My Marvelous Muse

I woke to the smell of burnt food at two o’clock in the morning. I ambled to the kitchen, and there she was. She smiled sheepishly, shrugged her shoulders and said, “Sorry, I was playing Slotsomania on your I-Pad and forgot about the grilled cheese sandwich I was making.” I sighed and told her, “If you’re still hungry there’s some leftover pizza in the refrigerator.” “Um, not anymore,” she said, “I ate that yesterday.” “Well, there might be a ‘healthy, gluten-free’ oatmeal cookie or two left.” “Uh-uh,” she said as she thrust her bottom lip forward and gave the slightest shake of her head, then added indignantly, “I get hungry too, you know!” As I walked back to the bedroom she called out, “By the way, you’re nearly out of milk,” a pause then, “I needed something to wash down those dried-up cookies of yours.”

We have such a funny relationship.  No, not funny as in ha-ha, funny as in odd or strange. I’ve always tried to be the director in our partnership, but it’s pretty evident that she’s got the upper hand. Thus, she lives this incredible carefree life, eating and drinking as she pleases. She stays up until all hours of the night and completely eschews any form of exercise. All of  which I wouldn’t mind, except that when I need her she’s nowhere to be found.

One morning last autumn, I was sitting in front of my laptop checking out the news, sipping at my too-hot coffee, when I read that NPR was having one of their short story contests. And I’m all raring to write, my fingers itching but, I can’t come up with a good start. So, I search the house and finally find her dozing in a lounge chair on the deck. It appeared she’d fallen asleep while giving herself a manicure. When I wake her and ask for help, she stretches out lazily, yawns and looks up at me, all smiley. She taps at the face of her wristwatch and says, “Sorry, Sweetie, I’m on break now,” then picks up her emery and resumes working on her nails.

On the other hand, it seems whenever I’m busy... like last week when I was driving through an late-spring ice storm, on ever-so-slick roads, where every bit of my concentration was needed just to keep me from sending the car into a road-side ditch, there she is, sitting in the back seat, all too eager to share her thoughts. As you might guess, there wasn’t much I could do with her ideas right then, what with my knuckles practically turning white from my grip on the steering wheel.  And when I’ve finally safely reached home and meanwhile forgotten most of whatever it was she was talking about, she’s angry with me.

Here’s a sample of a recent conversation between us:

Me: “Wow, isn’t that something that the new Pope is a Jesuit.”

Her: “You never listen, do you? Oh when, oh when? Oh when will you ever learn?”

Me: “Huh?”

Her: “You know I have an intuition about these things. Did I, or did I not tell you back in January of this year to work on a series of sketches on some of those Jesuit characters you’ve known? But, no! You had to go snowshoeing with "Whats-his-face.”

Me: “You mean my husband?”

Her: ‘Yeah, whatever. But, what I'm saying is, how au courant could your blog have been if you popped those sketches out right about the time that Pope Francis, clad in his snow-white robes, emerged onto the balcony as the first Jesuit pope in the history of the world. Well, buona sera to you, my friend, ‘cuz you blew it. I mean, could you come up with a better start for a posting of your thoughts, as a fallen Catholic, on the papal election; to say nothing of your experience working with the Jesuits for x-many years? If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times: timing is everything.” 

I stand there quietly absorbing her words when she starts in again, excitedly.

Her: “Come on, how hysterical is that story of yours of the walk you took through the cemetery up at Colombiere with Father M? Now that’s some funny stuff.”

No response from me.

Her: “Okay, okay. I get it. You like this new pope. You're pinning your hopes on him. You want something more inspirational? So, how about that Brother Bluto?”

Me: “You mean, Brother Brutus?”

Her: “Bluto, Brutus, you know what I mean. Or how about that priest who’s the “Colbert Report chaplain.” Didn’t you say you once had lunch with him?”

Me: “Yeah, but that was over 20 years ago. I’m not sure he’d even remember me.”

She puts her hands out in front of her, palms up, as if in surrender and slowly shakes her head as she looks at me and heaves a deep sigh.  But she never utters the words I most fear: “I give up.” or “It’s no use. You’re hopeless.” No, she’s remains faithful to me alright, but I’ll never figure out why.

Maybe it’s because every now and then, like maybe once a year or so, we have this synergy. And when we do, why it’s as though we are one.

That’s my muse! And just as I prepare to post this, she of course appears, and takes a quick look at the title of this blog. She rolls her eyes, and as she quickly disappears I can hear a faint: “Oohhh, brother!!”