I work from home because I want to – not because I have to.
Sure, lower overhead improves business profits, but my real bottom line is far more personal. I value integrating laundry with layouts and saving precious time and money from wasteful enterprises like morning commutes and parking fees. It’s also wonderful that my dogs never bust me out for the unique things I do when attempting to “be creative.”
However, there can be some interesting disruptions in my woman-cave.
It all began with strange noises began emanating from some unknown point of origin in the greatroom next to my office. Rustling, scratching and – dare I say it – the beating of wings perplexed and worried me with their episodic emergence into my otherwise quiet existence.
I finally isolated the sounds to The Chimney. My gas-enhanced hearth (specially designed for fire starting-challenged individuals like moi) seemed to have become home to an avian being. I assumed the temporarily downed dodo would exit shortly.
It became obvious a few hours later that my chirping visitor had not yet taken to the friendly skies. I consulted with the Ohio Wildlife Center’s humane wild animal control expert. Turns out that, unless the bird stayed within range of reach, they could not execute a rescue.
He advised waiting for my new friend to sink to my level again, penning up the dogs and then calling OWC if I couldn’t shoo said winged intruder outside.
I hung up and gently opened and closed my flue to see if the ill-fated flyer was perched therein or newly departed. This provoked no noise. It did result in white spatters on the inside of the glass fireplace doors.
I assumed that was more than a statement.
All turned quiet again and I had an outside obligation. So a night passed. Early the next morning, the fireplace commenced quaking again. I took the pups upstairs to eat, opened the fireplace and the French doors to the backyard and retreated.
Just after stepping from the shower a short time later, I heard the sound of objects falling. I echoed these thuds tromping downstairs with my shower towel hugged to my chest.
There, next to the bookcase in my office, was The Grackle.
He was frantically trying to create an opening through a closed window bound by a screen I could not remove. I tried feverishly to find an escape hatch. The only thing that came loose was The Towel.
Since it was a window overlooking the street, I retreated and calculated Plan B. Given the barely-double-digit temperatures, leaving the backdoor open was a slight distraction in and of itself. But it could not be helped.
I’m happy to report that after perching on my kitchen cabinets, trying vainly to flap through another back window and alighting upon some ceiling fan blades, said Grackle eventually located the French door and the path to freedom.
The Chimney, Grackle and Towel certainly detracted from my productivity. But it still beats pulling on pantyhose and parking on 71.
