I wonder if I had a gun; would my husband hear me better?
Here I am writing, because I have the day off, and that's what I do on my days off -- I write or try to write through hundreds of absurd interruptions. I can't leave the computer unattended for a second -- I've come dangerously close to peeing my pants several times -- or my husband swoops in to check his Facebook, or his email, or his horoscope, or the 100 pimpest hairstyles for round-shaped faces.
He can't be bothered to save my work. He can't be bothered to open a new tab. He sits there scrolling through status updates while I pace the room growling. And finally my absolute favorite part -- like he doesn't notice I'm there -- he "accidentally" shuts down the computer and looks at me with a startled "oops" expression as if to say "I didn't know you were working."
It's always something with him. If he's not interrupting my writing time, he's at me before I get started listing off all of the reasons I shouldn't write "today" -- I look tired; my batteries need recharged ... None of that dissuades me, because I'm a writer, and self preservation is as practical to me as quantum math and Latin. So he lays on the guilt -- "The kids want to spend time with you. Don't you want to hang out with them?"
Bye-bye, writing time!
Two stinking hours -- that's all I ask for. Two hours without interruptions -- without him nagging me about the door being locked and windows being closed -- I closed them because there's a guy outside with a Weed Whacker driving me crazy -- and the laundry basket in the hallway, "How many times have you walked past it, Lex?" ENOUGH.
Would it make any difference if I carried a side arm -- a Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum? I fancy myself a looser cannon than Dirty Harry ever was, but that's not scary enough in this house. You've got to have weaponry to make an impact. You've got to carry a surrogate penis, otherwise you're an innie -- weak physically and prone to emotional outbursts.
I need a gun so the next time my husband tries to sabotage my writing; I can sabotage his night life.
He can't be bothered to save my work. He can't be bothered to open a new tab. He sits there scrolling through status updates while I pace the room growling. And finally my absolute favorite part -- like he doesn't notice I'm there -- he "accidentally" shuts down the computer and looks at me with a startled "oops" expression as if to say "I didn't know you were working."
It's always something with him. If he's not interrupting my writing time, he's at me before I get started listing off all of the reasons I shouldn't write "today" -- I look tired; my batteries need recharged ... None of that dissuades me, because I'm a writer, and self preservation is as practical to me as quantum math and Latin. So he lays on the guilt -- "The kids want to spend time with you. Don't you want to hang out with them?"
Bye-bye, writing time!
Two stinking hours -- that's all I ask for. Two hours without interruptions -- without him nagging me about the door being locked and windows being closed -- I closed them because there's a guy outside with a Weed Whacker driving me crazy -- and the laundry basket in the hallway, "How many times have you walked past it, Lex?" ENOUGH.
Would it make any difference if I carried a side arm -- a Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum? I fancy myself a looser cannon than Dirty Harry ever was, but that's not scary enough in this house. You've got to have weaponry to make an impact. You've got to carry a surrogate penis, otherwise you're an innie -- weak physically and prone to emotional outbursts.
I need a gun so the next time my husband tries to sabotage my writing; I can sabotage his night life.
Doesn't he realize no financial transactions take place while you are writing? You would think that would be incentive for the average male.
ReplyDeleteYou did want to stop at 2 kids, right?
ReplyDelete