retirement, actually

I have to correct this missile of disinformation. After a moment of surprise which I mistakenly read as rage, Kurt has been monumentally kind and supportive during this surprisingly difficult transition. So. After managing the finances, what little there are, I'm working in my yard, watching Fixer Upper, writing, and making art. I am trying to get enough work done to get juried in to a local group of artists and have enough pieces to sell in the studio tour next fall. It is now two weeks into this thing, this retirement. My mood vacillates between delight and resentment. With social security and unemployment I will be fine. I'd be fine anyway. I know how to cook rice. Our home is ours, bills are small, student loan payments put off for now. I have enough wax to make art for centuries and can string words together in enjoyable ways if I choose. I don't think I've talked about my studio. Our new house, now four years old, has always been too nice to turn one of the rooms into a space to do encaustics. Fire and wax have been messy in my hands, so I'd been putting off any artistic endeavors in favor of a clean house. If you know me, you will know that to be a lie. I put little stock in a clean house. A cute house, now that is a priority, but clean? not really. I am the worst housekeeper I know. It drives Kurt mad, ocd as he is, and if you've been reading along, I don't care. So, one thing K is really good at is finding things for me to spend (my) money on. I happened to mention that I was dead serious about building some sort of structure to use as an art studio. I didn't care what it looked like (lie) meaning, I didn't need it to be fancy, was, in fact, more interested in a functionally funky structure. Rather than get himself into a honey-do situation, my darling husband began searching for sheds. Brilliant! I sincerely didn't expect it to go so well, but we ran into this little Amish-ish company that makes small-batch, artisan quality sheds. It was on. They just happened to have an 8x12 that was either a repo or the deal fell through--I don't know or care. The point is that it was precisely the design and siding choice that I wanted. Two windows and a four-foot barn door with lateral siding, not the vertical cheap T111 siding you usually see on those things. I didn't like the color, but do know how to paint. We made the deal. I wrote the check and they dropped it in the backyard a week and 15 minutes later. The only challenge so far is convincing the world that it is not a "she-shed." My first introduction to the she-shed concept was at our yard sale a couple of years ago. A large-ish, bleachy-fluffy woman bailed out of her car as her husband was slowing to a stop. She began stuffing her large floral bag with my girlish cast-offs, anything frilly, anything candle-ish. "For my she-shed," she shrilled. "Isn't it just a-DOR-able?" So. yeah. My studio is NOT a fucking she shed. It is a hot-wax-flinging-bead-strung-leather-strapped-wire-wrapped nightmare of sweet disorganization. There is no art supply I do not own. Yesterday, while hanging things up for me, Kurt broke my little hammer. Did I mention he was helping me? Did I meention I hadn't requested help? Anyhow, he thought a good place to find another one would be Harbor Freight. This place is like Michael's for guys. We found a little hammer and all kinds of other stuff. Over the 15-plus year life of this blog I may have mentioned that I own beads. I don't think I own them all, but easily most. They live in little boxes here and there and I move them with me from place to place. Several multi-compartmented plastic containers house the majority -- these containers were probably meant for fishing lures; then there are clever little boxes that, at the time of purchase, I was certain were the solution to my organization problem. Kind of like a new shade of lipstick. I realize I may have lost some readers with that last comment, but these are the chances an edgy writer takes. So there I was in Harbor Freight and right in front of me was a 40 compartment, stand-alone plastic box for only 14.99. The same thing at Michael's would cost you at least 500.00. Maybe not quite that, but seriously, it would be sixtyish. Anyhow, I bought it and have now spent the past two days reorganizing my beads and bead-related contraband. I have reduced my stash from a b'zillion disparate containers to three. That is success on a huge scale. It is also a lie. I probably have five. Still. Days such as these, days wasted in bead-sorting, put me in mind of a time back in the late seventies or early eighties when I was shooting speed for a living. I'd found myself holed up in Sweet Home for three days and nights without sleep, searching inch by inch through deep red-orange shag carpet for a single red bead. Which I never did find. Anyhow. Those days were a long life. So, we bought the sweet little hammer and a set of small screwdrivers, a mallet, sandpaper and a hand broom. Then we walked over to Goodwill where Kurt found another thing my money just had to have. One of the many things I love about this guy is how he sees things. I had mentioned needing a stand to hold my work-in-progress encaustic pieces while I finish the sides (most have a cradled edge one to two inches deep) while keeping my hands free of hot wax. I was thinking wood, nails/screws, etc. So he guides me down the kitchen gadget aisle in Goodwill and he points to this two foot tall, chrome, robotic looking thing with four arms and three levels and I cannot imagine what, for the love of the Sweet Baby Jesus, he sees in it. Then he touches it. It spins. I begin to step into his vision. Ten dollars later -- mine -- we stripped all the non-essential pieces from this magic little spinning robot and it is perfect. Perfect. A wide base, effortless spinning capability, exact height. I won't hold the fact that it is chrome against him. So, retirement. It happened a couple of years earlier than I expected, but I am so thrilled not to have to take care of the dying any more. 46 years all together. Now I feel like I can write that book. Here I go.