I wasn't totally joking years ago when I told my husband that married people should keep their own apartments. I still miss the little studio I had in the middle of the city when I graduated from college. On warm spring days I could hear the national anthem at the baseball stadium nearby. My guy would pick me up on the motorcycle and we'd zoom off to a lazy cafe breakfast.I slept on a foam mat that I pulled out of the closet. In that tiny little kitchen I taught myself how to make enchilada sauce with whole soaked peppers. Only I forgot to put the lid on the blender. And then I couldn't reach the ceiling to get the sauce off of it before my hot date.
For whatever reason, I need my own space.
So a few years ago the man built me a cedar shed. It locks from the inside. He flipped it around so that the porch became a little deck facing the woods. It has tiny windows and window boxes. It is surrounded by raised beds filled with herbs. It's miniature -- just 12X12 feet. And it's perfect. We camped in it a few times. The kids were really young. One of them peed the cot. We got claustrophobic. I'm sure the neighbors wondered just what kind of crazies lived next door when we filed out of there in the morning with bed head. Oh, they have no idea.
That little space is where I go to think. And write. I don't really type on a typewriter, but I have an old antique in there because I like to think of my thoughts that way -- as ink-glazed metal pounding on thick white paper. That's my fuckwriter. The curtains are tied with sage and lavender. If my hopes and dreams had a smell, they would smell like cedar.
Alana posted a photo her writing space and invited others to do the same, thus this post. I LOVE the Marilyn Monroe print Alana! It's fun to see where other writers work. I don't only write in the shed though. It's just the best place I've found so far. Sometimes I write in the basement between the washing machine and the ironing board. I've been caught behind the hanging clothes in the closet, hiding with a notebook. I've attempted to scribble thoughts while leaning out of the bathtub. I bought a waterproof notebook once, but it smeared. I write in coffee shops and on light rail and city buses when I travel. Wherever, whenever.
I don't usually have bottles of booze lined up on the shed window shelf, but tonight will be special. It's the first annual winter solstice shed star party. Girls only. No stinky boys allowed. (Sorry Mr. BadAssKona, we don't need a waiter.....this time). Sorry to you too, Sam, we will be grilling our own steaks, thanks very much. You're so naughty.
When we tried to arrange the shed shindig in December for the actual solstice the girls couldn't get here due to a snowstorm, so we're throwing a party tonight. I can't wait to try the Redrum.
About those ruffles, and I'm not exactly talking about panties (see previous post). The man asked me this morning if we have any onions. Nope I said, why? "Oh, just because I thought you and the girls might like some of my famous clam dip." Oh. My. F-ing goodness. I snorted coffee through my nose and had to spit in the sink. He just stared at me, quite like the dog, who was also staring at me. "What?"
"We'd love some of your clam dip darling," I said, thinking, 'Oh my fuckness, the man just cross-dressed!'
"Sounds yummy!" I said, still hacking on coffee down the wrong pipe. "I'll pick up an onion and a bag of Ruffles at the store."
Yes I will.