One night last week, I sat numb in the screen room with the lights off, listening to bugs, frogs and monsters while sipping a glass of port. It was my reward for the massive amount of words I wrote this week and for just frigging surviving the week.
I was feeling quite pleased with myself for discovering the forgotten bottle of Port, while looking for a stamp on my husband’s desk. He’s a gamer and apparently that requires a hoard of goodies. I paused to think about a book I bought once for its lovely photos, about personal altars. My husband’s altar to gaming: Midland’s Rare Irish Whiskey, Port, chocolate covered pretzels, beef jerky, buffalo jerky, salmon jerky and his 99th pair of expensive headphones with the oh-so fragile mics, the glowing, pulsing hard drive and the dual monitors. Don’t get me wrong, I am not complaining, he got me a new iMac and a MacBook Pro to relieve his guilt for the last two gaming computers.
So, I sat, sipped and savored a dark, rich wine-gasm in the dark with my writing companions, the four Siberian huskies of the apocalypse. I was not feeling the love.
Over the past week, they have killed my soul. They started with killing the A/C. The repairman (on his third expensive visit in as many days) said he found something that frightened him and looked a lot like a dead possum in the unit, but unfortunately, it was the “expensivefrackingwhatever”-coiley-motor-thing covered in husky hair. A dead possum would have been several hundred dollars cheaper. Bad dogs. The only upside was the man now believes me when I tell him he has not one frigging idea what dog hair-hell is like with 4 Siberian huskies! (while discussing filters, he had tried to tell me he ‘knew’ all about dog hair since one client has 5 Chihuahuas… yeah.)
Next, while feverishly writing a scene that had been evading me for days, the evil four slithered away and dug a trench down my husband’s side of the bed. He could have fit in it, it was shallow grave body deep. So I am not sure if their plans didn’t include burying him. I was probably next. Now we need a new mattress, another frigging expensive thing. So, whilst the port was fine and my body was getting its mellow reward for writing so many barrels of words, I could only sit and wonder under my dark cloud.
I am one of those weak people who has been lured into believing that bad luck runs in 3’s:
- …now wtf is next?
Typically, I try to reason with fate, didn’t the sheets and mattress pad count as #3 or was it really #3 and #4? Shit! Better leave the bedding out of it… no! wait… bedding! Brilliant! –if I call it bedding, doesn’t that count for #3? But, I know it doesn’t because the mattress is part of the bedding… I am so screwed. What is next? This morning husband reminds me that dumb shit Quinn broke a chinese noodle bowl during supper. Bingo!
Bingo, like hell… there is so much evil destruction in my life, that I can’t even keep track of it! So, for me, it was another glass of port. After the second glass, I came to a new crushing conclusion, I can’t even murder them off in a book, like I do with mean people I know. I would never be forgiven the adorable-icide of blue-eyed Snow Dogs… nope, readers would never forgive a writer for killing kittens, puppies or petty, blue-eyed monsters. We can kill off babies, children, wives and husbands but not cute pets like kittens, puppies or blue eyed demons from the cold hellish regions of the Siberian Arctic. So, I try to relish my reward for surviving this week –2 glasses of port for not Scrivener-skewering them on a word grill over hot revenge coals.