Working from home is pretty goddam sweet. Especially when dressed in bedtime casual, lounged out, taking a conference call. But when the first heat wave strikes, working in an at-home sweatshop becomes a very specific sort of hell. The kind where you roam from coffee shop to cafe, weighted down by laptop, hunting free wifi, cool air and minimally-priced coffee; a refugee without a cubicle to call home.
My husband gets eight solid hours of industrial, arctic strength a/c five days a week.