Living Remotely

My first flight was a New Year’s trip from Fargo to Phoenix to visit my grandparents when I was thirteen. It was a carnival ride. Waiting in lines for check-in and boarding. Getting strapped in. Not knowing what it would be like to leave the ground going faster than I’d ever traveled. I remember looking around the cabin as we lifted off and bumped through some mild turbulence. It was so surreal to be hurtling through the air so far above the Earth. I couldn’t understand how bored everyone else seemed with the whole experience.

When we spilled out into the Northwest Airlines terminal at the Phoenix Airport, I was gobsmacked by the mass of people whorling before me. I’d seen very few people of color at the time, and I’d certainly not seen what people dress like in metropolitan areas. They looked so sophisticated and urbane—like they knew exactly what they were doing and were off to some important place or job. Even the people rushing to catch their flights seemed filled with intensity and purpose. I dreamed about having a career where I could travel all the time.

But, being from a small town in North Dakota, I didn’t think that was something meant for me. Although I didn’t have the language or conceptual framework to articulate it, what I really thought was that I could never build that life for myself. So, I never ended up traveling much.

I’m going to do a BIG yadda-yadda-yadda here and simply tell you that now I find myself with a full-time job that requires me to travel only a few times a year. But my second job—more of a hobby, really—is dogsitting in Denver. That means I spend about 75% of my days and nights living in someone else’s home. It’s a lot like being on the road. Doing it regularly and working from home means bringing my life with me. It’s not a vacation from my life; it’s living remotely.

How I Manage Living Remotely

For instance, I just finished up a 7-day dogsitting gig. When I left that location, I started this current 23-day sitting without even stopping at home. When this gig is over, I’ll leave, spend two days at my house, and start up another 11-day stay. I’m not always this busy, but pretty close. I’ve been honing this craft for more than three years now.

Every time I move from one place to another, I have to tear down my mobile setup, pack it, move to my next gig, and set it up again. It’s not that bad, but it means I carry a lot of my “stuff” with me. Tearing down usually takes about two hours.

First, I start with the bedroom. It’s simple and quick, and it’s a reliable way to build some momentum. I pack up my clothes, toiletries, CPAP machine, and shoes. I strip the sheets from the bed, gather any towels from the bathroom, and throw them into the washer. Then I replace anything I moved from the nightstand or dresser. Hard-sided orange suitcase to the front door. Done.

On to the bathroom. Make sure the toilet, sink, mirror, shower, and other surfaces are clean. Replace anything I’ve moved. Done.

Then I tear down my workstation, usually at the dining room table. Pack the bigger items: Laptop, monitor, iPad, and keyboard. The monitor gets its own box. Then the medium-sized items: Power brick, charging hub, hard drives, headphones, microphone, tripod, webcam, desk mat, and a cute little desk fan. Then I pack all the cables and power cords into a small zipper case. Finally, I remove my bright blue waterproof tablecloth and fold it up. Every single item has its place in a small carry-on suitcase. Also orange, of course. It, too, goes to the front door, along with the boxed-up monitor. Then I replace anything that was on the table just where it was before. I even take pictures when I arrive to ensure I get everything exactly right.

Whew, deep breath. Almost there. Now the kitchen. I wash and dry all the dishes. (I know. I don’t trust dishwashers. It’s a problem.) I try to bring the same sets of food each time. It helps me to remember everything. Coffee grounds. Frozen smoothie ingredients. Salad fixins. And various homemade frozen meals. Smoothie blender. Stainless steel straw. Salad spinner. I pack all of this into a rolling stack of interlocking Black & Decker toolboxes (yes, really), which also ends up near the front door. Back into the kitchen to make sure everything on the counters is where it belongs, take care of the trash and recycling, and the kitchen’s done.

That leaves me with two suitcases, a boxed-up monitor, and a stack of food-stuffed toolboxes at the front door. Three trips to the van, and everything’s ready to go. Almost.

I always wrap things up by hanging out with the pets one last time. And usually, one final walk.

Finally, I walk out the front door, lock it behind me, get in my van, and drive away.

That’s how it goes pretty much every time. I’ve developed it into a sort of ritual—a structured experience of mentally letting go of the house and pets. The drive home (or to the next gig) is a beautiful little moment of limbo and peace.

What does this have to do with creativity?

So why am I writing about packing and unpacking my life on a blog about creativity? How does this routine allow me to be foolish? How does it transport me to wonder?

Like a lot of people, I live with a touch of OCD. Fifteen years ago, a psychiatrist explained that mine mostly manifests as obsessive tendencies. What that means is that I often experience mild pleasure in doing repetitive things like washing dishes or ironing clothes.

When I was in high school, I worked at a library. I loved checking and adding cards to the card catalog. My head buzzed when I alphabetized. I looked forward to shelving books. We were in the process of digitizing our catalog, and I lost myself for hours sitting at a table, sticking bar codes on book after book. Again, there was no way I could have articulated it, but this was the first time I enjoyed something nobody else seemed to understand.

But my OCD allows me to design and build unique, complex systems for all sorts of processes and projects. You should see the spreadsheet I use to organize, write, and publish all the social media posts for Fools in Wonderland: six different tabs and hundreds of entries waiting to be published. I love dedicating a Saturday to writing another month’s worth of posts.

I designed and built this remote life.

Obviously, I’ve built this process from scratch. I’ve been deliberate. I’ve tested each part of this process by experimenting, iterating, and evolving it.

When I first started, I lugged around a 27-inch monitor because that’s what I already owned. It was too big, so I downsized to a 24-inch model when I could afford it. Better. So I further downsized to a 15-inch monitor, which was refreshing for a few days, but eventually, I wanted my screen real estate back.

When I first started, the only keyboard I had was a mechanical model. I loved it for a home office setup. Typing was a treat. But for a mobile lifestyle, it was way too big, heavy, and clicky. I downsized to a cheap, small Bluetooth keyboard. But I over-adjusted and finally settled on a lighter, full-sized Bluetooth keyboard with much quieter keys.

I’ve done the same for my Macbook, desk fan, iPad, Stream Deck, desk mat, headphones, charging station, Apple Watch, iPhone, external drives, power strip, extension cord, charging hub, and even the bright blue waterproof table cloth I use to protect my client’s table.

I’ve crafted this set of tools. I’ve crafted the process of moving it.

What an odd hobby, right?

I don’t think it’s much different than a cooking enthusiast stocking her kitchen with a bunch of nice pots and pans. Or a young millennial cruising antique shops and thrift stores on the weekends to find the perfect cheap art and quirky tchotchkes for his living room. There’s certainly a practical component to these pastimes, but there’s also something “extra” about it. That’s the foolishness that gets some people to wonder.

Why choose this particular preoccupation?

I struggled for a while to come up with the right words for the section heading above. I wanted a specific descriptor for what I’ve built. What do you call it when someone deliberately crafts a set of tools and processes for living remotely? I don’t think there’s a word for it. Doing the same thing for your kitchen? Stocking. For your living room? Decorating. The labels come easy, and no one thinks twice.

But my pastime, my preoccupation, and occasionally my obsession doesn’t have an easy name. What if there’s no word for what I do? Does that make me weird? Is there something wrong with me or this particular thing I do? I’m finally at a place in my life where I can describe this pastime in all its atypical detail. And I don’t feel shame. I don’t resist the chronic, low-level pleasure I feel about it. I accept it. I embrace it. I lean into it.

What I didn’t expect to happen is that it became mine.