Waste of Time
Timba's found a turtle this morning. Mesmerized, she patiently watches the little mother pee in a small spot of dirt on the back lawn, digging way, way deep to deposit her eggs. Not really a safe place, but then what place is these days? The foxes were out romping right after sunup and I'm hoping they didn't see this unfold.
Finishing my walk, I lug a basket of fallen twigs to the burn pile and return to the kitchen to fix lunch for Rick and myself. I pull out a leftover roast, peel potatoes, carrots and onions, and whip up a nice hash for the two of us.
The smell of cooking pulls him inside from the patio. "What the hell are you doing?" he demands. "What does it look like I'm doing?" I counter. "I'm making lunch."
He's in a slow boil. "I don't eat cooked food for lunch!" he hisses. "Lunch should be cold sandwiches and chips." "Oh" I say, "I wasn't aware. Is this a new rule?"
"You and your f*****g mommy crap" he yells. Breathing in deeply, I say "I don't think I'm the one with the mommy issues, Rick." "Screw you" he screams, "If you didn't have your nose to that damned keyboard all the time you'd KNOW what I eat for lunch!"
"Rick." I sigh. "This has nothing to do with my writing. We've been married twelve years and I think I know what to fix for lunch. You've never refused it before, either cooked or cold."
He throws together a haphazard bologna sandwich, slamming his plate on the counter. "You think you're something, don't you? You think you're some high and mighty author (he sneers the word). Well, you know what you are? You're a f*****g two-bit bard. And nobody gives a s**t about you."
Especially you, I think inwardly. "Rick, you've never even read one word I've written. How do you know it's no good?" "I have no interest in any of your ridiculous pursuits." he declares. "I have more important things to do."
Even though we've had this same exchange many times, it still manages to piss me off. "Well, Rickybob, honey, here's an idea. Why don't you just toddle off and go do them?" He curses all the way out the door.
The kitchen tidied up, I return to my desk to scroll through a treasure of new posts to read from my favorite writers. This is one day I will not wait til he goes to bed to get on the computer, just to avoid his tantrums. I have my limits. Soon, I've forgotten to be mad and am absorbed in fascinating new worlds.
A door slams. Furious footsteps pace through the rooms, looking for any small thing, a chore left undone, a cat dish unfilled, my tossed-off shoes where he can see them.
Steps pause at my desk, his huffing indicating he's exasperated at finding nothing to criticize. He stares at my computer screen for a moment. "Effing waste of time." he sneers ferociously. "Your opinion." I say, hearing feet stomp away.
Uploading my pic of the cat and the turtle, I hear the dog bark, the door slam. The Jailer is making his rounds of the property, scanning the land for enemy.
I smile, inwardly thanking him as I click Start, Notepad.
--Jo VonBargen 2013
Timba's found a turtle this morning. Mesmerized, she patiently watches the little mother pee in a small spot of dirt on the back lawn, digging way, way deep to deposit her eggs. Not really a safe place, but then what place is these days? The foxes were out romping right after sunup and I'm hoping they didn't see this unfold.
Finishing my walk, I lug a basket of fallen twigs to the burn pile and return to the kitchen to fix lunch for Rick and myself. I pull out a leftover roast, peel potatoes, carrots and onions, and whip up a nice hash for the two of us.
The smell of cooking pulls him inside from the patio. "What the hell are you doing?" he demands. "What does it look like I'm doing?" I counter. "I'm making lunch."
He's in a slow boil. "I don't eat cooked food for lunch!" he hisses. "Lunch should be cold sandwiches and chips." "Oh" I say, "I wasn't aware. Is this a new rule?"
"You and your f*****g mommy crap" he yells. Breathing in deeply, I say "I don't think I'm the one with the mommy issues, Rick." "Screw you" he screams, "If you didn't have your nose to that damned keyboard all the time you'd KNOW what I eat for lunch!"
"Rick." I sigh. "This has nothing to do with my writing. We've been married twelve years and I think I know what to fix for lunch. You've never refused it before, either cooked or cold."
He throws together a haphazard bologna sandwich, slamming his plate on the counter. "You think you're something, don't you? You think you're some high and mighty author (he sneers the word). Well, you know what you are? You're a f*****g two-bit bard. And nobody gives a s**t about you."
Especially you, I think inwardly. "Rick, you've never even read one word I've written. How do you know it's no good?" "I have no interest in any of your ridiculous pursuits." he declares. "I have more important things to do."
Even though we've had this same exchange many times, it still manages to piss me off. "Well, Rickybob, honey, here's an idea. Why don't you just toddle off and go do them?" He curses all the way out the door.
The kitchen tidied up, I return to my desk to scroll through a treasure of new posts to read from my favorite writers. This is one day I will not wait til he goes to bed to get on the computer, just to avoid his tantrums. I have my limits. Soon, I've forgotten to be mad and am absorbed in fascinating new worlds.
A door slams. Furious footsteps pace through the rooms, looking for any small thing, a chore left undone, a cat dish unfilled, my tossed-off shoes where he can see them.
Steps pause at my desk, his huffing indicating he's exasperated at finding nothing to criticize. He stares at my computer screen for a moment. "Effing waste of time." he sneers ferociously. "Your opinion." I say, hearing feet stomp away.
Uploading my pic of the cat and the turtle, I hear the dog bark, the door slam. The Jailer is making his rounds of the property, scanning the land for enemy.
I smile, inwardly thanking him as I click Start, Notepad.
--Jo VonBargen 2013
