New Year’s resolutions?
Well, folks….My resolution will be to quit procrastinating and to get myself organized! I’m going to do it, too—as soon as I can get around to it.
The other day was our First Wedding Anniversary. Unfortunately, I was no more organized than I’d been on our Wedding Day. I kept putting off what I had to do. There were gifts to wrap and cards to sign. But I didn’t get anything done….Not ’til the Anniversary morning.
When Michael went for his early morning jog, I jumped out of bed and went into action.
Started breakfast. Got out a bottle of fake “champagne”… And our piece of frozen wedding cake. I lit the candles. Put on special music…Our favorite love songs.
I dusted off the wedding albums…and put a big red bow in my hair. Put on my black fishnets and spike heels. My spike heels…? What’s with them, anyway?
One of them had some white stuff splashed on it… (It must be “White-Out” from that day at Staples Office Supply when I dropped the bottle at the checkout stand. The stuff went all the floor. All over Michael. Messed up his day…His dignity. Ruined his best suit. But my husband took it all in stride…he always does.)
I put on the spotted spike heels. They didn’t look too bad.
I got out the Anniversary cards….all seven of them. One for every day of the week. I’d bought them really cheap at the Thrift Store—unused, of course. They even had envelopes. Special cards that declared my endless, undying love for my man.
I began scribbling on the cards….That was a mistake. As soon as I started writing words, I was doomed.
Writers are so easily distracted by words. Words—tantalizing things. They cast a spell on us. (That’s what happened just before our Wedding, too. The computer had beckoned me, then, as it was doing, now. And the rest was history….)
I yielded to the temptation, once more—sitting down at the computer for just a moment to type a few words…sitting there in my red hair-bow and fishnets and spotted spike heels. Downstairs, the steak sizzled away. The toast sat waiting. The hot cereal began to burn on the stove.
I typed on frantically. When inspiration hits, you don’t quibble. You type with reckless abandon, because if you don’t, you’ll lose it forever. It’s the curse of writers to be like this.
Suddenly, I lifted my head and sniffed. That smell! Burning meat and hash-browns!
I ran downstairs. The steaks looked like dry slabs of bark. The hashbrowns were beyond recovery. The hot cereal was like the sands of the Sahara. Dry and gritty. I dumped in more water.
I skiddered back and forth across the kitchen in my spike heels, trying to rectify matters. I didn’t fall down. Not once. And I didn’t catch my robe on fire at the stove, either. I was doing well. Compared to my Wedding Day, I was doing marvelous, actually. (At least I didn’t have knee-high pantyhose hidden in my hair. Not today.)
But there was something worrying me…. That big window facing the road. We only had sheer curtains there. No heavy drapes. What if someone passed by and saw me slipping and sliding about in my spike heels and fishnets—wielding a spatula and frying pan.
It wasn’t a good scene. But it couldn’t be helped.
I hurried on….thinking my scattered thoughts—thinking about our First Year Together. The craziness. The love. The upsets. The White-Out on expensive suits. The runaway fruit in fancy hotel elevators. The sick, feverish days when I did strange things…. (But my husband made me homemade pizza, anyway—my favorite kind with pineapple and lots of cheese.)
The day of the ‘Spinach Outbreak’ in the kitchen—when my pan of cooked spinach hit the floor and splattered everywhere. ‘A pandemic’ Michael called it. He’d cleaned it up for me. He always does.
I thought about all the flower bulb “babies” that we’d dug up together on the river bar. Big hunking bulbs that someone had abandoned there in the gravel. Didn’t know what kind they were—but knew they needed a good home. My husband scooped them up for me—patiently hauling them home by the hundreds in his big blue truck.
I sighed, remembering those times and more…And all the while, our music played in the background. George Strait singing our favorite song: “Our love is Unconditional—”
And it’s a good thing, too, I thought to myself. After all I’ve put that poor man through….
Goosebumps. I shivered. Not from the song—but from sitting here in fishnets. It was cold. Turn up the heat. I can’t die of pneumonia, sitting here waiting for my honey to come home.
Straighten up the house. Splash on some perfume. Type a few more lines at the computer. Listen to the crooning of George Strait….
“In all the world, you’ll never find—a love as true as mine…!”
Where was Michael, anyway? He’d probably forgotten what day it was!
“If I’ve done wrong—all I can say is ‘I’m sorry…!” George’s voice deepened—slipping from one song to another.
The telephone rang, and I turned down the music to answer it. It was my hubby on his cell phone.
“Baby!” he said. “I’m done jogging and I’ve decided I’m not going to work today. I’m taking the day off to spend it with you. And now— you need to go make us a good breakfast, and crank up our love songs. Put on something pretty…Your black fishnets and—”
“Michael!” I wailed. “I’ve already done all that. And now you’re ruining it!”
“What?…Oh I’m sorry, Baby. I didn’t know.”
He hung up. I turned the music up and went back to typing.
I didn’t hear the door open a few minutes later. Didn’t see my husband come in. I was too busy. And the music was too loud. And the words were flowing from my fingertips, again.
He found me there on our First Anniversary. Sitting there at the computer in my black fishnets and spotted spikes—typing away frantically while George Strait crooned and the breakfast burned in the kitchen.
It’s the curse of a Writer’s Spouse. A plague to be endured…A cross to bear. But Michael doesn’t know he’s cursed, of course. He thinks he’s blessed…
At least I think that’s what he thinks.