No one told me that when you got married, the person you married would be able to touch all your stuff.
I mean, I KNEW Jethro would touch my stuff, it was now our stuff after all, but living together didn’t prepare me for the marital touching of stuff. And moving of stuff. And rearranging of stuff. And, God forbid, the cleaning out of stuff.
Not that you could tell from the title of this blog, but I’m…less than organized. (That sound you hear is the hooting laughter of former roommates and my mother. Don’t worry, karma will get them in the end.)
But I do have a method to my madness. I have piles of stuff. And I’m usually in the middle of several projects at once, so when I move from one to the other, I like to leave my pile where I put it. Neatly arranged, but still WHERE I PUT IT.
Now, Jethro isn’t a cleaner. Actually, that’s not true. He’s a slob on most days, until some random hormone hits him and he’s “MASTER CLEANSER.” Suddenly, my piles give him hives and he must attack them. Vigorously. Until they are dead, dead, dead.
Or at least stacked somewhere.
This creates a problem. Because I like my piles where they are, thank you very much. And if you move them, you fuck with my chi. It messes with my head, jacks up my universe and makes me no fun to deal with.
Ah, marital bliss.
Anyway, I thought I’d share my idea of my perfect spaces. With my perfect stuff.
Cuz here on my blog, Jethro can’t touch my shit.
In my happy writing space, there is only happy writing instruments.
Like these. Fun pens. Preferably glitter gel pens.
But if I’m getting down to business, it’s got to be Uniball Impact RT gel pens in 1.0mm ink.
Seriously. None of this 0.7mm shit.
I also need wide-ruled paper. I have bad handwriting, I need the space.
I also need a few specific tunes.
BUT, if I’m doing something that requires focus, I need two things.
I know both albums well enough that I don’t feel the need to sing along or skip songs and muck up my zen. Melancholy chick music makes me write. Don’t judge.
I also need Bejeweled. Or Solitaire. For those thinking bits, where you’re really just giving your brain a break because if you kept going you’d realize that you hit a rut and you are a HORRIBLE writer and you suck suck SUCK.
I used to need these. Preferably vanilla Sweet Dreams and coffee with one sugar two creams. Oh, coffee and cigarettes, you’re like the dirty lovers that I can never go back to. I miss you so…
It’s just so damned hard to be hardcore drinking yerba mate. *sigh*
And finally, Maggie the Wonder Dog. Because you need something to warm your feet. And to tell you that you’re wonderful – piles of shit, bad writing and all.