Usurped!

No one likes you, Hedwig.

I re-entered the work force out of necessity.  I didn't resent it because one must do what one must do.  And in this economy, I'm grateful for the job.  HOWEVER...

I liked, no, far more than liked, being the full-time, stay-at-home writer.  True, I made no money at it.  Yet.  But writing the blog and working on the novel were immensely satisfying.  Trying to do it after working an eight-hour day, or the forty-hour week in a group home for disabled adults, was entirely exhausting.  So, when Mick called me at work Tuesday morning to update me on Sam (still asleep and staying home with a head cold) and informed me that he'd just written a post for the blog because my "readers expect to have something to read", imagine my shock.  Imagine my pleasure, my relief, my "hey-this-is-my-territory-feelings".

It's kind of like being the center, or off-center, of Sam's universe for twelve and three-quarter years and then coming home one day to, "Mom, the door!"

If nothing else, this new writing arrangement will be informative.  Mick and I will never have to talk about our feelings ( we never do), never have to admit that we're wrong, or even worse, admit that the other is right.  And we can find out what the other one really thinks about things without getting mired in a "discussion".

So, in reference to yesterday's post and a conversation Mick had with his sister over the weekend:  Let's start with laundry.  Even when separated by more than 1000 miles, Mick would only wash and dry, but never fold and put away.  Once I was gone for the summers up in Pelican, Mick would brow beat Lacie into folding his laundry as it engulfed the living room, obstructing the view of Lisianski Inlet.  Then I went to work and the laundry still needed to be done.  Don't think I never do laundry anymore.  Not only do we do laundry ALL DAY AND ALL NIGHT LONG at work, but I will throw a load in in the morning and/or when I get home at night.  But like at work, there is alot of laundry in this house.

But Mick still doesn't like to put it away.  I won't criticize his folding, even though he has no idea how to fold the towels so that they will fit in the closet, but I do have a bone to pick about one thing I heard him tell his sister.  He won't put away any clothes but his because he doesn't know what belongs to whom (obviously not a direct quote since Mick wouldn't dream of using the word whom).  Then he amended that comment by saying that he knew his clothes and mine.  But he doesn't know who the others belong to?  He can't figure this out?  Folks, the other clothes in this house would belong to Miranda (size 3) and to Sam (size 22).  Not only that, but Sam is the owner of all the "Frankenstein" clothing, the horribly patched-re-patched, funky-stitched and pieced monstrosities that I keep trying to keep her body covered with.  Doesn't know whose clothes belong to whom.  Uh-huh.

Let's move on to clutter.  Mick says something about clutter "with text".  I believe this may mean that he'd like to throw my books away.  I think.  I can't imagine what else "clutter with text" could refer to.  And what is this about it being ok to throw away junk mail?  Hey, where are my catalogs?  This is catalog season after all and nary one to be found around here.  And yes, Mick, I know I can't order anything, but I can still look!  That's free! The point about Mick's concept of clutter is:  he never wants to throw away his stuff.  That, after all, is good stuff, not clutter.  Clutter is my stuff.  Stuff with text.  Mick, keep your hands off my stuff.

Sharing the Chicken and Sponge blog may be the beginning of a great thing.  Maybe the readers will like it.  Maybe they will love it.  Maybe they'll  tell their friends to tune in.  And Mick and I will never have to speak to each other again.  He can write in the morning and watch sports in the evening, while I work on the novel one night, and write blog rebuttals the next.  The perfect silent marriage, the perfect silent partnership.  Stay tuned.