Wednesday, November 14, 2012

The Glamorous Life of a Romance Writer

I looked around with pride at the den, completely devoid of furniture, fresh, white paint on the walls, the old carpet removed. The scent of glue and vinyl hung heavily in the air, brought on by the newly laid linoleum. Replacing the carpet had banished the scent of children, dog, and cats.

I was proud that the project was finally completed. It had taken two days but the room looked new again.

As with everything, reality intruded. It happened fast, but oh-so-slowly as I unstuck my arm where it was glued to my shirt. I thought a good patch of skin would be left on the green material but it just gave me a very good wax job. I, of course, had bigger problems than just having my arm stuck to my clothes thanks to my resting the unsuspecting appendage at my side. I was nearly stuck to the floor.

I try not to wear shoes. Don’t get me wrong. I love killer heels but can only take them for so long having them on my feet. Therefore, as I laid the glue and scooted out of the way, the sticky stuff attached to my bare feet. Yes, it depended on which way my body was positioned, but, still…

Zoey, my oldest daughter, is always searching for a good FB moment. Before she left, I had to threaten her with dire retribution if she posted nine tenths of the things she wanted to post online about me. Unfortunately, for what I went through this was more You Tube, than Facebook. The pulling of my skin as I tore it away from my shirt would’ve been evidence enough that this was perfectly and painfully real, not to mention the crunchy sucking motion as I jerked my feet from the floor. Zoey decided to take “pity” on me. She said, “Momma, you’re a romance writer. What a glamorous life you live.”

Glamorous life, indeed.

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