A Writer's Last Sanctuary

I'm think I'm on a roll, and no, I'm not talking about an onion kaiser here, although I must say that a grilled ham and swiss on a kaiser really does sound yummy right now. Yes sirree, I'm either on a writing roll, or I have jumped into the deep end of OCD.

You see, I decided a while back that come hell or high water, I was going to write at least ten pages per day on weekdays and twenty pages a day on weekends. Typed and double spaced.

Today's events have sorely challenged my resolve.

First off, Mom called today. Now I'm nuts about my mom--always have been, always will be. But, mom--well, she likes to talk, in spite of living like a recluse. Specifically, Mom likes nothing better than to talk to me. No, not talk to me. Warn me.

I was blazing myself a torrid trail across page three when mom rang me. Yes, I do have caller ID, and honest to God, I do know how to use it. But my parents are getting up there in years. So much so that when their number comes up on the caller ID, I answer, fearing the worst.

Now, understand that my mom calling is, at best, a three-hour adventure, assuming that life is going good in mom world. Which actually happened once in 1997. If life is not good (meaning Days of our Lives was pre-empted by a major news event, or Dad threw out the Enquirer before she was done reading it, or some ungrateful relative has committed a heinous act of relative ungratefulness), then mom can truly occupy an entire morning telling me about everything in the world I need to be sure and avoid. Like E-coli infested Spinach. Hotbeds of terrorism such as 7-11. Those Goddamn Democrats. Oh, and serial killers. I live in Florida, where my mom is convinced that a serial child molester/murderer lurks on every suburban cul-de-sac.

Mom simply cannot rest unless she has run through her litany of worries for me, my kids, my dogs...so I listen, theorizing that keeping moms heart rate down is a good thing.

Today, after inquiring about my regularity, mom expressed her deep concern that I had become quite lax in protecting myself from the horrors of date rape.

Thud.

I'm no spring chicken. I'm more like a hot-flashing hen in the blaze of Indian Summer. I've been married since the dawn of time. I've had kids running around for so long that I can't recall what I did with spare time when I actually had it. I swear I don't date. Well, not unless Harrison Ford comes begging. Which hasn't happened lately.

But, believe me when I say that this body has been dragged around the block a time or two--face down. Even if a date rapist decided to give it a whirl, he surely would run the other way as soon as he pried me out of my Lipo in a Box and daylight exposed the remnants of what I once called a waistline.

It took some doing, but I finally convinced mom that I wouldn't take drinks from strange rapist-y looking men that I might be unwittingly dating. Especially the ones of Dutch descent, given Florida's proximity to Aruba on the Mom Map.

Mom let me go with a reminder that washing my bananas in a five percent bleach solution might be prevent a world of salmonella. Banana spiders poop on bananas, you know.

So, I sat down, cracked my knuckles and my diligent fingers re-attacked page four. No sooner had my dashing hero rounded first base when my doorbell sounded. Of course, Mr. You're So Vain was expecting a Fed ex. Natch, I had to answer. And since my front doors are composed of nothing but bevelled glass, I can't very well pretend I'm not home once I've stepped into the front room.

There on my front porch stood the Born Again Botox Babe (BABB) from across the street. Now ya'll, I see this gal every three months at best as she's always in some stage of recovery from some variety of cosmetic surgery. Today, BABB traipsed all the way over here to show me her scar revision stitches from a botched breast re-re-augmentation.

Now, I don't know about you all, but when a woman in the later stages of body dysmorphic disorder is standing on my front porch doing the Girls Gone Wild booby flash, I'm going to drag her inside until she comes down off of her pain pill high. So, I lost another hour and half to gawking over BABB's battle wounds and getting saved. Ohhh, how deftly I held my barbed tongue when BABB insisted that she couldn't imbibe in a cup of caffienated coffee because her body is her temple which must remain sanctified to receive the Lord. Morphine drips, general anesthesia, and fake boobies, God's cool with these. Wine, caffiene, white sugar, Harrison Ford fantasies--one way ticket to Hell. Gotcha.

The BABB Boobie Revival Meeting ate up another hour. Two teacher phone calls later, child number one got home from school, and the other two soon followed. No, you can't sell children on Ebay. I checked. No flesh peddling allowed. Not even on a temporary basis.

So much for my word count.

No, I thought. I'm serious about this writing thing.

So I put on my Mother From Hell hat and parked my kids in front of the tv, armed with every sugary snack known to man. I convinced them that if Mommy did not get a shower this very minute, she would stink so reekfully that they would surely hurl at the very scent of me over dinner.

And I grabbed my laptop, and ran back to my bathroom. Locked, the door, too.

That's right, it has all come to this. Man's last sanctuary has now become my secret writer's retreat. I highly recommend clandestine bathroom creativity, actually. There is nothing like the acoustic thrill of clicking keys as they echo around the john. And if you end up writing crap---all you need do is flush.