I was recently sitting at the bar at Albino Press with BrandonCutie to write. He writes the comic book Witchdoctor and since he has that writer mentality of working in the same space and not distracting one another, he’s one of the few people I can consistently work in the same space with on creative endeavors.

I took a break from my chapter to write a mass email to my local girlfriends asking them to keep me in mind for any nice guys they knew that needed a date. And if my said friends were instrumental in getting me laid after May 10th, then I’d get them a day at the spa.

As I wrote those words and hit ‘send’ to all my female Portlanders, I started laughing out loud.

“What?” BrandonCutie asked, looking up from his screen.

“If I offer to buy my friends a day at the spa for contributing to me getting laid… does that mean that in a round about way – I’m actually paying for sex?”

He chuckled, “Well, it’s sort of third party so it’s more like paying a pimp – but I guess that’s also sort of paying for sex… hmm… that’s a good question.”

I sent him the email so he could see what I was talking about and he began laughing. “Yes, I see your point.” He grinned. “So you think this will work?”

“God! I hope so!” I shrugged and ground my toe in the floor, “Sooooo, being as that you’re one of my dear friends, if it gets really bad, like May 10th rolls around and there’s no light at the end of the tunnel, I know you’re not into me that way but if it was an emergency – would you take one for the team?”

I should mention that at the time of my asking, BrandonCutie was wearing a very dapper and stylish suit. His vest and coat ensemble only lacking a watch fob to complete the picture of a perfect gentleman with his umbrella cane.

I should also mention that as I asked the question, he squirmed – and shuffled, and took a deep panicked breath. “Weeellll, I – uhm, let me, uhm.” He adjusted his glasses and stood straighter, squaring his shoulders and was about to answer, when I rested my hand on his arm.

“Don’t feel pressure to answer now, we still have 2 months to find a solution. Just think about it please.” I winked and poked him in the side. “But you so totally don’t get the spa day for offering yourself up!”

He heaved an enormous sigh of relief and smiled, “No, I don’t suppose so – because that would definitely be like paying for sex.”

And as we walked out, I said, “Sorry to put you on the spot like that, I guess I was just so overcome by how great you look in that suit.”

He straightened the vest and stood a little taller, and we talked about the next days we have free to get together and use the momentum of writing in the same space, the following weekend.

And he showed up wearing his snazzy suit.

I put a dozen eggs in a pot brimming with water and set them on high to boil while I went to write. I figured I’d check on them when I got up to get my tea which was steeping in a nearby mug.

Then I wandered off and set about writing a post for my blog, tweaking a few paragraphs on the chapter I was working on for my book, paid some bills online and then returned to my chapter yet again to hash out an action sequence of aerial combat with samurai swords.

Later, as I just so happened to be walking past the kitchen, I thought, “What is that awful smell?”

I glanced over and noted a dozen eggs stewing in less than a quarter inch of water at a rolling boil.

OHDEARGOD!

Racing to the stove I flipped off the burner and pulled the pan to the back of the range as the wafting scent of metallic sulfur and super-nova heated eggs filled the kitchen.

I’d boiled 2 quarts of water down to a quarter inch. And my tea was long cold and past drinkable.

I was irritated about it for the rest of the night, thinking, God! What if it hadn’t been eggs? What if I’d set the kitchen on fire while I was happily submerged in my chapter? Sure, when the eggs finally ignited they would have set off the alarm, but what if I’d left something in the broiler? What if it had been oil?

This goes way beyond the irritation I feel for myself every time I fall asleep at my computer desk as I’ve been writing and then wake up almost late for work and in the car I realize I left a load of gnarly underwear in the community laundry room of my apartment complex – because I was so engrossed in my chapter that I forgot to go get my laundry.

And I’ve tried setting timers. Setting the alarm on my phone and inevitably, it goes off and I switch it off because I can’t remember why I set it, OR I think, okay, gotta go get the laundry – after this paragraph – and the next day my holey load of period panties are in a pile on the community washroom folding table, because one paragraph became three pages.

Worse, as I was writing, the other night I remember thinking, “God! The neighbor is really loud tonight, what’s with all the clicking and tinking?”

Not the neighbor, Athena – your fucking eggs were boiling to utter powder.

This is how I manage to kill rosemary plants – the virtually un-killable herb dies repeatedly in my care. This is how I fall off the grid and my friends think I’ve moved back to Alaska, I forget to return phone calls. This is how my bills often forget to get paid, why laundry is often wrinkly, dishes in the sink start to reek, and why the kitchen trash could get up and walk out to the dumpster by itself – I swear to god it’s not intentional, I just get so caught up I forget to eat and I forget I even have to pee.

I just get lost in my work and fall asleep at my desk.

So I decided today, as I was cracking open one of these nearly rubber eggs… it’s a pretty good indication that even if I wanted to start a relationship, it would have to be with someone who remembers to rotate the laundry, or start the dishwasher, or who might remind me that my tea has been steeping for the last four hours.

Or someone who doesn’t mind rubber eggs in their lunch from time to time.