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Trail of (Blood, Sweat &) Tears
DeskusMessus.jpg

The Varmint and I share a desk. A huge, wide useful desk crafted by his handy brother Justin, but just one desk, nonetheless. Our computers are at opposite ends, leaving our backs angled toward one another. This provides us each with the illusion of privacy during our busy workdays.

(Quick note: Any notion of privacy is total crap. If my monitor inadvertently displays Any Nudity Whatsoever, The Varmint's chair wheels screech over to my side of the desk in .52 seconds flat. His whiskery face is peering over my shoulder before I can even click the window closed. His whole "Artist at work, silence please" thing evaporates post-haste if boobies are involved.)

At least once a week, people ask how we manage to work and live together without killing one another. It's an interesting question to me because I think it says tons about the relationship of the person asking - but I guess people never consider this before firing away.

Our Standard Response goes something like this: "Oh, hee-hee. Lots of people ask us that. Well, we have always worked together. We met at work years ago and even then worked really well together. Plus, there is this thing called i-n-d-e-p-e-n-d-e-n-c-e where you don't spend every second together, you know? Different interests, different friends? We enjoy spending time and going places together, but we also do our own stuff."

Translated, that means we're good at compartmentalizing. There are the WORK | LOVE | LIFE compartments. In the LOVE section there are the YOU | ME | US compartments. It also helps that I'm out running around a lot, giving The Varmint "Varmint Time" and me "Sanity". That's been indispensable in maintaining our household's zero-tolerance policy toward homicide.

Believe it or not, it's a rare day that there is grumbling or growling at one another. It's far more common to wake up sore the next day from belly laughing. Still. There is that desk issue. Where does one draw the line at the encroaching Tidal Wave of Junque (fancy spelling because some of the items in The Varmint's blobular cluster are actually rather nice)? Daily it inches its way toward me. I've already lost enough elbow room so that I'm typing this whilst squinched into a narrow little ball.

So, let it be known: If I get a widow's hump, it's totally The Varmint's fault. Remember that. You can always tell how busy our firm is by the state of our desk. Cleanliness falls by the wayside when deadlines loom.

My guess? We'll be buried by several feet of crap, with small burrows leading to keyboard, kitchen and bathroom before we surface again. I note that The Varmint's humming away over there as I write this - happy as a clam, right at home in his own filth.

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I am a writer and lazy artist who loves travel, architecture and design. Right now, I'm into photography. My fabulous husband (a.k.a. The Varmint) and I are also the principals of a San Diego-based creative agency - and new parents to the divine Baby Mak. Read More >