Shower Growlers And Barking Spiders

Depictions of the literary Muse always show some dreamy ethereal woman draped in a classical Greek robe, with brilliant ideas swirling like rainbows around her perfectly coiffed head.

Ha.  I wish.  Here’s the conversation I had with my Muse this week:

Me, strolling up to the Muse’s door on Monday:  *knock, knock*  Hey, there…

Muse:  What’s the matter with you?  Can’t you read the “Do Not Disturb” sign?  Get lost!

Me:  Oops.  It’s just that, well, I usually write my blog drafts today, and…

Muse:  Scram!

Me:  Okay, sorry.  Um… maybe tomorrow…?

Muse:  Yeah, whatever.

Me, shuffling bashfully up to the muse’s door on Tuesday:  *knock, knock*  Hi.  Um…

Muse:  You again?  Whaddaya want?

Me:  Um… a blog post…?

Muse:  You gotta be shitting me!  Didn’t I just bust my ass for you all morning on Book 13?

Me:  Well, yeah; and I was really happy with your ideas.  I appreciate it… but… you know I do a blog post once a week…

Muse:  Oh, for…  Okay, FINE!  Check out the Urban Dictionary for “shower growler”:  “When you’re showering you press your butt against the wall and fart, making a rumbling growl and vibrating the walls of the shower.”*

(*Note:  This was not even the Muse’s own idea – my friend Chris emailed it to me last week.)

Me:  Come on, I need more than that.

Muse, glowering dangerously:  Oh yeah?

Me, finding a backbone at last and glowering in return:  Yeah!

Muse, emitting a martyred sigh:  Fine.  Write a whole post about farts.  How about a page of euphemisms?  I got a million of ‘em!  Blow the butt trumpet, strangle the stank monkey, play the colonic calliope, roast your Jockeys…”

Me, snickering in spite of myself:  Well… I dunno…

Muse:  …Do the one-cheek sneak; drop a barking spider; hit 7.4 on the Rectum scale; a turd honking for the right of way…

Me, stifling giggles:  Stop!  I’ve been trying to behave lately.

Muse:  You?  Behave?!?  As if.  How about this:  “Shit a brick and fart a crowbar”.  Or hey; how about some definitions?  Like “Fartabout”:  Walking away from everybody to ease out a fart so nobody notices.  It’s like a walkabout, only you’re farting…

Me:  There’s already a word for walking around and spreading the stink.  It’s called ‘cropdusting’.

Muse, huffily:  Well, fine, you obviously don’t need me, then. *slams the door in my face*

Me:  Wait, I didn’t mean it that way! *knock, knock*  C’mon, open up!  I need you, really I do.

Muse:  Get lost!

Me:  *sigh*

So there you have it.  I would have prepared a literary masterpiece for today, but my Muse had a bad case of brain flatulence.

Everybody else gets the classy chick with rainbows and perfect hair.  I get this:

Diane’s Muse

So how was your week?

Hey, Brain, Stop Eating Beans!

I must be consuming a high-fibre intellectual diet, because I’ve been having an awful lot of brain farts lately.

A few weeks ago I was out walking in the park near our place. We’re a friendly bunch here in Calgary, and when we meet fellow walkers we usually offer a ‘hi’ or a ‘good morning’ even if we’re total strangers.

I was striding along, my brain totally wrapped up in a plot point for Book 9, when I noticed this smiling lady approaching me. To normal people, this would be a visual cue that some response would soon be required.

But I think we’ve already established that I’m not normal. She said ‘hi’, and my brain short-circuited.

I knew some response was required but I couldn’t formulate any appropriate words. Fortunately my mouth kicked into gear a moment later and I managed a ‘hi’ in return.  Not exactly complex linguistics, but the amount of effort it took was downright scary.

Then a couple of days later I was deep in writing when I remembered it was bread-baking day. I went down to the kitchen and got out my mixing bowl and spoon, pulled my hair into a ponytail… and started looking for my safety glasses.

That’s not quite as random as it sounds. We’d been trap-shooting a few days previously and it’s reflex to put on my safety glasses when I shoot.  But I don’t know why my brain suddenly decided to substitute ‘shooting glasses’ for ‘apron’.  I’ve never heard of anybody requiring eye protection for flying flour dust.

And I guess I was thoroughly involved in my plotting, because a few days later I flopped onto the couch and moved the TV remote from the seat cushion to the coffee table. Just as I let go of the remote, a sudden urgent thought popped into my mind:  “Oh, shit, I just left fingerprints on the remote!”

That was immediately followed by a facepalm. I’ve lived in this house for sixteen years.  My fingerprints are everywhere.  Since I don’t watch TV they’re not terribly likely to be on the remote, but I’m sure in the course of the last decade or so I’ve handled it a few times.

And anyway, why would it matter? I can’t think of any crimes one could commit effectively with a TV remote.  Bludgeoning someone to death would be unnecessarily laborious, and the batteries’ tiny bit of electricity wouldn’t make them do much more than twitch and squeak…


No, I haven’t spent a lot of time considering this; why do you ask?

I guess there’s always the possibility that Hubby secretly owns a fingerprinting kit and has been trying to catch the malignant ghost that causes his PVR to periodically ditch its programming. But even if I had been the guilty party, I hope the consequences wouldn’t have been too severe.

Then again, messing with a guy’s PVR programming is probably grounds for divorce. (Hubby, if you’re reading this, I didn’t push any buttons.  Honest.  You can dust them for fingerprints if you like.)

Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out what I can feed my brain that might reduce my cognitive flatulence. Any suggestions?