My husband chuckled. "The whole house is your office."
True. The patio. The couch. Even the kitchen counters. In fact, closed doors made me claustrophobic.
A girlfriend and I were admiring her back yard. "I love writing at home, but Ben likes to tell me about the news and I hate saying don't talk to me." We strolled past a bird feeder. "If I had some signal … maybe stick something in my hair."
She led me inside. "I've got it!" She held up a box filled with cat toys, including brightly colored feathers. I stuck an orange one in my hair and checked myself in a mirror. "Yeah. This could work."
Ben agreed to try it. Still, I was nervous about upsetting our routine.
After sunrise, I plodded into the spare bedroom, grabbed the laptop, and stuck the feather in my hair, the door to the hallway open beside me. Downstairs, the blender whirred. Floorboards creaked. Energy vibrated, telegraphing that Ben had already perused CNN.com.
"Those damn––" A foot crossed the threshold. He screeched to a halt. I typed. Silence. I typed faster. He tiptoed down the hallway. Yeah. This could work.
How do you close the door?
Read another post about how dicey it is to change.