My bed is covered with mountains of paper. Books. Thirteen pear cores on crumpled paper towels. Three empty water bottles. Textbooks. Notebooks. Lesson plan books. Insurance papers. Some clothes my daughter decided she doesn’t want to take to college. An empty Cadbury wrapper. Tootsie pop sticks. A dead telephone. A live telephone. Me. This laptop, which is burning my flesh through my jeans.
Daughter thinks I need an office.
I think I need at least seven offices. One for secondary teaching, one for college teaching, one for the nitty-gritty of interviews and profile writing, one for the GCRP, one for YW’s, one for all the paperwork inherent to a family of eight which includes four and a half drivers and two college students. And, of course, that mythical office I envision in my dreams: That cozy little writer’s cave cut off from the rest of humankind.
Because if I were that organized, of course I’d have time for leisurely writing.
Also, I should have my own personal chef.
And someone to remotely brush my teeth. Because if I fall asleep within this snarl of cables, paper and sharp-cornered textbooks, you know I’ll wake up at three in the morning with fuzzy teeth and a headache.
Not that I’ve done anything like that before. Ever.
Also someone should take out my contacts before they burn right through my corneas and sear their way into my brain matter.