The home office break room

Working from a tiny home office presents a wide range of opportunities to recreate my immediate environment and flavor it with a more professional look and feel.

While I’ve never been a big fan of office life, there’s really no getting around it in a civilized world. You need look no further than the daily life of a police officer. Their brains are hard wired in a uniquely important way on which our social fabric resides. They take sworn oaths to help our citizens. That gives them the freedom to work solo, using their vehicles as mobile offices to catch up on paperwork. But their shifts don’t end in the car. They still face doing other paperwork once they get back to the precinct. Yup, there’s no getting around it.

As a semi-retired guy, my writing studio is in one room. Meanwhile, my wife works from another office down the hall. Unlike me, she doesn’t take naps at 3 o’clock. She’s usually at Target or Kohl’s. But when we’re both here, it calls out for structure. As I write, I am listening to Chopin. The volume is set low, like you would hear in a doctor’s waiting room. There are moments where I zone out, which rarely happened when I was working for other people, simply because it would be a bad thing. When that happens in this setting, it means it’s time for coffee.

Our “break room” sure looks like a kitchen, which is what it is before 9 and after 5. Along with two coffeemakers, there’s a fridge stocked with usual fridge stuff. And a pantry. It, too, has things to eat, from energy bars to canned garbanzo beans to leftover panettone from Christmas. We are truly blessed.

On the other hand, when I crave symmetry, I mention to my wife that I’m considering installing a candy machine. Or a soda machine. Or both. You know, give it an aura of a real office. I have no idea if you can actually install vending machines in a three-bedroom apartment, but it wouldn’t hurt if I looked into it.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she says when I bring it up now and again. “You’ve come up with your share of hare-brained ideas, but this one is really out there.”

My proposal always winds up in the dead letter file. Still, in my hunger to make this more like a real office, I usually replace the quiet with an invitation to gossip.

“Let’s dish!” I suggest cheerily. “Any good unfounded rumors about relatives, friends, acquaintances, strangers, politicians, athletes? Our break isn’t over for another 10 minutes. Break rooms were created for rumor mongering, for fresh, not frozen, scuttlebutt. It’s

the American way.”

“Um, you’re forgetting this is officially our kitchen. Last time I checked at least. Besides, I’m not in the mood to malign people,” she replies sternly. “It’s cruel, a sin. This isn’t Twitter. Don’t you have more work to do?”

With a purposeful stride, she returns to her office. I hang out a while longer in the break room. And think how I might

bring things closer to a real office. One wall happens to be empty. Perfect. I’ll run out to Staples and pick up a bulletin board. I’ll use it to post a copy of a use and occupancy permit. And a notice on how to apply for workers compensation. And we can’t forget timely details about the mandatory minimum wage and family and medical leave. Also, we need to be up to speed on the law dealing with sexual harassment in the workplace. Updates from NATO, Colorado Parks and Wildlife, and Deion Sanders would also be appreciated. More

good news! There’s room to squeeze in a time clock. I measured.

At our next coffee break, I bring up another subject. “I got an email from Human Resources,” I announce.

“Um, there is no such department here,” she answers, pouring her third cup of coffee. “You’re hallucinating again. Snap out of it. We’re a mom and pop outfit. Frankly, I’m not quite sure what product or service we provide.”

I explain it recently moved from the third floor to the 18th floor, she shoots her typical look of disdain

at me. I see daggers and corpses! What she comes up with next really throws me off my game.

“Early this morning, while you were in the ‘company’ shower after your workout, I rode the elevator up there to ask a question I had about my W-2,” she reports. “You should see the view of Longs Peak from there! On the way down, I stopped in the marketing department’s break room. For some weird reason, Ashley and Riley, the two interns upstairs, were telling me they heard through the grapevine that you just bought

a candy machine for our break room. Boy, news sure travels fast!”

Later, after I have had a chance to process her report, she hits me again. “Did you hear about the mandatory company orientation on the 20th of this month?” she asks in a serious monotone that grabs my rapt attention. “The following day is the staff luncheon at Fox Hill Country Club. All the suits from the northern region will be there.”

As you can see, my desperation to inject some creative thought into our work-life balance takes effort, demanding experimentation and patience. And while I know I’m perfectly rational, it’s clear my wife could use some hardcore counseling.

I know there’s a shrink on the 40th floor. It’s by the Mile High Bistro, which rotates. I’ll escort her up there on my break.

After we punch out, of course.