I’m a girl without an office. My office is my bedroom, and I’m always here. Everyone else can get away from the fixer most of the day and smell other, cleaner interiors. They can all go to places with walls and carpeting. I’m here in the half-demolished bedroom, all day all the time.

Today, so is Charlie. He called in sick. Therefore, so did I. It’s a small bedroom. My feet would be less than two feet from his head. He didn’t stay home from work to listen to my shuffling papers, clicking keyboard, and to smell my feet. He’d never get well.

I assumed he’d wake up no later than ten, transfer down to the couch and watch TV like normal sick people do. I’d just get a late start on my day. I waited around, busying myself with laundry, dumb errands, and phone calls I didn’t want to make. If I’m going to have to wait around, I should be doing something.

At ten AM, Charlie’s still sleeping. I made a few more unsuccessful phone calls then used leftover vegetables to bake zucchini bread and make soup. I gave up, made coffee and had it all by myself. He must be really sick.

Charlie’s rarely sick. Last night we went to our wealthiest friends’ house for dinner. It was the first time in a while we’d set foot in a subdivision. Not a middle-class subdivision, either, but one of those big ones with even bigger houses on not so big lots. I don’t think Charlie hates subdivisions enough to become sick, though.

Although every time someone clears an old Grandma bungalow off an half an acre around here, ten or twelve big houses get squeezed in tight on the lot. “Who’d want to live in one of those?” Charlie says. “You can stare through your kitchen window to about five other neighbor’s kitchens. They could see your dirty dishes if they wanted to.”

Our friends’ house was nowhere as big and spacious-looking inside as it was outside. It was quite comfortable, which is the last thing I’ve ever felt in a Doctor’s house. They even had a yard big enough to prevent neighborly kitchen window peeking. You could still do a fair amount of peeking, but only through to empty living rooms. Experienced peekers know the kitchen is where all the action takes place.

The only action taking place today was whatever I could find to do to keep busy. I could either get frustrated by all the things I planned to do, or think of more things I could do.

I couldn’t finish the laundry before I hit my dumb-stuff limit. I was going to give up and watch really bad TV but then I saw my unfinished wall. It’s a painting day.

Before I could reason myself out of it, I put on my painter’s hat and got to work. The cutting in by the ceiling and windows is pretty tedious, but it’ll look good when I’m done. Every night when I watch TV I get a little more annoyed when I look this direction. Not tonight.

Even scrunching up on what’s left of the kitchen counter, the ceiling is quite a ways up. Raising my arms up over my head to paint, I remember the problem with this position last time I had my hands over my head. I stink.

I don’t know about other people but if I have to raise my arms, I don’t want it to be an unpleasant experience. I couldn’t stand it. Right then, right in the middle of cutting in, I went upstairs and took a shower.

When I returned to painting, I noticed my brush was wet. I’m alone, unless you call an unconscious lump in the bed company. If the brush was wet, it must have been my fault. With the brush so wet, I got a lot of watery drips on the walls and window sill. Am I losing my mind. Did I bring the brush in with me to the shower?

In the middle of my sanity check, the doorbell rings. It’s either the neighbor kids or the Democrats. They both come by at about the same rate. We don’t get the Republicans on this side of town, just GreenPeace, OSPRIG, and when we’re lucky, the Jehovah’s Witnesses. I’m home all the time; these things are important to me.

Charlie shuffles down the stairs before I can get off the counter. I didn’t know he was up and I’m grateful he’s answering the door. If I did, I might not get back up here and finish. Ceilings hurt your neck.

Charlie opens the door. I hear a slow, lazy voice saying, “Auto Trader.”

“I’m expecting CycleTrader,” Charlie says.

“Yeah, I’m AutoTrader, CycleTrader, Heavy Equipment Trader, you name it.”

Charlie starts walking out front where he‘s parked the Harley.

The guy says, “Is this the jewel I’m photographing?”

“Yep, that’s it,” Charlie says.

“I’m supposed to talk you into the full-page ad, the color ad, but I don’t do that anymore. They used to pay me in commission. Now they pay me straight salary no matter what I sell, so I don’t want to sell you something you don’t need.”

He didn’t look like he was in too big of a hurry to go anywhere or do anything. Charlie’s not in too big of a hurry to go anywhere or do anything, either. Me, I’d like to go anywhere or do anything just to get out of this kitchen.

Charlie wandered inside when the Auto Trader guy left. He stood and stared at me painting for a minute without saying anything.

“What?“ I said.

“I thought you were done so I washed out your brush.”

“Oh, I thought I was losing my mind. Or bringing paintbrushes in with me during showers.”

Charlie didn’t ask me to clarify. Sometimes it’s best if you don’t know everything about your spouse, especially when it concerns her sanity.

“You’re selling the Harley?” I say, “You’re really selling it?“

“Am I weird that I get tired of things fast?”

“If you are, so am I.”

“Remember when we were first going out, we ate sushi all the time,” Charlie said. “Then we hated it. For years, we couldn‘t even look at it. Now we’re eating sushi every chance we get. Isn’t that weird?”

“It’s hard to eat sushi every night for six months and not get tired of it.”

“See, what I mean? No, it’s not. That’s the sad part. In a couple of months we’ll swear sushi is the last thing we’ll want and we’ll get stuck on something else. Our only constant is Starbucks. But that’s different. That’s an addiction.”

“For five years we whined about getting a motorcycle,” I say. “We’ve only had one for a year and a half.”

“I love that bike, I love the way it looks. But it’s boring to ride it now. When we got back from Florida on our road trip last year, I was glad to get back. I was glad to get in a vehicle with a roof over my head. I was getting tired of a sore ass.

“Now I want a truck. I’d rather haul stuff on a lumber rack than make teenagers hold things down on top of a jeep every time I go to Home Depot.

“You can drive the bumpy jeep, I want a truck. I’m tired of that bumpy jeep. You’re not supposed to be assaulted when you go over a bump. It’s like people are hitting you in the ass and back with baseball bats.”

“I guess I don’t mind that,” I say. “What’s that say about me?”

“Too many paint fumes,” Charlie says, then he goes and makes himself comfortable on the always-dusty couch and turns on the History Channel.

I’ve got a choice now. I could go upstairs to my office and do exactly what I had planned for today. I won’t get everything done.

Instead I could finish painting the pumpkin in the kitchen. It’d be done and when I join Charlie on the couch this evening, I can glance at the finished painted wall and enjoy the euphoria of something completed. I go for days without this feeling of finishing anything, except laundry. And if you do laundry, you know that feeling is very fleeting.

The pumpkin is on the wall. Now it’s time to convince Charlie he’s well enough to go get sushi. Before we both get sick of it.