indoors 24/7.

Instead, I ate lunch outside today.  Under this tree.  While wearing a short, sleeveless dress. 

Why am I telling you this?  Because as a Southern California resident, I have a moral duty to gloat about the weather.  Muhahahaha!

Some Thoughts On Telecommuting

The Good: Taking a hot bubble bath at 3:15 p.m. just because you can.  

The Bad: Working within steps of your freezer (and the gallon of ice cream that used to be in said freezer).

The Ugly:  Having a nervous breakdown when the umpteenth solicitor knocks on your front door and asks if you are interested in a new roof. 

Telecommuting Confessions: The Dress Code Is Pretty Relaxed Here

I would just like to note for the record that as I write this, I am wearing jeans, a clean t-shirt, a cute striped cardigan and black ankle boots.  This is nothing short of a miracle. I am, after all, a telecommuter.  I can spend the day in pajamas and a bathrobe, and I still get paid. 

For six and a half years, I worked in offices with business casual dress codes.  Over the years, I spent a lot of money at Banana Republic. Now that I telecommute, my business casual wardrobe is languishing in the darkest corner of my closet.  But I still try to make an effort to wear nice clothes every day at least once a week.  

I think I am going to have to write a Telecommuting Dress Code before I start dressing like a homeless person.  These are a few of the rules that I am trying to observe:

• Put on real pants by 11 a.m. Sweatpants are not real pants.  Pajama bottoms?  Not real pants.
• It is okay to wear a comfy, stained t-shirt in the house.  It is not okay to walk/drive past the property line in a stained t-shirt, even if I am just running to the grocery store. Let's try to preserve a modicum of dignity.
• I must wear shoes for at least a few hours every day.  No, my electric green Crocs do not count as shoes.  Yes, my Toms are real shoes.  I am a telecommuter, not a prisoner. 

These rules seem really harsh.  Pants everyday?  Yeah, like that is going to happen.  Since I wore jeans today, I think I'm free to wear sweats for the rest of the week. 

The Arrival of the Mail Is Not That Exciting. Or So I Keep Telling Myself.

I started telecommuting this week.  It is glorious.  My commute is the ten second walk from the bedroom to the kitchen table.  The dress code is very, very casual.  And perhaps best of all, I do not have to navigate the mire of office politics (I was never very good at that game).

Things are, however, a little quiet.  You know what tends to be the most exciting part of my telecommuting day?  When the postman delivers the mail.

When I hear our metal mail slot open and bang shut, I tell myself: Self, you are not excited.  It's just the mail.  Stay where you are. 

But this is a lie.  I am very, very excited by the mail's arrival.  Like a small terrier who must bark at the mailman, I want to run to the front door immediately and investigate.  I'm afraid that one of these days, I will start barking at the mailman - and that event will signal thebeginning of the end.

So I have implemented a strict rule: telecommuters must wait a full two minutes before investigating the mail's arrival.  (I break this rule nearly every day).

Yesterday, however, I heard the mail arrive and then I totally forgot about it for at least fifteen minutes.  I congratulated myself as if this was some sort of noble achievement, like discovering the cure for cancer.  Today, I am hoping I can stretch the wait to a full half hour.  If that happens, I'm sure I'll be awarded a Nobel Prize for Telecommuting.