~Tell Me This is Isn’t Ideal

…And after marriage, we’ll settle into a house that has fervent stock of back woods. I

don’t know where in San Diego you can find that, but that’s where we’ll hunker down—you’ll

figure it out, you’re a smart girl. In the back woods, yelling distance from the house will be a

small shed-like structure. Not a shed because it’ll take up more parcel and offer a little more in

function. There will be no internal plumbing, just electricity to serve one light bulb that will

hang from the ceiling that is under a tin roof, so that I can hear the rain. The light bulb will turn

on/off at the pull of a chord. There will be room for one large plywood table and a set of useless

cabinets. The plywood table will be positioned such that, when seated, I will face the wall that is

perpendicular to doorway, so that I am not distracted by the possibilities that lay beyond the door

yet am able to, if necessary, turn to greet visitors with minimal delay. The cabinets will contain

all of one old, rusty, tin pannikin because (1) I like the way they look, (2) I’m partial to the

benefits of tin over those of other metals, and (3) I’ll be able to explain to anybody that asks that

it shares a name with my favorite chain of local coffee shops. For all intents and purposes, the

remainder of the shelves in the cabinets will be frivolous.

The shed will serve as my area of reclusion. On weekends, as you do your laundry, I will

casually stroll into the back woods and to the shed. I’ll tell you that I’ve finally decided to get

back on my memoir that I started in grad school but never finished. I’ll try to explain that I

didn’t finish it because somebody stole the laptop that I had it on and that I never backed it up on

a flash drive but you’ll have stopped listening when I hear Oprah on the TV. I won’t even get to
the part about how the thieves decided against stealing my car too because it was so ugly. I’ll

make a mental note of this so that I can hold it against you during our next argument.

As the weeks pass, you’ll notice my reclusion to Shed more often. Before it was maybe a

couple or three times a months, usually on either a Saturday or a Sunday, but now it’s about that

many times a week, weekdays inclusive. (Notice that I’ve dropped the “the” before “shed” and

capitalized it. It’s just “Shed” now as in, “Honey, I’m going to Shed, be back in 16 hours!” You

wouldn’t call your best friend “The Nancy” would you? Of course not. I’m just following the

same logic.) Though the increased number of visits to Shed is a little peculiar, you won’t be

worried. Instead, you’ll presume that I have in fact magically rekindled the motivation to finish

my memoir even despite my ability to make any fun task dreadful—like the time when I dreaded

getting paid $500. “What’s it about anyway—your memoir?!” You’ll yell from inside the house

as you knit future baby Farsina’s (a girl) first onesie. I won’t hear you, not because I’m too far

away, but because I’ll have ABBA’s Dancing Queen on full blast (and on repeat) for inspiration

and because I love—it hits close to home. When you don’t get a response, you’ll murmur under

your breath, “It’s not like you have much to write about anyway.” I’ll hear that one somehow

and make another mental note. That’s two.

Weeks turn into months. I’m in Shed nearly every day. The daily look of concern on

your face will make the folks at the Lifetime channel so envious that they will offer you a starring

role in their next made-for-TV movie (the talent’s been sparse since Meredith Baxter Burney

departed for lesbianism). Baby Farsina (yes, a girl) is due any day now and her future father has

spent the majority of the pregnancy in that damn shed… wait a second! “How can someone who

spends most of his time trying to cover his bald spot write a memoir?” The light’s suddenly

gone off in your head. “Unless his book is going to be called, Male Pattern Baldness and Me, he
has nothing to write about! He’s taking me for a ride! To Shed we go, Baby… Far… Sina—

god, your name is ugly.”

So to Shed you will go, waddling as fast as your womb will let you. As you draw closer,

a faint (but familiar) sound billowing from inside grows louder. When you reach Shed’s door,

you’re appalled by the disgusting display: ABBA’S Dancing Queen has been playing on loop for

three months. The poignancy of the moment will buckle your knees and force you to the ground

(The baby’s fine, relax). You’ll contemplate how you ended up in this marriage, file through a

picture list of all the guys you could have married instead, and wonder if it was broccoli or

carrots that you have to buy at the grocery store later. After taking a minute to compose

yourself, you’ll knock on the door. You’ll pay no mind to the “NO GIRLZ ALLOWED” sign

posted at eye-level—another traumatic experience might not be healthy for the baby. Before

you’ve begun to wait for a response, I’ll already have yelled back, “Just leave my food outside

the door!” Startled but concerned, you’ll knock again. “How many times do I explain to you

what vertigo is?! Ok, when I stand up to walk it’s like… !!! Freaked out, you’ll have already

waddled your pregno butt back into the house before I finish.

That night, in the middle of the night, you’ll leave bed to go inspect Shed, to see what the

hell I’ve been doing in there the last few months. When you reach the door and see the “NO

GIRLZ ALLOWED” sign again, you’ll just smirk. The sign is as ridiculous as this marriage has

become. You’ll walk into Shed, creep in slowly. You’ll find splayed on the ground a

you’ll knock on the door which, by the way, posts a sign that says “NO GIRLZ

ALLOWED” (It should be noted that in the time between seeing the sign and knocking on the
door, you took a brief moment to contemplate the factors that played into your decision to marry

me). One you know

You’ll collapse in slow motion to the ground and clutch a fistful of leaves in. ;ou’ll begin

pray to Jesus that your husband’s mind hasn’t yet been ravaged by the ills of psychosis, but then

your thoughts will be interrupted by your own shrill before you know it you’re screaming, “…

feel the beat / from the tambourine / oh yeah!” God it’s such a good song. You’ll proceed

towards the door. On the door will be a sign that reads, “NO GIRLZ ALLOWED.” How did I

end up in this marriage but then remember that you were here to figure what the hell I’m doing

in there. Your knock on the door pushes it open slightly and you’ll walk in, slightly anxious.

Inside will be papers strewn about all over the floor. You’ll pick one up to realize that it has the

words, “Hey, there. The end.” written on the bottom right hand corner of the margin. Peculiar?

Yes. But is it a sign of psychosis? Yeah, probably. Obviously, I’m not in there and you’ll

wonder of my whereabouts considering I last mentioned that I’d be in Shed for the remainder of

the weekend. You’ll begin to investigate, ignoring your mother’s admonishment that “snoopy

little girls snoop their way right to the devil’s heart.” “Shut up, mom.” (Who’s the one with

psychosis now?).