Sunday, May. 26, 2002
"Oh, so now I'm an enabler," the spousal unit grumbled, rolling his eyes and gripping the steering wheel just a little harder when I lifted my camera and took this picture as we motored by a garden shed that another carpenter is building.
See, Paul and I are in the midst of um, er, ah negotiations. Yes, THAT'S the ticket, negotiations. After all we NEVER bicker. Oh no, not us. Never.
The topic of said negotiations? A garden shed.
You know, Virginia Woolfe almost had it right when she said that what a woman needs is a room of her own. Actually, what a woman REALLY needs is a garden shed of her own. I have been campaigning for one for years now. The spousal unit finally broke down this spring and promised me that next year I will have a shed of my own.
He's begun the preliminary work to move our woodshed to the other end of the property. The support cores for the new building are almost done now, and next spring he'll tear down the old temporary woodshed (the one that's been there for Twenty Five Freaking Years But Who's Counting, Right?) and in its place will go my very own garden shed.
I know. You're sick with envy.
Being a man and all, he pictured a very utilitarian shed. Being a woman, I have decided that I want a Garden Shed of Appalling Cuteness.
He is aghast.
I am charmed by the little garden shed I photographed. While I don't want a cupola and I don't want cedar shakes, I like the general look of this one, especially the wee gable over the door.
Throw in a flower box under the big window, a climbing rose up one side, and we're talking a big slice of wonderful as far as I'm concerned.
The spousal unit is aghast at the thought that not only might he be forced to construct a Garden Shed of Such Appalling Cuteness, but even worse, that he might have to live in close proximity to it.
As far as I can discern, Paul is deeply perturbed by the possible testosterone sapping effects of living with a building of this much cuteness.
Frankly, I can't see how this can affect him. I think we can all agree that this shed's testosterone sapping abilities probably only extend a few feet or so and outside that radius he should be safe. I have pointed out that after he builds it I expect him to keep far, far away from it.
See, sheds have been an issue between us in the past. The last shed he built was SUPPOSED to be a garden shed and it is now overflowing with what I have generously termed His Crap.
(Anything that belongs to me is ipso facto valuable. Anything that belongs to him that I don't like or find useful is automatically His Crap. I use the word "crap" in the kindest, gentlest and least judgmental way possible, of course.)
As it now stands, I have to battle my way through His Crap to get into the so-called "garden shed" every time I want to get the lawn mower or one of my gardening tools. This often throws me into a snit. Trust me, you do NOT want to be near me when I am snitting, eh.
The quantity and quality of my snitting lately has been impressive enough that I have extracted the promise of my very own brand new garden shed next spring.
Since I have already stressed that The Garden Shed of Appalling Cuteness is only going to hold my valuable gardening things (and that if I find one single piece of His Crap within it, I will toss said crap out into the weather) I can't see how the cuteness can be construed as any sort of threat to testosterone.
At the moment, we're at a sort of impasse. I, of course, am being perfectly logical and right. He, of course, is wrong. It may just take him some time To See The Light.
There will be further bulletins as events progress.
Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -
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