The Hated Muse

Nora Roberts once commented that you couldn't wait for your muse to show up, you had to hunt the bitch down and beat her into submission (I tried to find the exact quote because it's funny, but Google failed me). I'm off work for ten days and had all the intentions in the world of writing, but unfortunately, someone forgot to tell my muse that and she's been off in a bar somewhere, no doubt drunk and picking up ugly men. Several times I've hunted her down but I've decided that not only does she need to be beaten into submission as Queen Nora says, but she needs a good dose of Ritalin for what seems like her short attention span these days. I've been able to round up The Bitch for maybe a chapter but then she's off again, doing something else while I stare at a blank page wondering where do my characters go next. I hate this part of writing. Nothing seems to help any more and I'm beginning to doubt myself and my desire to be a writer. Yes, I have a lot going on my life, but others can write through the stress of daily life, why can't I?

So here I am, once again chasing my muse around the room, trying to get her to focus but she's more slippery than a greased hairless chihuahua and about as much help as my seventeen year old daughter (who IS the center of the universe in her opinion) and it's getting difficult. So here I sit, listening to Harry Connick Jr to get inspired (and irritate the Center of The Universe just for fun), and instead of writing, I play Roller Coaster Tycoon. If Nora were here, she'd be appalled....and more than likely beat me into submission, which is probably what I need. I'd gladly give up my seventeen year old to channel Nora about now (then again, when she's in one of her moods, I'd give my seventeen year old up for pretty much anything)

Once again, the muse has escaped her restraints. Now, if only she'd come home with someone who looked like Roarke.....

But I wanna turn on the Harley!!!

My mother was deathly afraid of motorcycles having known someone that was hit while riding one and subsequently paralyzed. She always told me she'd kill me before I'd get a chance to kill myself if I ever dated a guy that rode one. Although I knew my mother well enough to know that she would actually carry out that threat to a certain extent, it may have stopped me from getting my butt on a bike but not fantasizing about riding one some day. Born and raised in Milwaukee, home of Harley Davidson, that's always been a part of that dream.

I've talked about it for years, my husband not really reacting to it that I can remember. But after seeing the movie The Bucket List (along with some encouragement from his boss who rides a BMW bike) he decided he wanted to learn to ride a bike and asked me to take the safety course with him. He passed (the rat) I didn't (hey, I'd just came back from Mexico, okay?) As luck had it, our neighbor was selling his bike and we now are proud owners of a 2000 Harley Sportster. The plan was to share it. He buys everything from the boots to the gear so that it will work for both of us.

Not that I can ride it yet.

My husband has taken to it like a fish to water. Meanwhile, being a beginner, thinking about riding an 833 cc scares the CRAP out of me. But, I'm going to do this because I wanna be a biker chick. Practice will help. But the question is, will I actually GET to practice? It just makes me wonder if and when I'll ever get to ride it. Maybe I'll just have to beat him with the helmet to get him off the damn thing so I can ride it once in awhile. Naaaa, it would destroy the integrity of the helmet.

Hey, I know...my birthday's coming up, he can just buy me one of my own!

Flying the Unfriendly Skies

As if it's not bad enough I get treated like crap at work, I now go on vacation and have to be treated like crap on an airline. I can do without the in flight meals...they were yucky anyway, and I've managed to work around the rules of what can and can't be brought on board, however this whole bag thing really has me irked. Recently, the airlines (and in this particular vacation I'll be flying good ol' Continental Airlines) announced that you could only check one bag free and after that, you have to pay $25 per bag extra.... unless you are one of the "elite"...one of the "president's club"...one of those people who basically spend all their life on a plane and have more airline miles than God.

Gee, guys, nothing like making us little peon vacationers who don't fly very much feel like we're the ones to crap on.

So, just because I don't have millions of miles to use for upgrades or free trips (like that ever works anyway...anytime I've ever tried to use them I get screwed) you are now going to hit ME and ME ONLY (and by that I mean any poor sap stuck in economy) up for extra cash because I want to check two bags. And it's not like I have any choice otherwise...you pretty much have me by the short and curlies. You know what it seems like to me???

D I S C R I M I N A T I O N

Wouldn't it make more sense to charge those frequent fliers and get twice as much money than by only charging us once-in-a-blue-moon traveler? Wow...what a concept!!! Doesn't take someone with a MBA to figure that one out. So, maybe you should consider that, huh? Because you know what I'm considering right now? Sending everything I can't pack into one bag via Fed Ex or UPS...I'd rather give them the money then you morons.

Fine! I give...I give....

Okay, it seems like everyone I know is blogging these days. I don't really see the point...can't imagine too many people wanting to read about my hectic, highly uneventful life. But hey, call me a lemming and watch me jump off the cliff.

Yes, there are days where I really do feel on the edge of insanity. I have this goal, you see. A goal of writing full time and making an actual career out of it. Doesn't seem too difficult. At least not until you throw in a family....one I'me convinced wouldn't know how to do a darn thing to survive should I step off the curb tomorrow morning and get run over by Tony Stewart in his bright orange #20 Home Depot car...and a job from hell that sends my blood pressure through the roof and turns my brain to pudding.

I'm supposed to write through this???

Yes! At least that's what I'm told. I'm supposed to make this happen! Put my butt in the chair and write that story...conflict, plot, sex....all without falling asleep. Hey, no problem! Just let me grab those trusty clothespins of mine to hold the old eyelids open. Ouch! Splinters in the eyelids are not fun.

Oh, and let's not forget the the sixteen year old who thinks my writing is her mortal enemy. Why? Uh, hellooooooo, you're not paying attention to me, mom . I'm bored. I'm hungry. I'm bored. I need money. You're ignoring me! Any of those people telling me to "write through it" wouldn't last five minutes with her standing in front of the desk tapping on the printer to get my attention. Teenagers....now I understand why lions eat their young.

It's difficult forcing myself to write through all this, but I do. Not nearly as much as I should or as I want to. But when I'm dragging into the house after working late yet again to find the dishwasher still hasn't been unloaded, the sink is overflowing with dirty dishes and the mountain of laundry is approaching a height that would bring tears to any thrill-seeking mountain climber, I think about that goal. Someday, I'll be sitting in that chair, in my pajamas, living in my make-believe world and actually getting paid for it. Someday, I'll be able to laugh at those teachers that told me to stop daydreaming in class and focus, or give an Italian salute to the guidance counselors that told me I was destined to become either a park ranger or a domestic servant (and no matter what my teenager believes, I do NOT fall into that second category). Someday, I will be one of those fortunate people who actually get paid for doing something they love!

I just hope I have enough tequila and margarita mix to get me through until that day comes.