I Never Realized How Much I Picked My Nose

Working from home lulls you into a sense of security where, hidden from the prying eyes of managers and officemates, you are free to cultivate all kinds of awful habits and traits. It’s no secret that I don’t exactly shower every single day, or that sometimes I might shrug and put on a stained, err, 'recycled' shirt. Coming into the office is a rude awakening. I have to bathe, daily, and at the ungodly hour of 7:15 am. My clothes have to be non-yoga-wear, wrinkle-free, tomato-soup free, and fully cover any potentially offensive body parts. I have to blow-dry my hair, style it without use of a scrunchy, apply make-up, look alert, and, as difficult as it may be, resist the urge to dig around in my snout with a tissue, mining for nose trophies.

On the plus side for Junior, I realized that contrary to how it use to be or how it normally is for other business travelers, I am much healthier away from home. I move around during the day a lot more (the cubicle chair is no chaise, that’s for certain). I drink more water (the water cooler is like 10 feet from where I sit), eat better (they have an excellent salad bar in the cafeteria), sit up straighter (uncomfortable chair, again), and go to bed earlier (I don’t feel as much pressure to cram in after-hours fun when I’m experiencing the thrill that is hotel living, I guess). It use to be that when I’d travel for business my alcohol and red meat intake would quadruple, or that I’d slack off from my workout routine, or that I’d be the office vending machine’s best customer. Since I’m too tired and depressed to exercise any at home, commuting provides me a little extra movement I normally don’t get (it’s not that far from my bed to that chaise), we all know how I feel about red meat while preggers, the vending machine pissed me off last time I was here by eating my $5 bill and I still haven’t forgiven it, and, well, as much as I’d love to unwind with a chilled glass of Pinot Grigio or some fancy schmancy fruity martini, that gets even more disappointing frowns than cracking open an ice-cold Pepsi. Good thing I’ll be back in six weeks.

On a side note, although I vowed I would absolutely positively not write anything else about my eating habits this week, I had to mention that Stupid Baby Loves Ribs. That’s right; she doesn’t like nice lean red meat, or any healthy poultry products, or precious lamb, or even a lovely grilled low-fat pork chop. She likes greasy, barbecue-sauce-slathered, fatty, boney ribs. RIBS!! There’s just no need for that.

Ooh, and there’s a weekday house showing today! That’s a happy thing. Dear Jesus, please let the house sell. I promise I'll be less of a sinner. And my fingers are crossed. Amen. I woke up in the middle of the night last night all confused, wondering how Loud could possibly be upstairs above me slamming doors, when I groggily realized I was in a hotel. Poor Loud, getting blamed even when I'm a zillion miles away.