SweetWitch
Green Goddess
- Joined
- Oct 9, 2005
- Posts
- 20,354
Sorry, Gilligan fans. This is a story about writing, not a desert isle.
All I wanted to do was get in some writing time in the Fortress of Solitude. You know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and (wo)men…
Around 10:30, I decided to go out to my gazebo for some quality writing time. You see, my daughter was shanghaied into a sleepover last night—completely unplanned, but very much appreciated by her mother. When I spoke with her hosts this morning, they asked if she could stay for a day in their pool. Hell, yes.
What’s a writer to do with all that free time but write? So, still in my jimmies, I decided to get moving.
First, a change of clothes, but, wait—I need to start some laundry. The dryer’s full, so I better fold clothes and put them away. Fill the washer, put last night’s load in the dryer. Crap, I need more detergent. Go to the closet for the new bottle.
Who’s been in the closet? It’s a mess. Tidy it up, curse my family, go back to the laundry room. Forgot the detergent. Go back for detergent, find cat with the new loaf of bread on the floor, tearing the hell out of it.
Admonish the naughty kitty, clean up the mess, toss it in the trash. Back to the laundry room. Dammit! Where’s the detergent?
Finally, after a small amount of fuming and forcing my mind to stay focused no matter what, I have the laundry going. Fold the clothes. Look at the clock. Man, I’m never going to get anything done.
Change, head out to open up the gazebo. The tomato vines are breaking under the weight of the fruit. Pick a dozen tomatoes, carry them in, realize I’m hungry. Need something quick and easy for lunch.
Open the fridge, discover the spilled grape juice, curse family. Clean up mess, take rags to laundry, find basket of clothes that I didn’t put away. Put clothes away. Head back to kitchen.
What was I doing? Stomach growls.
Oh, yeah. Lunch. Open fridge again, ignore spot of spilled juice I missed and find package of sausages that someone opened but didn’t eat.
Guess I know what I’m eating. Sigh. Mix sausages with grape jelly and bbq sauce, turn on stove. Why the hell won’t it light? Take apart burner and clean up the spilled yuck that’s clogging it.
Lunch is cooking. Crap. The gazebo is still closed. Need to go through the garage so that I can hook up the power. Looking through key box for shed key, but find mouse poop instead. Ick. As I head back to the house to wash my hands, a mouse runs across my path.
Curse useless, mess-making cat. Where are my mouse traps? Damn it, can’t find them. Rummage through entire garage until one trap is located, pull bacon from fridge in kitchen after washing hands, discover lunch is burning.
Stir pot, turn down burner, carry piece of bacon to garage, bait trap and snerk under my breath at image of cat getting his nose caught in the trap. Go back into house and stand for three minutes while I try to remember what I was doing.
Oh, yeah, gazebo. Back to garage. Find key, kick trap and reset. Sigh.
Open shed, turn on power and walk to gazebo.
At this point, I discovered tons of crabgrass in all the landscaping surrounding my little oasis.
So—weed landscaping, stake up flowers blown over by storm, water potted flowers. Notice copious weeds in the veggie garden, refuse to react, walk back to house.
Flames are shooting up from stove. Smoke detector goes off. Dance around frantically to ear-splitting screeches of alarm and smash it with a broom handle. Run to stove and find that whatever was on the burner mechanism was far more flammable and resistant to cleaning than I thought. Put out fire, move lunch off stove and decide to clean after it cools down.
After cleaning up broken bits of plastic and adding “new smoke detector” to my shopping list, I head back out to open the gazebo and burn my foot on the cigarette butt I threw down earlier. Decide I need to quit smoking, light another and flip the bird at the sky.
The neighbors watch with a suspicious eye.
Go back to house, dish up my lunch and get a can of Coke. Can’t find my thermal cup. Who took my thermal cup? Dammit!
Find small thermos, go to freezer, find nothing but empty ice trays and the still-broken ice maker. Call husband every name in book, fill ice trays and head out to get ice from hidden stash in garage freezer.
Snap!
Go to empty mousetrap and find that the clever little beast has managed to abscond with my bait. Back to kitchen, more bacon, find a piece of string to tie it in place. Back to garage, bait and reset trap, back to kitchen.
Where’s my thermos? Back to garage, retrieve thermos, remember to close freezer and head back to house. Enter kitchen to find I still have no ice for my drink, growl loud enough to frighten the cat and march to the garage once more. Fill thermos with ice.
Glance out kitchen window, find that the gazebo is still closed.
Shit, shit, shit!
Back outside—focused and determined—ignore weeds and neighbor’s dog taking a dump by the shed. Curse the world at large. I open gazebo, set out the cushions and straighten the rugs. Kids must have been playing in here because it’s a mess. Curse the neighborhood with a blight of ants in their pants.
Go back inside, carry lunch out—and thermos full of ice, which still has no drink in it. Fuck! Back inside to grab the warming can of Coke, set it on my computer table, and disconnect the computer from the power.
Shit. I didn’t hook up the power to the gazebo. I’ll do it later.
Notice the stove is cooled, clean up mess from small fire and curse my life, all the people in it, and the filthy stove.
Take laundry from washer, put back in washer when I find the clothes in the dryer are still wet because I never turned it on, stub toe on doorjamb on way out.
Ouch. Fuck. Hell’s bells and Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
Limp back to living room, get small computer table, complete with computer and carry to back door. Table comes apart after I manage to get it through door.
Breathe. Don’t set it down or the laptop will crash to the deck. Breathe, dammit!
Carry it back inside, juggle top as I try to put the legs back in place. Look at clock. Sigh dramatically. Carry the entire thing outside. Drop can of Coke as I walk down the steps. Kick it in the direction of the gazebo.
Finally. I’m inside. After hooking up the power to the Fortress and the computer to the outlet, I sit down. It’s hot. It’s muggy. I’m sitting in the sun.
Shit. Get up and rearrange all the furniture so that the sun is on the other side of the Fortress from where I’m sitting. Wipe sweat. Sit down, eat sadly cooled lunch and get sprayed in face when I open the shaken Coke.
Wipe down computer. Light another cigarette. Take a swig of Coke. It needs whiskey.
It took three hours, but I finally made it. So, instead of working on my novel, what do I do? I spend an hour writing out this little story of 1287 words. I wonder how much of this adventure is self-sabotage.
All I wanted to do was get in some writing time in the Fortress of Solitude. You know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and (wo)men…
Around 10:30, I decided to go out to my gazebo for some quality writing time. You see, my daughter was shanghaied into a sleepover last night—completely unplanned, but very much appreciated by her mother. When I spoke with her hosts this morning, they asked if she could stay for a day in their pool. Hell, yes.
What’s a writer to do with all that free time but write? So, still in my jimmies, I decided to get moving.
First, a change of clothes, but, wait—I need to start some laundry. The dryer’s full, so I better fold clothes and put them away. Fill the washer, put last night’s load in the dryer. Crap, I need more detergent. Go to the closet for the new bottle.
Who’s been in the closet? It’s a mess. Tidy it up, curse my family, go back to the laundry room. Forgot the detergent. Go back for detergent, find cat with the new loaf of bread on the floor, tearing the hell out of it.
Admonish the naughty kitty, clean up the mess, toss it in the trash. Back to the laundry room. Dammit! Where’s the detergent?
Finally, after a small amount of fuming and forcing my mind to stay focused no matter what, I have the laundry going. Fold the clothes. Look at the clock. Man, I’m never going to get anything done.
Change, head out to open up the gazebo. The tomato vines are breaking under the weight of the fruit. Pick a dozen tomatoes, carry them in, realize I’m hungry. Need something quick and easy for lunch.
Open the fridge, discover the spilled grape juice, curse family. Clean up mess, take rags to laundry, find basket of clothes that I didn’t put away. Put clothes away. Head back to kitchen.
What was I doing? Stomach growls.
Oh, yeah. Lunch. Open fridge again, ignore spot of spilled juice I missed and find package of sausages that someone opened but didn’t eat.
Guess I know what I’m eating. Sigh. Mix sausages with grape jelly and bbq sauce, turn on stove. Why the hell won’t it light? Take apart burner and clean up the spilled yuck that’s clogging it. Lunch is cooking. Crap. The gazebo is still closed. Need to go through the garage so that I can hook up the power. Looking through key box for shed key, but find mouse poop instead. Ick. As I head back to the house to wash my hands, a mouse runs across my path.
Curse useless, mess-making cat. Where are my mouse traps? Damn it, can’t find them. Rummage through entire garage until one trap is located, pull bacon from fridge in kitchen after washing hands, discover lunch is burning.
Stir pot, turn down burner, carry piece of bacon to garage, bait trap and snerk under my breath at image of cat getting his nose caught in the trap. Go back into house and stand for three minutes while I try to remember what I was doing.
Oh, yeah, gazebo. Back to garage. Find key, kick trap and reset. Sigh.
Open shed, turn on power and walk to gazebo.
At this point, I discovered tons of crabgrass in all the landscaping surrounding my little oasis.
So—weed landscaping, stake up flowers blown over by storm, water potted flowers. Notice copious weeds in the veggie garden, refuse to react, walk back to house.
Flames are shooting up from stove. Smoke detector goes off. Dance around frantically to ear-splitting screeches of alarm and smash it with a broom handle. Run to stove and find that whatever was on the burner mechanism was far more flammable and resistant to cleaning than I thought. Put out fire, move lunch off stove and decide to clean after it cools down.
After cleaning up broken bits of plastic and adding “new smoke detector” to my shopping list, I head back out to open the gazebo and burn my foot on the cigarette butt I threw down earlier. Decide I need to quit smoking, light another and flip the bird at the sky.
The neighbors watch with a suspicious eye.
Go back to house, dish up my lunch and get a can of Coke. Can’t find my thermal cup. Who took my thermal cup? Dammit!
Find small thermos, go to freezer, find nothing but empty ice trays and the still-broken ice maker. Call husband every name in book, fill ice trays and head out to get ice from hidden stash in garage freezer.
Snap!
Go to empty mousetrap and find that the clever little beast has managed to abscond with my bait. Back to kitchen, more bacon, find a piece of string to tie it in place. Back to garage, bait and reset trap, back to kitchen.
Where’s my thermos? Back to garage, retrieve thermos, remember to close freezer and head back to house. Enter kitchen to find I still have no ice for my drink, growl loud enough to frighten the cat and march to the garage once more. Fill thermos with ice.
Glance out kitchen window, find that the gazebo is still closed.
Shit, shit, shit!
Back outside—focused and determined—ignore weeds and neighbor’s dog taking a dump by the shed. Curse the world at large. I open gazebo, set out the cushions and straighten the rugs. Kids must have been playing in here because it’s a mess. Curse the neighborhood with a blight of ants in their pants.
Go back inside, carry lunch out—and thermos full of ice, which still has no drink in it. Fuck! Back inside to grab the warming can of Coke, set it on my computer table, and disconnect the computer from the power.
Shit. I didn’t hook up the power to the gazebo. I’ll do it later.
Notice the stove is cooled, clean up mess from small fire and curse my life, all the people in it, and the filthy stove.
Take laundry from washer, put back in washer when I find the clothes in the dryer are still wet because I never turned it on, stub toe on doorjamb on way out.
Ouch. Fuck. Hell’s bells and Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
Limp back to living room, get small computer table, complete with computer and carry to back door. Table comes apart after I manage to get it through door.
Breathe. Don’t set it down or the laptop will crash to the deck. Breathe, dammit!
Carry it back inside, juggle top as I try to put the legs back in place. Look at clock. Sigh dramatically. Carry the entire thing outside. Drop can of Coke as I walk down the steps. Kick it in the direction of the gazebo.
Finally. I’m inside. After hooking up the power to the Fortress and the computer to the outlet, I sit down. It’s hot. It’s muggy. I’m sitting in the sun.
Shit. Get up and rearrange all the furniture so that the sun is on the other side of the Fortress from where I’m sitting. Wipe sweat. Sit down, eat sadly cooled lunch and get sprayed in face when I open the shaken Coke.
Wipe down computer. Light another cigarette. Take a swig of Coke. It needs whiskey.
It took three hours, but I finally made it. So, instead of working on my novel, what do I do? I spend an hour writing out this little story of 1287 words. I wonder how much of this adventure is self-sabotage.
