One hundred square feet of cedar logs and mildly rotten subfloor and it’s mine, all mine, for the low low cost of one year per square foot of unsolicited backrubs, flesh-rich meals and folded laundry.

Until now, I’ve done my writing on the couch with one eye on America’s Next Top Model. Which is why my book is going to be so kickass that I’m going to have to be chauffeured in an armoured hummer. NO. A private helicopter. Save-Easy, Jeeves, and make it snappy. We are Without Butter.

The kids, as you well know, sniff you out through all manner of closed doors regardless of designated alternate caregivers, for there is no one who needs to have fresh crotch rubbed all over her laptop quite like mama on a deadline.

And so, one day:

Kate:  I need to find a big old house with a room to rent, in the village, where I can go and BE, you know, to work without being assaulted by crotchy crotches.

Justin:  Rent a room? Why would you do that when we have a perfectly good shed full of crap we don’t need? We should just clean it out and throw some spruce boards down.

Kate:  Holy crap your biceps are ripped. Are you lifting?

Justin:  That would be no big deal, you know. I’ll have to lay some new wiring...

Kate:  Can you, like, crush animals with your bare hands and stuff?

Justin:  I can get your dad’s powerwasher for the inside, then we’ll close in the cracks.

Kate:  You could totally pass for a lumberjack.

Justin:  Maybe we should even put a deck on it. And a new roof.

Kate:  My meatballs have been simmering all afternoon.

Justin:  I’ll start tomorrow.

And so here it is, prepped and ready for a new floor: my writing cabin, a.k.a. The Stormtrooper Clubhouse, but what my four-year-old doesn’t know is that while everyone is sleeping I am going to pay E-Z-Move-It one hundred zillion dollars to upheave the whole thing and replant it in a secret location two miles down the coast.

Because, really—ten paces from our front door is within crotch-range.

But at least it’s a start.

I'll post updates on Flickr as we go, ending with the after shot of me sitting with my feet up on the built-in daybed, typing as I watch America's Next Top Model.

HAH. Ha ha. Ha.

(Kate:  slaps Justin on back)

(Justin:  not laughing)

+++

There’s more of my space on CafeMom’s Home & Garden blog today—feel free to visit with the caveat that had I turned around and aimed the camera in the opposite direction, you would have seen Thomas the Tank Engine underwear hanging from the light fixtures, and a mountain of random crap that transforms into a Deceptacon, and runaway bodily fluids plus heaps of festering boyness and etc.

One last thing.

Thank you so, so much for all the kind thoughts on the occasion of Ben's birthday. He had a great time at the weekend party, where some kind fairy sprinkled Joyful/Contented/Adorable Dust over every kid in attendance. It was one of those easy, food-and-beer-rich gatherings that kept me too busy with streamers and Go Fish prizes to get tangled up in memories.

The day itself, though, caused me to kind of lose my head. I doubt I'll find it until sometime well after June 15, the anniversary of the day Liam died.

So if you see a headless body wandering around the village miming that it no longer needs a room of its own, never mind the gaping wound, and feel free to say hello. I always love it when you say hello.