Shiny Things - A Ramble
“Please, God, no! Not another tweak. I’m only human. For heaven’s sakes, man! It’s only a book.”
“But it’s your book. Make it right.”
That’s the pep-talk I give myself each morning. I don’t know who I think I am, giving pep-talks to people. I sat down a couple of days ago to watch the Fargo series and didn’t get up until the last episode of season three.
That’s a bit of an exaggeration. I did get up for coffee, snacks, and a pee break. I had to, my wife ignored all my whiny texts. Wave a shiny object in front of me and I’m yours. Fargo was my shiny object of the day.
Vacuuming is another one of my shiny things. I spot dog hairs on the carpet and immediately excuse myself from the desk. “It’s not healthy trying to be creative under such conditions,” I say to page 89 on the computer—its cursor throbbing like it’s got something important to say. “Don’t look at me like that. My health’s important. I’ll be right back.”
When all seven rooms in the house are vacuumed, I return to my desk to find that it didn’t much miss me. I look for the cursor like I’m playing some hellish game of Where’s Waldo. I continue to get a blank stare and become discouraged. “Well, it is almost dinner time, anyway," I say. "I’ve got prep work to do. See you tonight after dessert. Klondike ice cream bars. I’d share, buddy, but I’d be dripping all over the keyboard.”
I almost stopped drinking coffee at the desk because of that one time Baxter started yelping at the front door like a Department of Homeland Security invasion was taking place. It caused me to jump about three feet—while, at the same time, I was going in for a sip of hot black coffee. Yeah. That keyboard was not happy, but it’s currently the cleanest damn keyboard in all of Cold Spring, NY.
Note: Hot black coffee does wonders on those grimy keys. A must if you're asthmatic and need to stay away from toxic fumes. You’ve got your coffee break built right into your cleaning project. There must be a way to get a patent out of that.
There are bigger and more important things going on in this world than a book about a wannabe, do-nothing detective and his wisecracking assistant. But I figure if I can put a smile on someone’s face—even if it’s only my wife—I’ve contributed something positive in the best way that I know how.
Another note: My wife recently informed me that she likes Father Mulrooney--another character in the Craven book--better than Craven. I didn’t know how to take it. I’m very sensitive. Things like that cause me to crash in front of the television like some aging Mafia don in his bathrobe and slippers watching endless reruns of Wiseguys while drink bottomless cups of espresso. Also, I now have an eerie butt indentation in my club chair. The Psycho movie comes to mind, and makes me question my own sanity.
Yet another note: I was at the refrigerator this morning, blindly reaching up to where we keep our cereal boxes. We were all out. All that remained was a six-year old unopened box of Count Chocula. It was my son’s cereal. It’s amazing the things you hang onto. But hang on we must. I’d like to think Sam's getting a bit of a laugh out of it. I’ll be sure to ask him the next time he's in my dreams, scolding me for my goldbricking ways.
Be safe out there. Mask-up and don't let the bastards get you down. Cheers.