a room of her own

I hunch over my laptop at our high top kitchen table.

My feet fall asleep being there is not good place to put them.

This table is not meant for long term sitting.  The chairs are tall with very straight backs.  If I lean back, my butt falls asleep.  If I hunch forward my feet fall asleep and my back and neck ache.

Our kitchen/dining room is all open with our small living area.

The house is not large.

I have hammered out 715 blog posts–most at this table.

I get easily distracted by the TV, Cort, Eddie, life.

I have no set time that is just mine to work comfortably.  If I take my laptop to my chair, it doesn’t seem like work and I get lost in reading blogs and surfing the web getting ready to “pin” things.

Before I know it, the battery is shouting at me to plug in and I’ve gotten nothing accomplished.

I dream of a room of my own.

An upstairs room that is just mine.

With a desk under a window overlooking a yard and some trees.  Not starting at the road and silly neighborhood kids making fools of themselves in the cul-de-sac.

With pretty curtains and bright walls.

With a comfy desk chair.

With a place for all of my books and my blogging calendars and to do lists.

With soft carpet.

With an over-stuffed chair and a minky blanket in the corner next to a reading lamp.

With a sirius radio dock and speakers.

With a lock on the door.

With a set time that I am in there.

I don’t want to see laptops on the kitchen table anymore.

I don’t want us me to be distracted by emails, twitter, blogs, facebook just because it’s there.

I don’t want technology in the family area anymore.

But I don’t want to be pushed to a corner in the cement laundry room in the basement.  It’s not creative there.  It’s prison.

It’s the kitchen table or the basement.

No room of my own.

But it’s what I want.  More than almost anything.

No room of my own.

Not in this house.

No room of my own.


The prompt this week was to write about what you want most.

This is not what I want most.  But I chickened out and wrote what I want almost the most.

beer run

The following post is another one of my stabs at fiction.  The prompt is to write about having something of tremendous value stolen.  I had no idea what to write, so Cort gave me the scenario and I made up the story around it.

Oh, and also? there is a poll on the left side bar if you want to vote for me to move my fiction to Exploded Moments instead of here.

This post went crazy.  And so I dedicate it to my college years.  And to Todd.



“Think, think, think,” he told himself.  “Now what?  Now what do I do?”

Burger rubbed his eyes with the ball of his hands.  He was slumped down on Davis Street a block from the party.

He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and looked down the street half expecting them to come back.  Not that he had anything left for them to take.  Not only had they taken his empty wallet, but they had jacked the keg he had been rolling down the road from the party store.

It was a dumb idea, but he had lost the bet.

He had to be in charge of the beer.  Even with no car.

Luckily everyone had chipped in.  Barely.

Burger had spent his entire utility payment on that keg, and now he wouldn’t even get his deposit back.

Those jerks even took the tap, so there went that deposit too.


He ran his hand over his goatee and tried to figure out what to do.  He could still smell the cigarette on his hand.

He would love another one, but they had taken those too.

“Focus,” he said out loud.  He immediately looked behind him.  What if they were waiting for him?

He shook his head and tried to focus his eyes.

He didn’t feel very good.

“See…it’s their fault.  We didn’t even NEED that third keg.  This whole thing is THEIR fault.”

He stood up suddenly with new determination.  And immediately regretted it.

Burger decided right then and there that he couldn’t show his face.  He was too mortified.

A band of crazy drunks had run up on him, tackled him, and rolled his keg away.  And taken his smokes.  Which he needed right now.  He couldn’t tell that story to the party–even it if was the truth.

He would look like an idiot.

And he was too messed up to think of a believable lie.

He took one more look down the street toward the party and turned on his heel and started running.

Burger had only gone about a block when he stopped,  panting and sweating and leaned into a yard.

As he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, the headlights of a slow approaching car snapped on.

Burger squinted into them, his heart pounding.

“Dear God, they’re back,” he thought.

“Hey Burger!  What the hell are you doing?  Where is the beer, ya moron?”

Burger just stared, gasping.  What was going on?

“DUDE!  Can you hear us?  WHERE IS THE BEER?”

“uh…” Burger stumbled. “well…um…”

“Get your stupid ass in the car, dude.”

“but…the beer…those guys…they…” Burger wasn’t sure where his friends had even come from.  Who was driving?

Dude. WE took the beer.  Those guys were us.  We thought you knew.”


“IT WAS US, knucklehead!  The keg?  It’s at Gator’s place.  Back at the party.  IT WAS US.”

“Wait.  Wha…”

“Just get in the car, ya drunk.”

Burger still didn’t know what had happened, but he let his friends pull him into the back seat of the car where he promptly passed out.


The following post is my first attempt at fiction. Ok, it’s my first attempt at fiction here on Sluiter Nation.  Everything is completely fictional.  That means not true. Any resemblance to real people, places, and/or events is completely coincidental.  Or not.  Whatever.

The prompt is to write from the perspective of someone who annoys you.


There was already a chill in the air.  Winter would be here soon and he had to get busy.

The boys wanted to come help and he wasn’t about to turn away free labor even if they would do more to annoy  than assist him.

He lumbered out to the backyard with the oldest running ahead with a baseball bat.

“Come on, Nathan!”

The middle one was trying to drag something out of the garage, but came running out to his dad at the sound of his name.

The little one was already sitting in the sandbox.

“Matthew, get off the wood pile.”  The oldest was already bouncing off any surface he came into contact with.  He needed to redirect this energy.

“Take the bat and go in the shed.  Start banging out those dents.”

rat tat tat tat tat tat tat

He scratched his head as the neighbor rounded the side of his house with a spreader.

That guy?  Was ALWAYS working on his lawn.

“Hey,” he offered.

“How’s it going?”

“Just doing some winterizing,” he said as he nodded toward his shed where the oldest had abandoned the baseball bat and was now throwing sand on his youngest brother.

The snobby neighbor seemed confused.  “Yeah, me too,” he said tapping his spreader filled with fancy shmancy winter fertilizer.

He gave the neighbor the obligatory dude nod and turned to his shed.

What did he care about the yard?  That guy spent way too much time on grass.  Although he mowed every week like clockwork which was a good reminder that after it got dark, it was time for him to fire up his trusty Craftsman POS.  The baby always fell asleep best that way–riding on the mower with him.

Anyway.  Back to the shed.  He had to get it winter ready.

Since all three boys were now out front jumping on the car, he was going to have to do this himself.

He grabbed the baseball bat out of the sandbox, and went into the structure.

He began banging at the roof…attempting to pound out what had collapsed yet again before the snow began to fly.

Maybe he should have followed the directions when assembling it.

Maybe those extra parts went to the roof.

like I said, totally fiction. ahem.


short and sweet

I don’t remember my first one.

There are pictures, but they are yellowed as photographs from the 1970’s tend to be.

In one shot I am sitting in a high chair at my grandma’s house, confused.  In the very next I am covered in yellowed cake.

I vaguely remember Cookie Monster.

My aunt made it for me when I was six.  Or thereabouts.

In this photograph, I am standing on a chair leaning forward onto the table–hovering over the perfect cake.

I am missing teeth, which is incredibly apparent by the giant smile on my face.

At some point I decided marble cake was my favorite, and my mom started making me a round double-layer each year.

Always with homemade chocolate frosting.

Always with the sugar candy attached to a piece of paper that needed to be wet before the candy would release.

Always with pink letters spelling out: H A P P Y   B I R T H D A Y  K A T I E !

On Sunday my mom will again make me a cake.

An ice cream cake.

I will do my best to eat the vanilla ice cream, fudge, and cool whip first, saving the Oreo cookie crust for last.

But first I will blow out my 33 candles.

And pick off the pink letters one by one.
This week’s prompt was to be inspired by this photo:

what? it's a CAKE donut!