You can either do the work or write about it!

All that's left of the chicken room, our room above the detached garage where Chris once raised chickens on the shag carpet, is a picture drawn on the floor in black Sharpie that says "Welcome: The Chicken Room." All wildlife, except my husband, has been evicted. The wall is repaired where the bees lived for a couple of years. No signs of the chickens remain, thank goodness!

The room is supposed to be my husband's office. He's a remodeling contractor. But you see the pictures. It's every little boys dream office with musical instruments and musicians, (Chris is playing the drums) a couch, and a floor that nobody cares about. (We'll get floor covering one day, but given that it took seven years from the time the carpet came up in the main part of the house until the new flooring went down, I'm not holding my breath.) I'm afraid to ask how much work he's getting done up there. He moved his desk in last week. Then this weekend we moved a couple of bookcases and all of his office stuff upstairs. I may never see him again.

We both work out of the house. After nine months, I have given birth to my own office. I don't have to work at the dining room table, our only eating space, clearing it off every time we have company, which is often. No, life is good. I'm in an office of my own, the red room, formerly the box room, when it had no heat or air and French doors hung so crooked you could throw a cat through the cracks in between them. Before that, it was a garage. Now it's an office/den/dog room/piano studio. But with Chris installed in the chicken room, it's all mine! The great American novel should be finished any time now!