feels forced and false. I want to wrap this manuscript up in a big, happy bow but I’m not feeling it.
Part of it stems from the whole Amos-and-Miriam thing. I can barely (figuratively) look them in the eye. Even though their sex scene wasn’t for public consumption, I feel ashamed that I sold out their innocence for the dream of granite countertops and indoor flush toilets and cabinets actually attached to the walls.
And now I don’t even have any of those things, and I’m too embarrassed to carry on their story line.
I so want to be done with this, yet I lack the inspiration to get there.
Maybe the problem is that I tend to draw for inspiration on my relationship with Mac, and right now, that’s not terribly inspiring. The strain of living in this shell of a house is starting to show. We’re both stressed out and anxious, and he blames me for talking him into this place, and I blame him for not having the DIY competence he’s always claimed. We’re at a stalemate. A subfloor-covered, barewalled-having stalemate.
I don’t even know where he is right now. He stormed off earlier after I may or may not have gotten a bit shrieky about our credit card statement. But he spent
There’s something particularly shameful about being a thirtysomething adult with no choice but to wash my own ass outdoors.
My point is, if I’d known we had eight thousand dollars to throw around, I’d have spent that on a rental house with a fully functional bathroom.
Anyway, it’s probably best he’s not here. I’m in no mood for conversation. I just need to concentrate and maybe, just maybe, I’ll get through this.
What is that noise? I look up from my manuscript and glance over at the dogs. Is Duckie scratching or something? Nope, he and Daisy are both out cold on their doggy beds. Weird.
Okay, that’s annoying.
And it needs to stop.
No, really, what is that?
Is someone at the door?
A very annoying someone?
Why don’t they ring the bell?
I get up from my desk and pound down the stairs. God help them if they’re a Jehovah’s Witness. Although given my current mood, I might not even be nice to cookie-peddling Girl Scouts.
“I’m coming, goddamn it!” I shout.
When I haul the front door open, I don’t see anyone on or near my porch or retreating up the winding driveway.
I head to the kitchen to grab a banana. Not long after I get back up the stairs, I hear it again.
This time I peer out the window. I don’t spot anything at first, but then I hear the
Well, this is just what I need.
I whip open the window and try to shoo the bird. He pauses briefly to give me what I swear is a haughty look and then continues on his merry way.
I spin around and grab the first item I can find — a half-full paper Starbucks cup. Without even thinking, I chuck it directly at the bird and then I instantly feel bad. I don’t want to hurt him — I just want him to go away.
The good news is, I don’t have Vienna’s prowess when it comes to pitching and I miss him by a mile.
The bad news is, I do not, however, miss the UPS man, who’s here to deliver a load of drawer pulls.
After I help towel all the Cinnamon Dolce latte off his uniform and write what seems like an unnaturally large check for dry cleaning,148 I return to my desk.
I holler at the bird some more, hoping that I’ll scare him off. No such luck. Then I throw my banana peel at him — not to hit him, but to let him know that he’s treading on my turf and he needs to “tock” it the hell off.
Can birds be smug? Because this little asshole looks mighty smug as he continues to bore into my tree.
Clearly I need to alter my approach. I’m getting upset, and that’s not doing anything for my writer’s block. I need to find a way to unwind and just ignore the bird. I always find that a nice, hot bath soothes me, but that’s not really an option, now, is it?
Maybe I need a drink. Yes. That’s the ticket — a drink! A quick cocktail will calm me down and maybe open up my chi or something. I don’t really even know what my chi is, but it’s best to—
— err on the side of caution.
I grit my teeth and square my shoulders. I am not about to be bested by one pound of beak and feathers.
So I’m just going to have one quick drink and that should solve everything.
Fruuuuiiiittty deeelish vodka ’n’ Hawaiiiiiian Punch!
Om nom nom!
I wake up late afternoon and hear the
I poke around the house but Mac’s not here. Looks like he might have stopped in for lunch, judging from the empty McDonald’s cup, but he’s not around now. Whatever. I’m still mad at him, especially as I could have used his help with the woodpecker today.
When I glance out the front door, I see a pile of objects ranging from books to CDs to notepads to blank- faced Amish dolls to Barbies. Pretty much everything I could have thrown in the woodpecker’s direction, I did. Somehow this must have all made a great deal of sense in my drunken stupor.
And this? Right here? Is why I never drink Stoli.
I go outside and begin to pick the objects up one by one, but I get dizzy every time I bend over. I come back inside and grab the shovel we’d used to scoop up piles of lath and plaster and decide I’m just going to dump everything in a bucket and deal with putting it away later.
Oh, goddamn it, he’s back.
