Here's how my mind works... I want to spend today writing, right? I'm sitting here in my bed, enjoying my morning coffee and harping at Nigel to quit whining (he's having one of those days—already), and I think, "Wow, I'm feeling the urge to write!" Then it all starts to pile up...I think I'll get up and get dressed, but I'd have to shower and wash my hair. Then I'm reminded that I've already planned to put Nigel in the shower with me today and bathe him. Then I'd have to wash the blankets in his kennel (no sense in washing a dog and not his blankets if they too have started to smell). Then I'd have to make the bed. Taking my coffee cup out to the kitchen, I realize I need to start the dishwasher. By the time all that's finished it'll be time for Lynette to come home for lunch and, by the time she leaves (I like to spend some time with her when she comes home), it'll be 1:00 in the afternoon and this creative urge will have been well and truly purged.
Of course, the solution is to simply stay in bed and just freakin' write, but that's so hard for me. I have a real thing about appearing lazy, and still being in bed when Lynette comes home makes me feel like a real slob. She doesn't put this on me; she tells me to do it, but I just can't.
See ol' Sam up there? He had no problem with staying in bed to write. He spent all day in bed writing, smoking cigars, and holding court. But then, my first cousin twice removed never had to do dishes, make the bed, or perform any of the household chores. He made loads of money and kept a household staff.
Did Beethoven do the dishes?
Did Mozart sweep the floors?
Did all those great musicians
Have to do their chores?
I can't help but think of the songs I'd sing,
If I just didn't have to clean the house;
I know I'd be on top of the Billboard charts,
If my cat had not just killed a mouse
And brought it into the house.
I have these great ideas, but I also have a life,
If I don't do the laundry, I'll soon run out of socks;
I'll bet that Johann Sebastian Bach never had to worry about clean socks.
I'll bet that Peter Tchaikovsky never took the garbage out,
I'll bet that Verdi rarely helped rake the leaves;
Even when his wife asked "Please, pretty please?"
My driver's license did expire just two weeks ago,
I'll bet that thought never occurred to Michaelangelo;
Madame Curie never had to serve on a jury,
Joseph Hayden hid from taking care of the kids;
Mozart was poor but you can be sure
He never had to baby-sit.
And this is it, it's all she writ;
Didn't have time for more of it...
And there it went. After three trips outside with the dog (who seems to have an upset tummy) I've lost the urge to write. Might as well get to the list of things-to-do.
Sometimes, life isn't fair.
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Did Beethoven Do the Dishes © Ginny Reilly
