I’ve been working from home since before it was cool—back when “remote” meant yelling at a modem, not sipping oat milk in joggers. Thirty years of web design have honed my ability to troubleshoot anything: CSS disasters, client tantrums, even my own existential dread. But nothing—nothing—prepared me for the unholy alliance of Zoom calls and a doorbell with a vendetta.

Picture this:

I’m mid-sentence, explaining to a client why their “just add more pop-ups” idea is a war crime against UX, when ding-dong. The dog loses its mind, the cat bolts like I’ve just deployed a vacuum, and I’m left unmuting myself to say, “One sec, Amazon’s here with my artisanal paper towels.” Professional? Sure, if your definition includes sweatpants with a questionable stain I’m praying stays off-camera.

It’s not just the timing—though I swear Jeff Bezos has a satellite trained on my most billable hours. It’s the chaos of it all. Last week, I’m pitching a site redesign, confidently clicking through mockups, when the bell chimes like a foghorn. I lunge for the mute button, miss, and treat the team to my unfiltered growl: “I will end you, UPS guy.” The client laughed. The junior dev didn’t. Lesson learned: mute is your friend, but muscle memory is a traitor.

The satire writes itself:

A battle-worn web vet, master of digital domains, brought low by a $12 buzzer and a parade of cardboard. One day it’s a replacement mouse pad (ironic), the next it’s a kettle I ordered in a 2 a.m. haze because the old one whistled like a dying goose. Each delivery’s a tiny siege, a reminder that Amazon waits for no one—not deadlines, not dignity, not my shaky Wi-Fi.

But I’m not here to wallow. I’ve survived dial-up, Flash intros, and clients who think “SEO” means “shove everything online.” I can handle this.
Here’s my playbook for WFH logistics when the doorbell’s out for blood:

The Preemptive Strike:

Schedule deliveries for “low-stakes” hours. Zoom’s quiet? Great, bring me my socks. Coding in a fugue state? Hold the packages, pal—I’m in the zone.

Tech Armor:

Noise-canceling headphones. Not just for music—though I recommend Metallica to drown out the ding. They’re a shield against the chaos of a FedEx drop-and-dash.

The Decoy:

Train your pets. Okay, try to train them. My dog now gets a treat to shut up when the bell rings. Success rate: 60%. Better than my odds with IE6.

Mute Mastery:

Map that mute key to your soul. One twitch, and you’re a silent pro—sweatpants and all. Bonus points if you can fake a “thoughtful pause” while wrestling a box inside.

Yesterday, I signed for a USB hub while nodding sagely on a call about responsive grids. The delivery guy smirked at my slippers; I smirked back because I billed $150 for that hour. Victory? Debatable. Survival? Absolutely. Three decades online taught me resilience—whether it’s a crashing server or a doorbell with a grudge. So bring it, Prime. I’ve got coffee, code, and a mute button. You’re just another bug to squash.