The one where I look like a ho bag, and consider cohabitation. Like a true ho bag.

I worked from home today, and by "home" I mean from Reboyfriend's room. I had errands to run with him and also had client calls to take. So I did both, making use of all the waiting around for him, and opened up the laptop to remote access.

Naturally, that meant jumping through hoops with IT because of COURSE my home access is jacked. Naturally, that also meant Reboyfriend hearing this, and recognizing an opportunity, and loudly saying totally inappropriate things right next to me, solely for IT guy's benefit, because my battle with workplace respectability wasn't already uphill enough.

Me: Hi. It's Me. The girl that cries 50% of the time on the phone with you guys. I'm having connectivity issues today.

IT Guy: Ah, I see you're using Vista. Let me reinstall techie sounding applications.

Reboyfriend, loudly: Take off your bra!

[Note, I am totally and completely dressed, in work clothes, and in no mood for randyness because talking to IT and looking at my asswad of a computer sucks the life out of me, so you can kiss all friskiness goodbye, and also, I NEVER take off my bra! Certainly not on command.]

I put my hand over the phone and give him a look like, make pretend naughty talk one more time, and I'm stabbing a mechanical pencil into your neck.

Me: Sorry. Should I click "OK" now?

IT: One moment, 

["One moment" = Sit here for extensive stretch of time and listen to one another breathing on the phone with the only sound being the clickity click of IT typing things on his computer, meaning high-risk silence in which your unboyfriend can not be ignored as he booms for you to "come get in bed!"]

Caveman-ly, male, pseudo-dating acquaintance shenanigans aside...working from home is astonishingly productive. I have no temptation to socially accost my coworkers with questions about their sick kids and how their friend in foreclosure is doing. It's just me, the laptop, and the spreadsheet jungle I wade through for a living. Getting paid to be at home and do anything but work feels dirty and wrong and makes me a little bit sick. Tooling around and slacking in the office is different because you feel like, at least you're there, getting face time and being available to anyone who might call your desk phone. Which is the ironic part, because the only time my desk phone rang in the past month was just Mia and the Kells calling it, from Napa, to put me on the phone with the hot French man pouring them lots and lots of wine. It was so much more fun than when clients call me.

The errand I had to run with Reboyfriend was to browse an area up in Woods Cross for the next chapter of our housing life. My lease is up in June and I am on the lookout for anything cheaper than this. He jokes that we should be roommates. I joke that I'd get really fed up with all his female friends traipsing in and out of our house, trying to bag him and using my tampons and petting my dog. It turns out that neither of us was really joking. So there's that.

If you don't understand, remember that he is this guy:

Adorable, irresistible boys like him are like white couches. They're wonderful to have, and pleasing to look upon, but you're always worried about them. I used to have a white couch. I was nervous about who was on it and how dirty it would get. It turns out I was right to be worried, cuz it got really dirty. That wasn't a metaphor for Starter Husband, either. It was from Restoration Hardware.