Busted!

My husband and I have both been working from home for a couple of years now.  It’s easy to get distracted when you’re at home all day – especially when you have a partner in crime – but I like to think that I have some self-discipline.  Sure, I take frequent breaks, but they’re all short in duration.  Work still comprises the bulk of my day.  At least that’s what I tell myself.

Yesterday, some very official-looking regulators showed up at our apartment unannounced to chat with my husband about his business.  When they knocked on the door, my husband and I had just woken up and were still lounging around in our pajamas.  We had just invented a really fun game where we hit balloons with hockey sticks, so the living room floor was covered in birthday balloons.

The regulators noticed how flustered we were, so they apologized and pointed out that in my husband’s paperwork, he had listed his office hours as 9am to 5pm, Monday through Friday.  My first thought was, “Wait, is it seriously Monday already?”

My next thought was, “Oh my God, I’m the laziest person ever.”  It was official business hours, and there I was loafing around in my pajamas, playing with balloons, with my computer turned off.  I had been caught red-handed.  Even though they had come to talk to my husband and not me, I felt like saying, “Okay, regulators, you got me. The jig is up.”

Thankfully, my husband is a true professional and immediately switched into business mode.  While he addressed their questions, I hid behind my laptop and tried to look busy and focused, but all I could think about was how lazy I was.

At some point, my husband mentioned that I was a writer, and one of the regulators pointed to our artwork and asked if I was a children’s author and whether I had done those children’s book illustrations myself.  I heard my husband explain, “No, that’s just our taste in art.”  After an awkward silence, he added, “She writes humorous essays.”   I was about to appear in the doorway waving a copy of the small-time regional magazine that I had been published in when the guy asked, “Oh, like for The New Yorker?”

Long. Deep. Sigh.  "No, I have not been published in The New Yorker.  As I'm sure you've deduced by now, my writing career is a sham.  But, hey, look what I can do with this hockey stick and a balloon!"

I have since vowed to start working at coffee shops or the library or even the building lobby – anywhere where blowing up balloons is frowned upon.