Well, not necessarily. Me and my hand truck (the mother is “Dolly,” thus the two words) have been moving heavy stuff around all day without any assistance from mankind. The hand truck is genderless, and I’ve always been a big fan of the “brain over brawn” way of doing things. You just have to be smarter than the furniture. Helps also to have lots of small furniture. I dance with the bookcases. Take lots of breaks. I move slowly, because at “our age,” it’s easy to get injured. (At any age… of course.)
My youthful housemate girlfriend left for college yesterday; I am reclaiming my office, where I slept this summer. In the process, I have set up a guest bed space out in the garage, to take the place of the tent I had up during the summer. Took the tent down today. Sleeping these past few months, mostly, in the room where I keep my word stash has been invigorating and grounding. Writer life immersion, sort of. And now! there is fresh space for words on the wall. Posting maps of my writing work is one of my favorite writing tools. I am so happy.
Old words, from a younger era in my life: “You need a man for that.” An old lady hollered this at me across her lawn from her snowed-in porch. This was in the early Nineties, and I had pulled over in front of her house to chain up my truck before heading up the icy mountain. I’d been wrenching my own cars for twenty years by then and had the chains hooked up in minutes, so this kind advice totally cracked me up. My man-needs were at a lifetime low and this lady was so desperately sincere. I still laugh out loud whenever I conjure up her voice.
I am a living out loud person. This summer, with three women living in our house, it was usually too crowded for any good (noisy) masturbating. When I’d had enough of biting the sheets, I put up my backyard tent. Cooler, with privacy for my out-loud solo orgasms… still laughing, no, I don’t need a man for that. It was a good summer. Occasionally my young housemate would consider sleeping in the tent. For the coolness, I suppose. One night she finally tried it out. While my mother was having her bedtime shower, we heard this wild scream outside the bathroom window. I thought it was neighbor kids. Dolly was sure it was cats fighting. Then we found out, the screecher was our girl, who’d encountered a hairy spider inside the tent.
Thanks to my wolf spider friend, the tent was all mine for the rest of the summer. Since that evening, I’ve relinquished my last sliver of worry about what my mother, my houseguests, or the neighbors will think if they hear screams in the night. It’s just cats yowling; or, someone saw a huge spider. Surely, there are wolf spiders in the garage.