I Work At Home -- Give Me My Bon Bons

For seven months now, I've spent all day, every day at home.
I haven't had a bon bon yet.
It's true the tummy is flabbier, but it's hours spent hunched over a
computer not lounging in front of daytime soaps that are to blame.
I am still writing this column. I'm still a Democrat freelancer.
But day to day, I am Sullivan County's rare breed.
I'm the elusive work-from-homer.
The U.S. Department of Labor estimates 24 percent of Americans did some or all of their work from home in 2009.
But in 2010 in Sullivan County, I still find myself over-explaining just how I am part of the American marketplace.
"Wow," they say, "you must get away with a lot."
Or, "Wow, that must be the most fun job ever."
Or my favorite, "But what do you DO all day?"
Short answer: I work.
From 9 to 5.
I get up in the morning, and I turn on my computer.
I do what my bosses ask. I answer their e-mails. I send a few to them.
I get a few back.
I research. I conduct interviews.
I write.
A LOT.
What don't I do?
Bake cookies.
Eat cookies.
Bake cakes.
Eat cakes.
Spend inordinate amounts on personal calls.
Mow the lawn.
Play with my daughter.
Run errands.
Clean the house.
Any of these sounding familiar? Something like your day out of the house?
I may throw a load of laundry in the washer first thing and run down at lunch time to pop it into the dryer, but for every unusual portion of my working situation - the fact, for example, that I only just met my bosses face to face this past weekend - it's exceedingly, notably, well, boring.
I'm just like you. I do a job. I get paid.
And I love it.
The world's worst morning person, the folks at the Democrat laid bets on whether I'd even make it to the 7 a.m. scheduled induction of my daughter's birth (I did).
Now I crawl out of bed and turn on my computer, and my stinky teeth and pillow flattened hair have no bearing on my abilities to research 49 people who won't celebrate Obama's 49th or which shots your toddler will need for pre-school. I write not just about the town board meeting for the Democrat but about love and health and raising kids for CafeMom's The Stir.
And why do I do it in my jammies with my house falling to pieces around my ears?
So I can stay right here in Sullivan County, where that 24 percent of the population statistic is more like 1 percent.

Image via Pink Sherbet/Flickr

Pissed Off Mom At a Concert Says Stop Pissing On Kids

The first rule of concert lawn seating.
Don't step on the 5-year-old's stuff.
Second rule of concert lawn seating?
When you do step on 5-year-old's stuff, you apologize.
Especially if it's her $5 hot dog.
And her kettle corn.
And you smushed them both unrecognizable with your 20-something feet.
If you fail to follow the rules?
Count yourself lucky that 5-year-olds are both fairly forgiving and not as tempted as their parents to chase you down.
If you insist on choosing the path through a family's blanket rather than walking 2 feet to the right to cross the open grass, how about stopping for a chat with the 5-year-old?
She might teach you a thing or two.
This, after all, is the 5-year-old, who will look over at her mother in indignation and announce, "Somebody messed up my stuff. You don't mess up other people's stuff."
She's too small to reach the counter to buy her own hot dog.
But she's got more street smarts than you.
And better manners.
In this case, the height is a distinct advantage. If you can't reach the counter they don't bother asking you for ID. They just don't serve you alcohol.
It's hard to slosh beer on people when you don't have any.
Or when you can't stretch your legs over their shoulders.
Which brings us to rule number three of concert lawn seating.
Five-year-olds do not enjoy the moment they find their head stuck between your thighs as you step over them.
They are not low lying fence posts.
They have noses.
Which you've just brushed with your sweaty basketball shorts.
Stand up. Pull off your shorts.
Put them to your nose.
How's it smell?
Sort of like a smushed hot dog mixed with a 5-year-old's tears?
Now you're getting it.
And now for the good news.
She enjoyed the show despite you.
She danced. She sang. She ate Oma's stash of extra food.
She demanded a replay of the songs in the car, tunes to fall asleep to.
And she'd forgotten the worst of it by morning.
You're lucky you messed with her; not her mother.