It all began with breakfast.

As a kid I watched my dad set his place at the table every night before bed: a bowl filled with Special K, a spoon, two Sweet ‘n Low packets, and a coffee mug. Being an impressionable age where my dad occupied that gray area between God and Han Solo, I would do the same, leaving out my Special K and my juice glass, along with the entire container of sugar. (The pink stuff, while pretty, tasted like chemicals.)

Of course, back then, I didn’t realize that my father’s preemptive morning ritual had little to do with anticipation of tomorrow’s cereal and milk, and more to do with the fact that he got up at an ungodly hour and was not exactly high-functioning first thing out of bed. Years later, I see my mimicry of his routine as one of the first steps toward my mild, self-diagnosed OCD, only to be further solidified by my mother’s manic insistence to check for her purse in the back seat of the car as soon as we pulled out of the driveway every time she drove. Later came my realization that she checked the lights, plugs, and stove constantly before leaving the house, making sure that everything was off. Again, at that age, I had no knowledge that this wasn’t simply a not-so-fun game that people played before departing a location, kind of like brushing your teeth before bed, only without a rhyming song to sing or a Muppet to tell you why you’re doing it.

I didn’t know at that point that my mother’s obsessions and compulsions, which became increasingly more pronounced as she got older, stemmed from discovering her house on fire as a teenager. A solid example of how my absent-mindedness was probably passed down through generations, my great-grandmother had been ironing and left the room with the iron plugged in, face-down on top of the board. It only took a few minutes for the upstairs bedroom to be engulfed in flames, which led to my grandma, ever the badass and not one to allow her mother-in-law to demolish her home, to mount the stairs, enter the room, and toss the flaming ironing board out of the window. My mother had arrived home from school in the middle of all of this. My great-grandmother’s apologies never ceased. Neither did my mother’s fear that something was left plugged in somewhere, thus ensuring our family’s collective doom.

Couple all of this with my parents’ breakup when I was twelve, and you’ve got the recipe for an obsessive compulsive.

Symptoms of OCD can include fear of contamination, excessive washing, checking, counting things, repeating phrases or words aloud, the need to have something “just right” or “in its place,” and other ritualistic actions. There’s often the fear that not performing these rites will lead to some indeterminate bad happening. In my mom’s case, it was usually the house catching on fire or being stranded without her wallet. For me, I really don’t have specific fears attributed to everything I check. Sometimes it’s fire, I guess, but more often than not I simply get a bad, anxious feeling when I don’t go through my kooky habitual actions, which include checking the plugs of kitchen devices, making sure my front door is closed, and the aforementioned breakfast thing, which doesn’t really come with any bad feelings attached. (I kinda just like doing it.) When I was younger though, there were some weird counting/breath holding procedures that I fortunately grew out of. It would be a total mood killer to need to count to an even number every time I walked into a room or to hold my breath when I walked by certain places. Not everyone is so lucky to naturally give up more daunting compulsive ceremonies.

As far as mental disorders go, OCD is a veteran to the game. In the fourth century BC it was called “melancholia,” which is the Greek term for “black bile.” As the meaning would indicate, it was believed to be rooted in bodily fluids, and the manifestation of compulsive behaviors signalled an imbalance. Beginning in the Middle Ages in Europe, obsessive thoughts were considered to be a sign of satanic possession. Predictably, the treatment involved a priest and an exorcism. By the 17th century there was even an offshoot of OCD called “religious melancholy,” a sort of greatest hits of symptoms that were considered to be related to vehement devotion and faith. Once the English scholar Robert Burton came around to writing The Anatomy of Melancholy in 1621, the ideas of diagnosis and treatment changed. For one thing, Burton believed that religious melancholy was cured by “the comfort of cheerful friends and productive work” while avoiding “solitariness and idleness.” Burton also believed that melancholy affected people more than “wars, plagues, sickness, dearth, famine, and all the rest.” I think that most people would agree that a lot of things could be fixed by having a decent job and friends who weren’t Debbie Downers. Burton was rumored to have hung himself, which might say something about what he thought of his associates.

As you might have noticed, melancholia is no longer the term we use for this disorder. (It’s now come to be associated with a group of three or more goths.) In 1868, German neurologist Dr. Wilhelm Griesenger published some case studies of obsessive compulsive disorder, or what he called Grubelnsucht, which is a derivative of the Old German word Grubelen, meaning “to rack one’s brains.” It took another German, this time a psychologist named Dr. Karl Westphal, to help coin the term that we now casually and inappropriately use in conversation and associate with characters on wholly mediocre television networks. Westphal linked Zwangsvorstellung (German for “compelled presentation or idea” and also a killer Scrabble word) to the intellectual disorder he was studying in 1877, which was really smart, ’cause “presentation” can be associated with both thoughts and actions. When Westphal’s studies were released in the UK, that longass Z word was translated to “obsession,” while over here in the States we translated it as “compulsion.” As a sign that Brits and Americans were able to work together long before sharing Hugh Laurie and fried candy bars, “obsessive-compulsive disorder” became the diagnosis.

Freud – who I don’t really like to talk about ’cause he seems to be the only person in history who was as infatuated with genitals as I am – thought that obsessive-compulsive behaviors were linked to the repressed desire to touch things, an unconscious manifesting of certain urges stemming from childhood. He believed that prohibitive measures to deal with these yearnings resulted in the subconscious rebelling, thus leading to compulsive actions. And penis.

Modern medicine has led doctors to believe that OCD is caused by a neurochemical imbalance associated with serotonin, which is probably doctor-speak for, “You crazy.” Serotonin is a multi-talented sort of brain chemical. It’s responsible for parts of digestion and gauging how much food is available to an organism, but separate from its work helping you figure out how many donuts are just enough, it’s a principal neurotransmitter. That means that it facilitates the passage of chemical messages within the brain. When the transmitters go on the fritz, thoughts get all wonky. In short, without serotonin being regulated in your body, you’re a few Stormtroopers short of a Death Star.

Fortunately there are drugs. Namely SSRIs, (which I pronounce “ssssreze”) otherwise known as serotonin reuptake inhibitors. These happy pills help to increase serotonin and restore balance in the brain, thus making your chemicals jive and resulting in fewer trips to check and make sure the blow-dryer is unplugged. Popular SSRIs include Celexa, Lexapro, Paxil, Zoloft, and the Elvis of psychopharmaceuticals, Prozac.

I won’t go on drugs for any of my issues, mainly ’cause, as an alcoholic, I think that’s a bit counterproductive. I mean, the last time I was dependent on something to cope with everyday life, it was booze. Moreover, I don’t really mind being OCD. It keeps my house neat and marginally safe from disaster. And it makes breakfast predictable, if nothing else. Besides, I’m in good company. It’s rumored that Justin Timberlake, David Beckham, and Han Solo himself, Mr. Harrison Ford, all suffer from obsessive compulsive disorder in one way or another. They’ve all found success, and abnormally skinny women to sleep with them. Not too shabby. (Marc Summers of Double Dare! fame also has OCD, and has written a book about it, but I’m thinking I won’t use him as a role model. Anybody seen the latest episode of Unwrapped?)

For those of us who are wary of becoming a hybrid of Monk and Valley of the Dolls, there’s the option of cognitive behavior therapy, or CBT. Basically, in a poorly-worded, probably half-incorrect, entirely non-professional nutshell, CBT is where a person suffering from OCD learns to replace the fear-based thoughts associated with not performing a ritual with positive thoughts that dispel the anxiety. Sometimes I do a watered down, non-acronym-associated version of this by saying, “I’m being crazy. There’s no need to check the refrigerator to see if it’s leaking.” Or whatever it is that’s making my stomach turn itself into a monkey’s fist. Usually it works.

Just to be clear, ’cause it pisses me off when otherwise intelligent people get their facts messed up, depression isn’t associated with OCD. A lot of the time I’ll overhear someone lumping OCD in with schizophrenia and/or bipolar disorder, and while all three are nasty mental issues to have to grapple with, they’re not synonyms. There’s a reason why psychiatrists and psychologists have to go through so many damn years of school.

This past Christmas, I discovered something interesting. My cousin, a blond, ex-Hooters waitress who couldn’t be less like me, was talking about her curling iron. Her boyfriend, a lovable meathead, said, “Yeah, an’ you called to have me check to see if you unplugged da thing…again!”

Wait, wait, wait. She did what?

Turns out that my cousin has the same irrational need to check her curling iron as I do about my tea kettle (and blow dryer, stove, Hitachi Magic Wand, etc.) She also had a weird habit as a child of having my aunt make her sandwiches for lunch in a very specific way, even with the need to touch the single Kraft American cheese slice before it was put between the two pieces of bread. I’m no scientician or doctorologist, but I’m thinking that there truly is a genetic component to OCD. Maybe scientists could use us for a study, if they aren’t distracted by the plethora of other idiosyncrasies that seem to be found in our bloodline, like our hitchhiker thumbs, inexplicable affinity for small dogs, and painfully apparent clumsiness.

Until the lab-coats show up, I’ll be enjoying my breakfast.

Actual breakfast set-up.

I am not Bear Grylls. In fact, I think a far better reality show than Man vs. Wild would be Bear Grylls, set out to camp in the Wilderglos Valley of Austria, or hike to Angel Falls in Venezuela, with me as his traveling companion. By the second episode viewers would be placing bets on approximately how long it would take for Bear to put me in a headlock and wrestle me into quiet submission. It wouldn’t be an unlikely outcome if Bear had a complete breakdown before the destination was reached, his mental collapse a result of my incessant worrying, whining, and wondering aloud if I packed enough snacks. Bear would spend the rest of his days inconspicuously living a life of luxury in a tudor mansion, brunching with David Beckham and selling expensive vodka and shoes in Japan. The “Born Survivor” wasn’t built to survive me.

I’m not an easy traveler.

I am unattractively neurotic. Obtusely anxious in many ways, perhaps the most flagrant display of my deep-rooted mental instability is my need to plan ad infinitum. Prior to leaving the house, I usually have a course that’s been charted in my head. I plot my day the way a stage parent organizes their child’s career. I create lists the way that most people watch television. These maladjusted compulsions manifest themselves in some interesting ways. For example, I leave out my breakfast every night before I go to bed. A box of cereal, a bowl, a spoon, a knife for my banana, and a cutting board. Of course, if I’m on a date that has found its way back to my apartment, I don’t take a break in the action to set up my station. I do have some flexibility. (Heh.) But, really, outside of the now increasingly rare occasion that I have someone in my home who doesn’t know that I’m batshit crazy, I go through this little ritual every night. And I have a list waiting for me next to my computer, making sure the following day can smoothly be maneuvered according to its preconceived outline from the get-go.

Which is why traveling with me presents a variety of challenges. By nature, globe-trotting is a mutable affair. That’s a large part of its allure, not knowing what’s going to happen, or what your destination will look like, or, in certain cases, how to ask where the bathroom is. There is no way to write a list that can be guaranteed to keep your day on the rails when you’re away from your literal comfort zone, and there’s really no way to know if you’ve packed enough trail mix. I don’t travel often, due to other mental blips (namely my fears of flying and going broke) but when I do it is met with the kind of rigorous study reserved for fledgling lawyers about to take the Bar and high-school juniors with overzealous parents. Websites are pored over, books are highlighted, notes are taken. I know so much about my intended destination by the time I leave that I’m nearly burned out on the place when I arrive.

By this point you’re thinking I’m crazy. I agree. But let me relay a short tale that illustrates how this hysteria is sometimes beneficial. Two Decembers ago, Simon and I moved from Portland, Oregon to Norman, Oklahoma as a result of financial strife and a growing intolerance for trustifarians, ironic facial hair, and self-righteous youths. This was not a well-organized affair. Impulsive, misguided, and ultimately the stake that went through the heart of our romantic relationship, in hindsight we probably should have reconsidered this idea. (Money woes aren’t usually the best motivation for moving in with a significant other.) While I had to let go of the reins and understand that driving with all of our belongings from the Pacific Northwest to the middle of Tornado Alley was not something that could be controlled to the last rotation of the wheels, I could make sure that we were well-prepared for any substantial disaster.

Simon asked why I insisted on packing three blankets, four gallons of water, a radio with three packs of batteries, and enough dried fruit to make an elephant have the runs. I shrugged and replied, “Just in case.” If pressed, I couldn’t have told you “in case” of what. We weren’t going on to be doing a live action reenactment of The Oregon Trail. It was unlikely that either one of us would die of dysentery or a snake bite. Fortunately my neurosis is a bit too shy to plot out the Worst Case Scenario, most likely because I would be so broadsided by panic as a result of my vivid imagination that I would never be able to snap out of my anxiety attack, let alone leave the house. But I know that “in case” requires water, warmth, and food in all situations, so that’s what I tried to provide.

For the first few days, I really did seem certifiably insane. This country’s plethora of Denny’s, Super 8s, and gas stations pretty much assure that you won’t starve, freeze, or wind up as a sequel to that movie about the Uruguayan rugby team while driving across this great nation. The gigantic emergency preparedness kit I’d assembled lay unused and taking up a huge amount of space in our matchbox-sized U-Haul cab. But somewhere in the direction of the southeastern uncircumcised tip of California, years of mental illness were given an affirmation so huge that I can pretty much ensure the world that I will never learn how to relax.

A snowstorm miles ahead of us shut down the highway we were on, leaving us stranded in a seventeen-mile long traffic jam for over fourteen hours.

As I slipped out of the cab to pee for the sixth time in front of the truck (and next to a bucolic little orange orchard) I was gloating. Curled up under those three blankets, swigging from a jug of water and eating shriveled fruit by the fistful, Simon sat and listened to a dubstep mixtape on that battery-operated radio and strained to see if any of the cars up ahead were moving. By the time we made it to the Sooner State all of the water was gone, we were on our last batteries, and I needed to replenish my stash of dehydrated pineapple. Simon never questioned me again when I packed my purse for an evening out. Sure, I might not need a “Pain Pack” of every over the counter painkiller, antidiarrheal, and antacid, but I could. I might also need a Larabar, nail file, and a toothbrush. To the casual observer, the contents of my purse belong to the female MacGyver.

I’m about to depart for mainland Europe. Yup, I’m on my way to Paris. Nope, I’ve never been. And while I’m traveling with a childhood friend who has spent a fair amount of time overseas and has a parent who we’ll be visiting in the famed City of Lights, that hasn’t stopped me from procuring/borrowing/pilfering four guidebooks, several language aids, a map, and enough snacks to last me to next November. I can’t say that I’m ready. (Or, rather, “Je ne sais quoi que je suis prêt…” I think.) But I’ll be gone for almost two weeks, and in that time I know I can’t prepare for everything. But that’s what breeds adventure, right? I think that Bear Grylls would agree. And though it pains me to admit it, I suppose that a writing-focused trip to Europe is my equivalent of scaling the Khumbu icefall. Even Degree antiperspirant couldn’t cover up the stench of my shame. The “Chain of Adventure” is probably sold on the Champs-Élysées, right?

I’ll let the Internet know of my trials and travails as I struggle to loosen my death grip on my environment and navigate Paris without going beyond broke. I don’t think I could write any list that could truly prepare me for what life will temporarily be like without a plan. (And instead with a language barrier, time difference, and cursory understanding of the exchange rate.) Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to try to find a way to pack a blanket in my purse.

Still waiting on Simon’s contribution to Jerk Ethic. I’m a woman of my word, so here’s another tidbit about Mr. Goetz, other than his undeniable baldness:

He might miss shows, but he can’t use a broken down car as an excuse. For one, because he doesn’t have a car, he has a fierce purple Landshark instead, but also because he has an extra spark plug on hand no matter where he goes.

That’s right. Simon has a tattoo of a multicolored spark plug on his right forearm.

I want my post.

Swear to God, Goetz, next time it's Moby.

++++

A lot of people believe that they are what they do. In this society, at least, there seems to be this need to identify yourself based on a title. This is better than actually having our little pulsing evolutionary mistake defined by what we actually do.

There’s Jason, the Late-Night TV Watcher.

Sarah, the Complainer And Passive-Aggressive Storyteller.

Ainsley. Man, she’s the best Sore-Loser-At-Boggle in this region.

It’s a lot simpler, cleaner, and self-aggrandizing to be a Doctor, Lawyer, Writer, Software VP, Stripper.

If Simon and I weren’t writers we’d be fighters. At risk of oversharing, I’m going to let you in on what we would not be: couples’ counselors.

After a year of romance, filled with board games, inside jokes, and comic store browsing, we’ve reached a point where everything we have done in Care-A-Lot is suddenly overshadowed by the fact that arguing has become our latest hobby.

Sure, a lot of the head-butting is petty bickering, natural for two only children left in the same room together, and for two people who are skeptical about commitment while being fairly full of themselves.

There have also been the stresses of moving, career changes, sobriety, and family strife that have churned bile inside the stomachs of a pair of already anxious individuals.

One could even speculate that our feuding stems from a need to express passion, that we’re just bad at communicating, that, really, underneath the raised voices, impulsive breakups, and mocking, sarcastic insults there is really a deep, pure love and desire to make one another happy.

Sure. Kumbayah. Peace and love. Puff puff pass. Whatever.

Trust me, I'm a doctor.

I am the product of parents who hated one another but had a child because, well, that’s what society tells a married couple to do. I was raised on schlock therapy sessions where “solutions” were presented. I remember leafing through self-help books on my mother’s bedside table, learning about transference, inner children (gross!), and “the blame game” during commercial breaks for Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood. My parents finally split when I was twelve. I vividly remember my mom, waterworks going full-blast, gently grabbing my shoulders and saying, “It’s okay for you to wish daddy would stay. But we’re going to get a divorce.”

“It took you guys long enough,” I replied.

So, needless to say, when the mantle of instability settled upon the shoulders of Simon and myself, my first reaction was to cut my losses, pack my suitcase, and leave Portland behind, skinny jeans and all.

Of course, it isn’t that easy. It never is. Not only are we business partners, impassioned editors, and best friends, we’re also kind of in love. I mean, fighting or no fighting, at the end of the day, he’s the one I want to talk to, the one who understands my jokes about impalin’ Sarah Palin, who never makes me feel like I’m too weird, and who reassures me when I have nightmares about zombies and fucking John Mayer (no joke) that everything will be all right. That sort of connection isn’t worth giving up on, even if I’m tired of having to convince him that thirty isn’t old, settling down doesn’t mean giving up The McLaughlin Group and three day long stretches without a shower, that there are no rules.

Also, I’m five feet tall, he’s five foot seven. We’re sort of, er, built for dancing together. If you know what I mean.

So, in the face of relationship ruin, what did this mentally unstable, histrionic bisexual do? She began to research couples’ counseling, that’s what. Because no matter how hard my buttons have been pushed, I truly believe that what makes a happy union is the ability to mercilessly make fun of other people in a conspiratorial whisper.

To become an MFT (Marriage and Family Therapist) you have to go to school for it, duh. Now, wherein I imagine that this school would have a dissertation that includes getting confronted by your insanely jealous ex-girlfriend in a room where a panel of doctors watches how you react, it instead is capped off by a certificate or degree, either a Masters or Doctorate, in marriage and family therapy.

If you’ve already obtained a degree in a mental health related field (no, art history doesn’t count, nor does women’s studies) you can get a post-graduate degree with a certification and training program. You are required to complete a certain number of training hours yearly to hold accreditation from groups such as the National Board of Certified Counselors, the American Counseling Association, or (shudder) the Women’s Therapy Project Northwest.

I learned about all of this through a Google search for How to become a couples’ counselor.

What I learned by Google searching for couples’ therapy Portland, Oregon was this:

• Some people still believe that Comic Sans and Brushstroke create a level of lighthearted intimacy on their websites. In truth, these fonts just make me want to wretch.

• Quotes from Rumi and Joni Mitchell do not make me feel like trusting you, no matter how many cats your bio says that you have.

• Pointing out that the word real is in relationship proves that you can’t help me sort out my mental state, but makes me soundly convinced that I can beat you in hangman.

• The people who write Hallmark cards are also the ones who do site copy for Pacific Northwest relationship counselors. The words “loving,” “love,” “intimacy,” “passion,” “embrace,” and “create” are all featured prominently, as are pastel colors and abstract clip art from the 1990s.

Nothing makes me want to fix my relationship solo more than the threat of sitting face-to-face with a counselor who looks like she might actually use the term “womyn,” or go to a drum circle that celebrates the moon and menstrual cycles.

Nothing makes me realize how petty and insecure I seem by getting angry at Simon for texting a Twitter post as I seduced him with a blowjob more than the idea of “finding a sense of belonging in this crazy, confusing, and painful world by connecting with others in heartfelt ways.”

And don’t even try to stop my blood from turning into antifreeze after reading these two words strung together: Movement Therapy.

Where I might never get my degree as a social worker or therapist, I do know a few key things that I can apply as “tools” towards “building a loving bond” with my “partner.” (Fire sale on quotation marks.)

I know that most of the time I would really benefit from shutting the fuck up for a moment.

I know that becoming self-righteously angry isn’t going to convince Simon that I, in fact, am right. Even when I am right. Which is, you know, always.

I know that most problems can be solved by a half-hour long time out where I go and listen to Tool, read web comics, and call one of my female friends to talk about how much better off pussy is than penis.

I know that when it comes down to it, I’m a writer, but I’m also a pretty big asshole. One of those things I want to succeed, the other I need to keep in check. No degree, certification, or graduate degree is going to make me treat someone the way I want to be treated. Common sense is. Well, that and a little patience if I apply it to playing Boggle.

Thank you so much for donating, commenting, linking, whatever. Attention is my Gatorade, only tastier, and less sexy when dripping down Kevin Garnett’s body.

Drop me a line, I’ll dribble it and pass it back. AinsleyDrew at the gmail one.

Give us something to agree on: work.

Watch us in real time. Instant foreplay!

One of my closest friends back in New York is dealing with a pretty traumatic breakup. She was with her boyfriend for several years, and they were one of those couples that you always found yourself referring to when you lay awake at night, wondering why God cursed you with a flat-chested, five foot tall frame and bisexuality, because there’s no way anybody will ever truly love you in your life, you’re not destined for that kind of happiness like them…Anyway, yeah, they busted up. And my friend, who is not only gorgeous but also one of the most hilarious writers I know, is understandably sad.

“I think I want to arrange it so that I can just work from home for a while,” she said.

This is conceivable since the small internet gaming company she works for is so close-knit that she has, in the past, vomited at her desk and seen her boss wear sweatpants around the office.

“I mean, I’ve called in sick for two days, this is my first day back and I just can’t focus,” she added. “You’re lucky. You don’t ever have to worry about getting to work.”

Oh, if she only knew.

When I started thinking about moving out of New York in order to “get my shit together,” part of the motivation was the commute. Every weekday morning in Park Slope I used to wake up at 5:50AM. I got dressed in the bleary darkness of my way-too-small apartment, swallowed two cups of coffee from my programmed Mr. Coffee percolator, and hopped in my VW to begin the harrowing commute from Brooklyn to Nassau County, Long Island, where I worked as the sole legal assistant to a real estate lawyer. My day job, while not nearly as spiritually fulfilling as my nights spent trying to get laid at poetry slams or writing, was manageable. I got paid every Friday, took an hour long lunch daily, and did what I was told. I also ritualistically broke the Xerox machine twice a week, probably as a passive aggressive display of rebellion.

My commute, however, was enough to sandwich each day between two anxiety attacks. In the morning, over the Brooklyn Queens Expressway, I swore loudly, bit my nails, and weaved in and out of traffic like I was Keanu Reeves trying to bump uglies with Sandra Bullock. Every night, at five-fifteen exactly, I would take the exit ramp onto the Long Island Expressway and sit in traffic as my MPH gauge went down and my blood pressure rose. My commute to work? A minimum of forty five minutes, maximum of an hour and a half. Commute home? Minimum of an hour, maximum of don’t even fucking ask. I had three car related scares towards the end of my legal career: a blow out going sixty near the Kosciusko Bridge, a terrifying breakdown on a day when God’s wrath took the form of a flood, and, finally, a wreck that totaled my car and turned my left shoulder into a one-joint drum circle.

Everyone in Portland has a bike, which is one of many improvements to my living situation. Also, my apartment out here affords me two rooms, a room for making out and a room for working. This one, the working room, I sometimes call my “office.” Each morning I get up whenever my body decides it’s ready to kick some ass – usually between eight and nine – and then I eat breakfast. Afterwards I toddle across the hall to the work room and start my day. My commute takes thirty seconds, give or take a pit stop to drain the snapdragon.

No, the commute is no longer the problem. The focusing, however, is a different story.

In this day and age of clusterfuck social networking sites, WEBoggle, Scrabbulous (R.I.P.), Twitter, Perez Hilton, Gawker, and so on and so forth, one’s ability to simply accomplish a menial task on a computer is on par with asking an ADHD riddled kid without his prescription to tie his shoes in front of a GameStop in Times Square. Ain’t gonna happen. Already it has taken me three hours just to type this far into the post, and that’s only ‘cause I was updating my Facebook status and trolling Craigslist for a New Era Composition hat*.

If Simon and I broke up, well, let’s just say that this blog post would be made out of macaroni and Elmer’s glue from within the padded walls of your local sanatorium.

Working from home, for me, is almost as difficult as battling through rush hour traffic on the LIE. There are fewer acrylic tips and vanity plates, sure. But damned if I don’t get distracted by just about everything.

Beyond the computer there is my kitchen, with the siren song of a whistling tea-kettle and ever-present snacks. In the living room there is my roommate’s flat screen HDTV. Not to mention that there are windows all around the house that beg me to stare out at the spectacular Pacific Northwest rain. And birds. And retired, talkative neighbors.

While we clock our hours spent writing, I’d have to speculate that it takes double the amount that we charge just to get us to focus. Okay, maybe not “us.” Maybe just me. Simon and I have learned the hard way that we can’t work in the same room together.

Working from home seems glorious and, don’t get me wrong, every day that I find my teeth being ground down as I search for clients, or try to balance my checkbook, I remind myself that airbags are not soft, but my full-sized mattress is. Although I may never really be able to take a sick day, and I still find myself fighting the temptation to just bring the laptop into the bed (trust me, Simon takes his iPod under the covers and it makes me want to go on a estrogen-fueled crusade against Apple, even if that dreamboat Merlin Mann is a fan of the monolith) I appreciate the myriad comforts that are part and pajama parcel of working from home. But when things get rough, when the two of us indulge in one of our infinite curse-laden arguments, when I’m on the rag and just want to sob about how much I resemble a hippo, when Shia LaBeouf gets arrested or Ellen Page does a magazine cover and I find myself one hand short of a full QWERTY, well, it’s just as impossible to get anything done in my humble abode as it would be in an office.

This is not to say that I don’t accomplish tasks on time, or that I knowingly procrastinate, or that I do not go postal daily in fear of not being productive enough. It’s just that somewhere along the way I need to make a little pitstop at Failblog, or hop on my bike and get a non-vegan burrito with another home office lackey like myself.

A side note, just like the break room or the famed water cooler of yore, hanging out with other people who work where they live/eat/cuddle/cry helps to put things in perspective. No, you may not want to shit talk the boss in fear of seeming crazier than usual (“God, I suck today. Totally breathing down my neck. And I’m wearing that same ugly dress that I wore yesterday, gah.”), but shooting the shit with someone who can sympathize does seem to lend itself to the sense of an actual workday.

So I suggested to my friend that she talk to her boss and let him know that this week she’s feeling sub-par, or she could ask if she may take a few other sick days, but that she should not stop working at her usual time and place. I also told her that I don’t think that working from home will fix the problem, unless the problem is agoraphobia. Especially if a breakup is the catalyst for a severe alteration of your occupation situation, working where you two held each other and watched Joe Versus The Volcano ain’t gonna make things better. At least I don’t think so. But what do I know. I have two other tabs open this very minute, and one is Craigslist, and the other…well…

* New Era Composition cap, size 7 3/8.

One of several gifts I am stalking but cannot find for August 16th, otherwise known as 30 Years Of Simon Goetz. I am not so good at shopping for birthday presents. Drop him a line or, better yet, follow him on Twitter. Though he can’t unwrap attention I’m sure he’ll appreciate the gesture.

Pass me a note. AinsleyDrew the gmail one. It’ll give me good reason to be distracted.

Thanks if you Donate! All proceeds in the hat this week go to hats.

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