I'm Chopped Liver

My husband came home on Friday from a three week trip down state. He travels for a living so this wasn’t an unusual event. It’s always good to have him back home.


We watch our three year old grand daughter in the evenings and on weekends while our daughter works. She goes to school during the day and Alana, our grand daughter, stays at daycare.

The first time we watched the girl was Saturday night while mom worked.

Alana walked in the front door, saw her pawpaw, as she calls him and never even said hello to me.

Not long after she arrived I asked her if she needed to go to the bathroom. Potty training is still an issue with her. When she gets distracted while playing with her pawpaw, she sometimes forgets.

She said, “Yes, I need to go.”

So I said, “Well, lets go and take care of it.”

She shook her head and said, “No, pawpaw.”

And that was the theme for the rest of the evening. If it was time to eat, pawpaw had to fix her plate. Time to on her pajamas for bed, pawpaw had to help. Time to read a book for bedtime, pawpaw. And so went the evening.

I would have a terrible complex about this except for one thing. It gives me unfettered opportunities to go into my office and write.

When her grandfather is out of town, I have to get moving early in the morning to get any writing done. Or I have to wait for her to take a nap. That doesn’t happen often. She’s not much of a napper. And forget doing anything other than a little lite housework or cooking a meal. She demands all of my attention.

So I really don’t mind much that I become “chopped liver” when my husband is home. But don’t let him know that. I like to really pour on the guilt when he’s with her.

Sometimes it gets me a dinner and a movie!

A Change in the Direction of This Blog

I started out with the well-meaning intent of posting blogs about writing.  From time to time I will still do that, but through the use of guest bloggers.
From now on, my attention will turn to writing more about what is relavent, or humorous about my own life.  There's not that much humor in it.  I'm old, broke, and struggling to sell my work.  But I have a few things to say about life in general and the people I meet.  So, I will concentrate on doing that instead.  I think it will be more productive in the long run and a lot more fun for me.  I hope you feel the same way.

The Day the Muse Died

I sat in front of my new computer and searched for my story files. They had suddenly disappeared from their usual location. Even worse, Facebook kept distracting me. The lure of pointless conversation and humor shared with friends tantalized my fingers and I gave in. Two hours later, my files mysteriously showed up.

I started reading the last chapter I finished and my stomach growled. It was after one in the afternoon and I hadn’t eaten anything since eight that morning. I rushed into the kitchen, dragged the peanut butter and bread out and opened the drawer for a knife. I had to wash one.

Time slipped by and I eventually had the sandwich eaten. It was two o’clock and still nothing of significance had gotten written.

Something smelled. I checked the trash. Yuck! So I carried it out, dodging piles of snow, mud and pit bull bombs. Had to pull my shoes off at the back door. Burr, it’s cold out there.

I dashed back into my office, tripped and fell. How did the printer cord get in the middle of the office floor? Nevermind. I didn’t have a minute to loose, I had to write.

As I picked myself up off the floor I heard a tiny moan. Glancing beneath me, I saw her. It was my muse and she was squished flat. Poor little underfed thing. I tried to revive her but there wasn’t much hope. Suddenly, her tiny body burst into flames and I grabbed my water glass and put her out. None of this had happened before, although she did go on strike once and I had to promise her a new crown and some puffy slippers before she would come back to work. But I had never fallen on her before.

“How do you revive a squished muse?” I asked myself.

I thought and thought. Snapping my fingers I ran to the medicine cabinet where I had stashed a small bottle of fairy dust for just such emergencies. I pulled the stopper out and tripped again. This time it was the dog. He was standing over the body of my muse, licking her. Oh, gross!

When I fell, fairy dust went everywhere. Ooooo, the colors! I shook my head and applied a pinch to her forehead. The dog sneezed. He’s allergic to everything. I heard the muse sneeze too and she shook her head.

“What hit me?” the tiny muse asked. As she raised her itty bitty flat hand to her brow, she puffed up again, just like new.

“I fell on you,” I said. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

She stood on wobbly legs, placed her hands on her hips and glared up at me. “You know, if you’d feed me better, I wouldn’t be so easy to squish.” she yelled. “Now move your fat behind into that chair and get to work!”

She pointed a finger at me and I felt an electric shock bite into my ankle. “And don’t sprinkle that nasty fairy dust on me again! It makes my nose itch!”

I need a new muse.