A Writer's Dilemma

“Thank goodness,” I sigh with relief. I’d just finished writing the latest chapter of my latest novel, “The Grisly Ghost of Candelabra Manor.” Catchy title, don’t you think? I roll my stiff shoulders back a few times and stand, waiting for the last page to pop out of the printer. To celebrate, I’ll grab another cup of Kona coffee–why not? Over my limit but what the heck! I head to the kitchen, designing the novel’s book cover in my mind. Something glitzy, like the latest novels out there–maybe a shiny black cover with a glittering gold candelabra, and in the background, a leering face . . . and how about that very popular bestseller that has octopus themed page edges? I’m thinking maybe blazing candles decorating page edges?

Hmm, it smells so good—my brimming cup of coffee. I walk back toward my office when suddenly I stop, alerted, like my cat Meatball, when he sees something across the room that's invisible to me. My sixth sense is pounding my brain. There’s someone or something behind me!

My coffee slops over as I whirl around.

You will never believe it. Swiffer Wet Jet had been gliding behind me and now it’s glaring at me with a look of disapproval and disdain. It halts just a leetle bit too close to my bare toes.

“EEEK,” I shriek as my coffee cup careens to the floor. Then I gulp. Guiltily. I haven’t used Swiffy to clean the floors for two weeks, or is it four? I stare at its frowning face. You could clean this coffee mess up right now, Swiffy, I think to myself, but Swiffy tenses up in a mocking, menacing manner. I retreat. ”Yikes! Alright! We’ll mop together ... tonight!”

Swiffy shakes its head as it observes the spilled coffee on the floor, then it pirouettes and slithers away.

The nerve! I trudge back into the kitchen to make more coffee after wiping up the spill with a paper towel and a picky up stick. At least I’ve appeased him/her/it for awhile.

However, on my way back to the office I notice blue lights flashing in the living room. What in the world? Today is not my day. I see it’s my old Yamaha keyboard flashing violently. It suddenly pierces the air with a ripping cacophony of screeches and shrieks. Its flying keys shoot dust into the air and the screaming decibels hurt my ears. “OH MY GOSH!” I shriek back. “I’LL DUST YOU AND PLAY YOU THIS AFTERNOON, I PROMISE!” I dash into my office with my hands over my ears.

However, my tortuous morning is not over. From its perch on top of my ironing board (left in the dining room for a month or two) automatic shut-off iron stands up, turns on, red light flashing. Water froths from its sole plate. I swear it’s spitting at me! The ironing board is also host to a pile of cat food cans that I forgot to put away, along with old newspapers and socks, and my long lost hair dryer. And a skirt. But the big rock? How’d that get there?

“I must take command of the situation,” I think. Apparently the appliances are having an uprising. I clear my throat to speak, then change my mind and step gingerly back into the kitchen for that newly brewed cup of coffee.

And then I trip over jumbo crock pot, abandoned on the floor where I left it last night after trying to cram it into the cupboard. “Hi there,” I try, only to hear a loud GRRR behind me. It’s the refrigerator. I open frig and see shelves full of moldering foods; what's that smell? Obviously the baking soda has failed. I slam the door shut and glance around the kitchen. The dishwasher is throbbing in an agitated manner and even Mr. Coffee looks riled up–coffee splashes on the counter form letters that scream out, “CLEAN ME!” And the microwave too, it turns out, has ghastly body odor.

Oh well. The disorder (aka mess) annoys me but after all I am a writer and writing comes first. Otherwise I’d never finish an article, let alone a book, if I let the grumbles of the ornery household appliances get to me.

As I pass the bathroom I dismiss vulgar burps from the toilet bowl and sit down at my desk with my friend, laptop, determined to write for the rest of the morning. I ignore the clunks and thuds of the renegades gathering in front of my office door. Only when the noise rises from loud to raucous do I open the door to see the household traitors: Swiffy who’s inciting keyboard, frig teaming up with microwave. Behind them I see Mr. Coffee, jumbo crockpot and my vacuum cleaner. The toilet angrily gulps and gurgles from the bathroom. Microwave suddenly starts flashing a message: HOW COME THE COMPUTER GETS ALL THE ATTENTION? WE WERE HERE FIRST.”

“For crying out loud!” I yell. “Cease and desist!” The appliances stand their ground, their throbbing now a menacing drum beat, red and blue lights flashing. “I’m a writer first and foremost!” I yell at them. “You don’t come first in my life . . . in fact you don’t even come second. Go away and let me create! I’ll tend to you later!” Signaling like an umpire, I fling out my arm and say “Go!” then I retreat into my office, banging the door shut then sinking into my chair with weak knees. I hear a few moments of whining and muttering and then the clang and clank of the appliances pushing their way back into their territories.

I look down at my laptop. It’s smiling at me. At least it doesn’t feel neglected.

I decide I can get by without another cup of coffee (I’m actually a little afraid of Mr. Coffee right now.) I’ll wash it out with vinegar . . . tomorrow. “Now let me see here,” I mumble, as my mind disappears into the halls of Candelabra Manor, “The Viscount has proposed marriage to Princess Olivia but . . .”