Writing from the Pantry

So the baking cabinet is in my office. I’m working in the pantry. And my former desk is outside on the rainy deck, the city version of a car on blocks. What weirdness this?
Well, it’s that we spent all day Sunday getting it in place, both of us wide-eyed and speaking in strong declaratives: “The worktop isn’t DESIGNED to pull out.” “Well, not NOW, but it extended EASILY in the storage locker or I wouldn’t have claimed it.” Not fighting, you understand. Not in front of our toddler, splayed on the couch in front of “Elmo TV” for two hours. That would be bad parenting.
So it turns out the countertop was actually facing backwards. Some strong detective work there by G who noticed the knife scratches were all on the side we had tucked into the wall. But once back in order, with the books put away, and the living room back to normal, and G’s fight or flight responses flattening out again, I really wanted the hoosier to work as my desk.
It still might, eventually. But the countertop is just a titch too high for comfort. I thought it would be fine, since I’m a sloucher anyway and tend to sink lower and lower while composing, until my cheek is right on the table. Maybe I like to feel small and child-like? But no, it turns out, I just like to slouch, so I had to slink into the windowless pantry—which must always be referred to as G’s office—to use his computer on the boring little Ikea table. I can’t be caught here. And so I’m going to have to find a taller chair for this gig. And a comfy one too.
Or maybe it’s not just G who fears furniture change. And maybe it’s not just our wee Baboo that has to have everything lined up just right before he begins. Hmmm, where’s my novel again? Oh yeah, I don’t have the right chair.

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