I’ve been challenged. A line has been drawn in the sand.

I’m talking serious throw-down. I’ve been goaded, sassed, thrashed, confronted, questioned, and double-dog-dared. All before 7am and my second cup of coffee.

It all started last night when I told “her” over the phone that I had nothing to write about. This is a common plague of anyone who tries to write. I’m pretty sure I bored you with this ploy the very last time I wrote just last week.

To say you have “nothing” is a trick to fill space, to deflect, and to gain sympathy. It’s really pathetic and I hate myself for doing it.

But sometimes it is a reality that is hard to work through.

“What do you mean, you got ‘nuthin’?” she says to me.

“I mean nothing interesting that I can turn into a story,” I say.

“We went to Lowes last Friday. Write about that.” Clearly, she doesn’t understand the story writing process. “We went to Valley Fir and Redwood. There’s got to be a story there.” She must think good stories live at the wood yard.

“We looked at lumber,” I say. “I don’t see a story coming outta that.”

We did meet Toke at the lumber yard. Nice guy. Forklift driver. I should’ve asked if it was a nickname or his given name. But it was stitched right there on his shirt over the righthand front pocket. The first thing that came to mind was ‘one toke over the line Sweet Jesus’, but I thought better of mentioning that to him.

Other than that, not much happened at the lumber yard.

I’ve known MJ for a little over a year now. I’m not saying I have perfected my understanding of her, but I have a pretty good idea of how her mind works. If I’m sitting next to her, I can see the wheels turning. If we’re talking over the phone, I can feel the cogs in her brain working on some scheme. Half the time I say out loud what she’s thinking before she can get the words out.

It’s kinda scary.

So, when we hung up the phone last night, I had a feeling she was already up to something.

Morning has proven me right.

I always text her first. We went through our typical morning greeting, how’s-the-coffee-you-awake-yet stuff. Which I know is a farse because she’s been up since before God.

“It’s cool outside,” I text. “The porch feels good.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she texts back. “I’ve been busy.”

And there it is.

I wouldn’t be surprised if she was already washing clothes or baking a cake or rewiring the kitchen. She thrives on staying busy and getting things done. And if she had been doing any of those things she would tell me outright, “I’ve been baking since I got up.”

But when she says, “I’ve been busy,” that’s code for “I’ve been up to something that involves you and I’m not going to tell you about it just yet.”

In my mind, I know what she’s doing. She’s writing something she’s gonna post on FB about our trip to Lowe’s and Valley Fir. She’s saying in that sassy brain of hers that she’ll show me ‘where the story is’. She’ll write her own story.

She is quite the writer for an amateur. And lately, you readers out there have been encouraging her to write more. The comments just keep coming.

“Hey Paul. Looks like you’ve got some competition.”

“That gal can write. You better look out.”

“You two should write a book together.”

Please. I’m a professional.

So, she texts me that she’s “finishing up her story.” I knew it. She gives me no clue as to the content or purpose of her early morning scheming. But no worry, I’ve got it figured out. I’m texting her that it’s probably all about Lowes and her first trip to Valley Fir. I know how she thinks.

“Remember,” she texts, “I wrote the story before you said that.”

Which means I was right.

I thought about writing my story before going to FB to read hers. But I let curiosity get the better of me. Besides, she had already texted me saying, “Curiosity is gonna make you look.” I hate it when she does that.

So, I read what she wrote. Not bad. A little dreamy-touchy-feely for my style. And a little more than pointed directly at me than I would like. I mean, she writes several paragraphs full of prose and imagery and ends each one with a line that could only be interpreted as a taunt.

“Yeah, I got nuthin.”

She goes on and on about the trees and the wood, imagining where the slabs came from and where they might end up serving some new purpose in life. It’s like the lumber yard is haunted by the spirits of Poplar and Fir and Cedar who gave their lives for the greater good.

She ends with the challenge I talked about.

“I’m gonna stop here. Maybe Paul can elaborate more…Yeah, I got nuthin.”

She says “maybe” which is like drawing a line in the sand. You telling me you got nuthin. Let me show you how it’s done. It’s like I’m caught in the middle of a Charlie Daniels’ song with a fiddle tune in my head.

There you have it. I could either ‘elaborate’ or die of embarrassment. Even one of my own friends, who happens to have already read what MJ wrote, says to the world, “Hey Paul, your girlfriend can write.”

I will elaborate on one thing about Lowes. We bought a small truck load of supplies for a project. It’s raining, and the two of us are loading my truck under the shed right by the exit. I’m not worried about loading because I know Marion can handle her side of a sheet of plywood just fine.

But she’s a girl. Every guy who came through that exit door could see her picking up the other end of a ¾” sheet of plywood and heaving it over the back of my tailgate. We had exactly 4,843 offers to help us load.

Yesterday, I needed to stop at Lowes again. It’s the bane of every project I’ve ever done. I swear I could build a shoebox, and it would require fourteen trips to the hardware store.

I’m working, we’re working, on two storage cabinets right now, thus the trips to Lowes and Valley Fir the other day. I can usually get close on material needs, but my plan changed a little and I needed one more sheet of plywood. I was in town already, so, I figured I’d swing by Lowes before going home.

Mind you. I’m by myself.

When I pushed the cart out to my truck, there were at least three other guys standing around. Young guys. Buff looking guys. The kind of men who can pick up a refrigerator with one arm.

I had no “girl” with me this time, and thusly I got exactly zero offers to help me load that plywood.

There’s my “elaboration” for you MJ. Other than that, I got nuthin.