Restless at 2:15 a.m., I rolled over onto my right side, taking great pains to execute the move quietly so as not to disturb my wife’s slumber.
What followed was anything but quiet. It was, however, excruciatingly painful.
“Hey, what the…” I cried, as my ribs connected with something sharp and metal. In 27 years of marriage and sharing a bed, I’ve rolled onto articles of clothing, used Kleenex and the occasional TV remote, but never something that caused me to yelp.
That was before I rolled onto a clipboard. I might have stayed asleep had I rolled onto the “board” portion; instead, I connected with the “clip.”
“What’s wrong?” my wife said, now awake and slightly alarmed. A scream in the middle of the night is never OK, unless it comes from a TV horror movie.
“Why is THIS here?” I replied, taking the clipboard and tossing it to the floor, thankfully in the opposite direction of our dog’s bed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I fell asleep. I was working.”
Another home office mishap.
As the pandemic keeps the world’s workforce away from offices, working from home has become the norm. Basements, spare bedrooms and dining room tables are suddenly being relabeled the “home office” with family members jockeying for space each morning.
“Honey, I have an important Zoom call today. That means I get the breakfast nook.”
“Oh, really? Where am I supposed to work?”
“Hello? What’s wrong with the storage shed? Move my belt sander off the workbench and put your laptop there. The Wi-Fi should reach.”
Recently, unable to venture to a professional recording studio to lay down an audio track for a training film, I found myself narrating the script at home, using my computer’s built-in microphone. When I sent the results to a video editor, he was less than pleased.
“It sounds distorted. Where did you record this?”
“In my home office,” I said.
“Is your home office by a window? I can hear kids playing outside.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Do you have a coat closet in the house?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Hang a bunch of heavy winter coats around you and record the audio in there,” he said.
“Sure, whatever.”
I’ve found myself asking conference call participants their exact locations after viewing their surroundings via their webcams. Upon seeing an assortment of clothes hanging over one’s right shoulder, curiosity got the best of me.
“Are you in your laundry room?” I asked.
Yes, but don’t worry,” she replied. “The dryer cycle just ended so it should be quiet.”
My wife has decided our bed will, for the time being, double as her office. Which means, if she falls asleep again before tidying up her “desk,” I can expect to roll onto charging cubes, pens, spiral notebooks and who knows what else. Hopefully, my slumbering bulk does not end up resting on something that would be expensive to replace. Her laptop, for instance.
Since March, whenever somebody gives me their “office” number, I just assume I am dialing their home and will hear the inevitable dog bark or wailing child at some point during the conversation. I have thought about installing a home office phone menu simply to mess with unsuspecting callers.
“Hello, you’ve reached the office of Greg Schwem. For a company director, press one. (PAUSE). Using your touch tone keypad, please spell Greg Schwem’s name. For the letter ‘q,’ press the ‘star’ or ‘hash’ key. (PAUSE) Now being transferred to Greg Schwem. (PAUSE). Hi, this is Greg. I’m not my desk right now. If this matter is urgent, press zero for the operator. (PAUSE). Hi, this is Greg. I’m not at the operator’s desk right now. That’s because I’m running back to my own desk because I just heard the phone ring. I’m guessing it was you.”
The caller may not think it’s funny, but it certainly lessens the pain of rolling onto a letter opener.
