I have fibromyalgia, and today started as a high-pain day. This has absolutely nothing to do with the story I'm about to tell you, other than to explain why I was still horizontal at almost 11 a.m. on a Sunday morning like some kind of human sloth in fuzzy socks.

After I'd taken my gabapentin and chased it with what I call "the pain combo" (acetaminophen and ibuprofen—not medical advice, just desperation), I finally shuffled into the living room, where I discovered my husband had apparently been left unsupervised for far too long.

People always joke that women talk too much about things that have no concern to the listener. Well. That happened to me today. Except it was my husband.

I'm convinced the man has a minimum word quota he must meet each day, and it was painfully evident he'd fallen behind on his deliveries. Since he couldn't get started expelling these words to anyone who might listen—or might allow him to think they were listening—he'd spent those extra hours trolling the depths of the internet for the oddest possible topics.

Today's obsession? Building a geothermal cold box room. Or possibly an outdoor root cellar. Here. At our home. In East Texas.

In. Minute. Detail.

Now, you might think a root cellar is a reasonable idea. It allows you to store canned goods from your garden so you can enjoy fresh flavors year-round. A cold box room would be helpful for storing meat that's been butchered from a hunt or from livestock you've raised.

Those are excellent reasons.

But hear me out.

My husband does not hunt. Has never hunted. The closest he's ever come to hunting is deciding which packet of meat to select from the grocery store cooler. (The chicken or the beef? The stakes have never been higher.)

As for the garden... well. The man has not successfully grown a single thing to date.

Actually, wait. I take that back. He did take a few sprouted potatoes and shove them into one of my flower barrels. And then promptly forgot they existed. That last part may have been the key to their success—benign neglect as a gardening strategy. But the peppers? Dead. Tomatoes? Gone. Beans, peas, cucumbers? You get the picture. Our backyard is basically a vegetable hospice.

So my question—which was apparently the wrong one—was simply: "Why?"

Turns out, "why" is the reset word.

The words ceased. The explanations stopped immediately. And he got up and left the room.

Blessed silence.

At least until the football game came on. The Bengals/Bills game, being a snow game, has since redirected his attention, and therefore, the daily word quota is once again in play. He's currently narrating every tackle to me as if I have both interest and investment in the outcome.

Oh well. It was a nice fifteen minutes.

How are you spending your Sunday?