Scrap
It is 47 steps to the front door of the enormous white building, 47 steps across an open parking lot, 47 steps, and of course the first one will be the hardest. I am quite content with the safety of my ’02 Cavalier with dark black tinted windows at the moment. Let’s just hope no one knows I am here - they certainly wouldn’t be able to see me through the windows, but once I take that first step I am fair game. 
The car door opens like an airlock into the bright sun and I step out wishing intently that I had a Unabomber jacket and glasses. Now to muster the courage to actually make my way to the doors, but the question arises: Do I make a mad dash and get there as quickly as possible, or walk nonchalantly, trying not to draw attention to myself.
45…44…43 Damn the parking lot is crowded, a whole collection of bored housewives and snot-nosed children littered all over the place, any one of which could notice me and ruin my life.
35…34…33 I am too far from my car to go back now, still a long way to go though.
21…19…18 I have started to freak now, my nonchalant walk has turned into break neck squabble for the door. Sweat is pouring down my face and to my dismay I’ve drawn the attention of the crowd.
9…8…7 FACE PLANT!! Oh god. If I didn’t have the whole parking lot staring at me I do now. I scrambled to my feet, but once you try to play off a face plant straight into asphalt like it never happened people start to think you’re crazy. So now I am the crazy ass guy sprinting through a parking lot whose face just met asphalt and acted like nothing happened, and to top it all off my nose is bleeding all over my face and shirt.
3…2…1 Thank god the doors are automatic I am sure I would’ve just run straight into them if they weren’t, but for now I am safe at my destination and the nice fluorescent lighting is a welcome exchange to the harsh bright sun outside.
“Hi! Welcome to the Scrapper’s Sanctum! Where we go out of our way to exceed your every scrap bo-” She paused when she noticed the blood on my shirt and face. “Oh dear! Your face! Here let me get you a paper towel or something.”
“No, it’s fine. Can I just use your bathroom or something really quick?” If a man could have any pride in a scrapbooking store it is all but gone now. The woman pointed toward the back of the store and I made my way back there to clean myself up. 
The men’s restroom in a scrapbooking store is the loneliest place on the planet. I found it amusing knowing I could stay in there all day and never be noticed. I relished in the thought, but I came here to scrap. I cleaned the blood off my face, but anti-bacterial hand soap does not do well to get blood off of a new white polo.
I use a 12’’x12’’ soft, brown, leather bound, double stitched scrapbooking binder with an eagle, in mid-flight, embroidered in black on the front. A high-quality brown zipper with two small soft leather tassels hangs from the side. The inside front and back covers both have a large pocket where I keep my unfinished pages. It also came with a sheet of bubble wrap that I use to separate freshly glued pages when I close it. It is my prized possession and it only cost me $83.64.
Like always I find an empty table and get to work on whatever project I have at hand, getting up to buy whatever supplies I may need when the concern arises. I absolutely lose myself in scrapping: glue sticks, shape cutters, permanent markers, gel pens, colored pencils, pattern scissors, glitter of assorted colors, googly eyes, fake fur, springs, tassels, crinkle paper, bubble wraps, clips, glue dots, and neon markers. I should buy an art-supply box to put all of these things in, but I think that bringing a box of art supplies with me to “work” would raise more questions with Beth than a Wal-Mart bag.
Scrapbooking is a great hobby for your bored housewives with photo albums of dreary old photos piling up. There are always several groups of old ladies there adding flair to their pictures, but my scrapbook contains scenes of a slightly different quality. I don’t have any old pictures of my youth. I don’t even have any more recent pictures from my wedding or anything. I certainly don’t have any pictures of Beth; I don’t need a picture to remind me why I don’t want to go home.
My scrapbook consists of pictures I get from the internet and newspaper clippings of a darker genre. 
On the first page a title from a newspaper published in 1996 reads: “14 dead after commuter bus collides with semi.” I have a picture of the accident surrounded with a beautiful purple and gold border with a small surprisingly detailed cut out of a bus hitting a similar paper cut out of a big red truck. Behind the impact is a stack of starburst cutouts in alternating colors of red, yellow and orange.
The second page is from an internet article of a school shooting in New Mexico a few years ago. The top of the page reads, in wonderful bright blue with red polka dotted word art: “Terror grips Dust Ridge Middle School after 3 children killed in school shooting.” This article was kind enough to list several witness accounts and parental statements about the shooting, all of which I have written in little white speech bubbles pasted around a picture of the school. A nice red glitter sprinkled lightly over the top really sets this page apart.
I am up to about 16 pages of similar stories, all so beautifully put together now. I guess I am hoping to one day let people read it. I’ll call it “The Human Condition.”
Eventually a woman comes over the intercom announcing that the store will be closing in 15…10…5 minutes and I have to leave. So I finish up, put the bubble wrap between the pages with freshly glued baubles and word art, close my binder and head home.
***
Shit, the light is on in the living room.
The front door opened with a loud creak, “Josh, where’ve you been?” 
“What? Oh it was a late day at the office.” Why did I lie? I can’t stand this woman anyway.
“Ahh, so you had a late meeting at the Scrapper’s Sanctum?” Damn! “Who were you having a meeting with?” 
…And 3…2…1 wow, an almost audible snap.
“It was that hussy Meagan wasn’t it?!”
“No!” I wanted to bring up all the times she came home in the middle of the night smelling like an ashtray and vodka. I wanted to mention Brian and how often she hangs out with him. I wanted to ask her how she knew I was at the scrapper’s sanctum, but all that came out was, “I… I just… Beth, I love scrapbooking.”
“Liar! You are cheating on me you fucking basta!--” I cut her off by throwing the contents of my Wal-Mart bag onto the ground at her feet. She stares at it, eyes-wide for several moments, clearing drawing conclusions and dismissing them before going throwing all her cards on the table, “Oh my god… you’re gay. Mom was right. You’re a fag. I see how you look at Brian when he comes over!” 
So I start laughing.
The absolute worst thing you could do when your wife confronts you with being gay is to start laughing.
The absolute worst thing you could do when your wife of seven years starts packing her shit to leave because she thinks you’re gay is describe to her why you love scrapbooking so much.
The absolute worst thing you could do when your wife is creating a hilarious convoluted story about how you got blood and dirt all over your shirt that day is agree and continue laughing.
The absolute worst thing you could do when your wife is putting her shit in your car and then pulling out of the driveway is chuckle and wave.
I think I’ll buy an art-supply box.