I am Saving the Earth
Alwin Hawkins asks: "Why aren't we telecommuting and saving the earth?" Well, I am. It's not the first time. I'm a freelance writer and editor.(Yes, kids, before telecommuter, there was freelancer. There are a few differences, but not germane to our story.
In which I save the world.
Not alone, but I'm doing my part. I work at home. My editor is in Kentucky. She works from home. We work for a company based in New York -- in the owner's home I believe. I edit the copy of people based in Manila. They work in an office. They could work from home, but I understand Internet access is difficult (or more likely, expensive) to install.
I hate working at home. Here's why:
Training over the phone is insane. Maybe if I had a camera and whiteboard technology it wouldn't be so bad. But my home office is taking enough space out of our "living room."
Back and forth email is exactly like the game "telephone" we played in second grade. Then, I just wanted to scream when the message arrived garbled. Now, I do scream. It scares the neighbor's dog.
I am highly attuned to my surroundings. (See suspicious.) My out of work neighbor comes and goes all day long. He has people visiting all day long. In and Out. Back and Forth. I can't ignore it. In an office I learned how to shut my door and ignore the silly prattle about boats and cabins and vacations and movies and shoes. Here I peek through the curtains amazed anyone needs that much fertilizer.
My dear, dear pre-school daughter loves me. Which she likes to tell me often. (At this point everyone says "ahhh.") She especially loves to tell me all about the lives of her 147 stuffed animals. Who, each and every one, leads a much more exciting and fulfilling life than I could. This is exactly like my old office. Where I heard about the boats, and cabins, and vacations. Except my daughter doesn't understand my subtle "Well, I better get a cup of coffee and finish this article." She just follows me in the kitchen and tells me "You don't drink coffee, dada."
TV. It stares at me. It whispers, "You haven't seen Rockford Files since you were a kid. It's on. I bet it's one with Angel."
My wife. She stares at me. She whispers, "I'm going to bed." She claims this isn't done in a sultry, husky whisper. Never once in my office job did she walk by my desk wearing just one of my old t-shirts. Not once. Or you would have read about it in Letters to Penthouse. "I never thought anything like this could happen to me..."
Daydreams. Well, no, I also did that at the office.
This is the letter B. This is the letter B. This is the letter B. This is the letter B. This is the letter B. Not a single See-and-Say at my old office. But, come to think of it, "I.F." did repeat everything said to her. Said to her.
The Internet. MLB Live blocked at work. Not blocked here. Enough said.
There are plenty of other reasons why I hate saving the world, but I know I have to do my part so my daughters can live in a world where their children drive them crazy -- "Dada, knock, knock. Say "who's there!"" -- I could continue listing them here, but I think I hear a dump truck backing up to my neighbor's place.
