Sometimes I don't even comb my hair for the first third of the day. It perches there, on top of my head, a red and gray tangle of
frizz -- the perfect compliment to the casual everyday sort of look for which I strive. Not everyone dresses as I do to go to work. So, when it's almost lunch time and breakfast dishes still squat in the sink
and the doorbell rings, my stomach takes a dive. I've brushed my teeth and consumed a cup or two of coffee, but I'm still in my night clothes even though the sun's nearly straight overhead because, once I got the spouse
and ankle-biters out the door, I am a slave to inspiration.
The inspired moment crept into my subconscious as I was stumbling downstairs in a semi-fog, my mind on auto-pilot.
"Hey, that's pretty good!" I
thought, then worked feverishly to feed the family before the Muse abandoned me. I practically hurled Fruit Loops and Pop Tarts in my haste to get to the computer. It was a terrific idea for a column
-- funny, witty, urbane, a mixture of Florence King, Dave Barry and Charles Kuralt. It was simply sensational, sure to be nominated for a Pulitzer. My professional reputation would be solidified for all time. But
I had to get to the computer quickly, before the thought evaporated into thin air. At my age, holding on to anything for more than a few minutes requires more effort than I can sometimes muster.
About three
weeks ago I had such a morning, rushing the family through morning stuff -- "tote that backpack, brush those teeth" -- then holding the door open as they left.
"Kiss?" My spouse asked on his way out.
"OK, but make it a quick one because the Muse is threatening to take a hike," I said, offering him a quick peck.
"But Mom, what about my lunch? " My son asked.
"Buy it today, son. Suck it up. You can stand it."
"But it's fish portions," he said.
"Live with it. Consider it a literary sacrifice. Throw yourself on that fish for the edification of mankind.
Eat a little cod for the old lady, OK?"
"I'll probably throw up on the table," he grumbled, but he did leave.
"Are you going to help me comb my hair?" My daughter asked, cramming a brush in my hand as I
attempted to bolt the front door with part of her hair still inside.
"The natural look is in. Move your fingers or they'll get crushed," I said, locking the door. Finally. Nothing between me and the
computer!
Thank you, thank you, thank you, I said to the air around me. Now to sit down and bedazzle the world with my brilliance.
Yes! I high-fived myself. This was good -- really, really good stuff. I
was on a roll, such a roll that I worked feverishly through the morning, ignoring everything but the coffee pot and occasional trips to the bathroom brought on by those cups of coffee.
I was one hot-writing mama
-- until the doorbell rang. that is. I peeked through the curtain and. drew back as though I'd touched a hot radiator. Wouldn't you know it? It was "him", in his little brown shorts and matching shirt, holding a package
I'd ordered. God knows, I needed that book -- wanted that book -- had to have that book -- so not answering wasn't an option. I yelled to wait a second and grabbed the tattered old robe I've been wearing since about
high school, threw it on, fluffed my rat's nest and opened the door. The guy's eyebrows rose.
"Uh, Carole Moore?"
"Yes?"
"Is she here?" He asked.
I would have been insulted, but I knew I looked like a bag lady.
"No, no she's not. I'm her...uh...sister and I was taking a nap when you rang the doorbell, young man."
"But it's not even noon."
"Thanks for the social commentary. Look, do you want to unload the package or not? There's a breeze coming in here."
He thrust the little brown box toward me and I snatched it.
"I read your
sister's column," he said. "You two don't look much alike, do you?"
"She takes after Dad's side of the family," I barked and slammed the door closed.
"Knobby knees," I said as the brown truck took off like a rocket.
You know, the way that guy acted, you'd think he'd never before seen someone who works out of her home!
