For Christmas this year, since things were so challenging, my husband and I exchanged coupons. Overall they are usually silly promises to do housework or finish certain projects on the honey-do list, but we take the binding and contractual nature of coupons very, very seriously. If you give someone a coupon (no expiration dates allowed) and they present that wrinkled bit of construction paper to you later—even if it’s months or years later, you better be ready to square with the house.
So this year, I was a little surprised when one of my coupons said “Office of Your Very Own”. Wow! My fantasies of having my very own writing room have coalesced and resurfaced from time to time, but I usually do my best to ignore them due to: a) limits of time and space, b) financial realities and c) mom guilt over the 8,000 other things
our family needs that would probably take precedence.
I’m betting there are women all over the world who know exactly what I’m saying.
However, my guilt just got trumped when smack in the middle of a book deadline/children have the flu/what do you mean where’s dinner? kind of day, I hit the wall. I was stealing a few minutes of writing time (stealing translates as “I have a babysitter!!! Omigod!!!! Go for it!!!) when my husband stumbles into the bedroom (my writing corner resides in our master bedroom) and announces he’ll be taking a nap.
“Don’t you want to go into the guest room?” I ask hopefully/desperately/fearfully.
“Nope. You just go on and do what you were doing. I’m just going to rest my eyes for a few minutes.” Oh, god…here it comes…where are my ear plugs? Will they work? Maybe if I get in the zone I won’t even hear the—
Oh, yeah. I’m feeling the romance now. Wow…look at that sizzling dialogue write itself practically as I’m serenaded by—
Okay. Where’s that coupon?
P.S. For those listeners who tuned in for C.H. Admirand’s show, that low buzz in the background was…you guessed it! 😉 Little does the man know he’s immortalized now!