Many years ago Dave Addis and I wrote a column for The Virginian-Pilot called “He Said She Said” where we bickered like a married couple.

We’re reviving it today to debate the pros and cons of working from home.

HE SAID:

Yo, KD ... good to be back. And our former audience — if they’re still alive — is as old as we are. And we’re all locked down in our houses, oiling our shotguns and watching our 401(k)s evaporate.

So it’s a perfect time for me to admit how working from home turned me from something of a guy into something of a girl.

Lord knows, not everybody can work from home. But those who can are gonna learn that it’s a sweet gig — a lotta bosses are gonna have trouble prying their worker-bees outta their hives once this coronavirus plays out.

It won’t be just adults, either. On Monday, our 9-year-old grandson did his first day of corona-enforced home-schooling. The verdict? He loved it — said he could sleep later, didn’t have to ride the bus, and could do his lessons on his iPad, in his pajamas. 

Bingo! The kid nailed it: Every lesson I learned when I started working from home back in the late 1990s, as a paid mouthpiece for The Downtown Font of Knowledge. Didn’t take me long to realize that I had better tech gear at home, didn’t have to fight traffic, saved $15 a day in gas and lunches ... and could work in my pajamas.

But it also changed my life, one of those law-of-unintended-consequences things.

My wife actually had to go to the office. Her days were long, and we never knew when she’d get home. As I was getting 8 hours of work done in 4 hours from home, it made sense for me to help with the nightly meal prep.

We were second-go-‘round newlyweds. Up to then, I’d been a guy-guy. When I wasn’t noodling on my keyboard I was on a golf course somewhere. Nights were spent betting on 9-ball games at Q-Master Billiards. Food? That’s what Wendy’s was for.

Eager to impress, tho, I found myself reading recipes instead of box scores. Simple ones, at first ... but then more complex. Instead of haunting pool halls, I started haunting produce aisles. Soon I was watching Emeril Lagasse instead of SportsCenter.

Before you knew it, I was learning fancy words like glacé and baking cornbread in my wife’s great-grandmother’s cast-iron skillet, which eons ago had fed chicken dinners to weary Confederate war vets. (Love that pan.)

I kept quiet about this at first, as I come from a time and a place where women cooked and men did manly things — like scratching ourselves and complaining about NFL refs. We were supposed to be more testosterone than thyme.

But, over time, something strange happened: I learned that about half of my male friends were secret home-chefs, too — and more than just flipping burgers on a grill. 

It started at our weekly poker game. It would slip out, just a hint here and there — a subtle comment about ripe tomatoes, a mumbled mention of the virtues of cold-pressed olive oil. Soon we were trading recipes between hands. Guys started showing up for the game with pineapple upside-down cakes. 

So ... what’s the lesson? You guy-friends out there, if you’re cooped up for the next couple of months and find a sudden urge to sauté something, it does not mean you’re gay — “not that there’s anything wrong with that.” 

It’ll give you something useful to do until ESPN emerges from bankruptcy, and you won’t believe how many brownie points you’ll pile up that can be cashed in once football returns, someday. 

SHE SAID:

Oh Dave, I remember when you began working from home, because I quickly followed suit. The newsroom was no fun once you left. Plus, I missed following you outside for your Marlboro breaks. 

With you gone, I was stuck at my desk all day, surrounded by lemon-sucking editors who didn’t share my sense of humor.

But I fear you’ve allowed your memories of working from home to get a little gauzy. You morphed into a gourmet chef during those years of self-quarantine? Well, good for you, pal. 

I didn’t. In fact, I completely stopped cooking. If I had my way I’d eat out every night. Just to leave the house. 

I still work from home, which makes me somewhat of an expert. I have at least 15 years of this weird hermit-like existence under my belt. 

Speaking of belts, mine has a few extra notches in it since the days when I got dressed every day and put on heels and lipstick. One thing they don’t tell you about you working within 30 feet of a well-stocked kitchen: You WILL gain weight.

A putrid break-room fridge full of moldy sandwiches, expired yogurt and leaking Tupperware will kill your appetite. But your own refrigerator, filled with your favorite victuals? Irresistible.

You’ll eat more food. You’ll get fat.

So if you’re just starting to work from home, invest in elastic-waist pants. Quick. Before they close all the Walmarts.

When I first began working from home I had strict rules for myself: Set the alarm for my regular wake-up time, shower, brush my teeth and dress in work-appropriate garb. I thought it was important to be office-ready in case someone from the newspaper called and summoned me downtown.

That rarely happened. Slowly, things began to slip. Alarm? What alarm? I slept until I woke up. There’s no hurry to rise and shine when you don’t commute.

I showered. Usually. I always brushed my teeth, but afterwards I pulled on comfy clothes and padded around in my slippers.

Within a year, my wardrobe shrank to two pairs of yoga pants and a frayed sweatshirt. I panicked every time I had to find something to wear to an interview or one of those dreaded “all-hands-meetings“ at The Pilot.

I also developed an unhealthy relationship with my toy poodles. With no co-workers, I found myself talking to them and asking their opinions. I read my pieces aloud to them. They liked what I wrote, I could tell. Unlike some of my cranky editors. 

They’re very conservative and never once sniffed, “Are you SURE you want to go there?”

On the flip side, I found it was important to distance myself from the little yappers when I was conducting a phone interview. If the governor’s on the line, he’s picturing a journalist in a professional setting. Not one with uncombed hair sitting a few feet away from a big bowl of Purina.

Worst of all, I live near the ocean. When I worked in an office I left in the morning, got home at night. Working from home, though, I could watch people with surfboards and beach chairs march past my house on sunny days. I had to fight the urge to call in sick and join them. It was torture.

While bosses might worry that work-from-home staff will turn into goldbrickers - did you say you got 8 hours of work done in 4? - I found myself working almost all the time. 

With a glowing computer nearby, you’re never off the clock.

In short, working from home turned me into a poorly dressed workaholic whose best friends had fleas.

On a positive note, I noticed that once I traded my office space for one at home, I caught far fewer colds. 

So work from home for a while if you can. You’ll stay healthy. But get ready to loosen your belts.