764. The Muse

My muse likes to strike while I am driving.  I might be driving to work, or the grocery store, or the post office, and all of sudden, Muse gets chatty.  “Hey, the Raccoon Story!  You never wrote about that yet, did you?” (Muse has a talent for ideas, but alas, no talent for grammar).  I glance at Muse out of the corner of my eye, then ask if she could pretty please hand me that pad of paper and pen Queen Virgo keeps in the glove compartment. 

“Oh, I can’t quite reach it,” says Muse, looking at her fresh manicure and then flipping the sun visor down so she can double-check her lipstick, “but don’t worry, you’ll remember it!” 



Muse does not realize that I have the memory of an elephant who lost a chunk of his brain in an overly aggressive skiing accident. 

I have no memory.  Less than none, I have negative memory.  I remember things that never happened and forget things that might never have happened or happened to someone else when they should not have been happening to me.   



For now, I focus on the yellow traffic light, mentally calculating if I should run it.  I step on the gas.  Then, I take a deep breath and slowly count to ten, take another deep breath, and yell at Muse anyway.  “Give me the %#*@ paper, Muse!  Hand it to me!  Stop fussing with your appearance, no one but me can see you anyway!” 

Muse slams the mirror back up.  “Well, if you are going to talk to me that way, Missy, you have another thing coming!  I hear Mitt Romney needs a muse!  I’ll just zip on up to Boston.  I am outta here!” 

  

And like that, she’s gone.  I am despondent.  I did not have a chance to write down the Typhoon Story (and seriously, this is how she confuses me:  I do not even remember being in a typhoon, so why did she recommend that as a story idea?), and now the idea is lost forever. 

The next day, I am getting out of the shower and there she is.  “I think you should write about that restaurant, you know, the one that had the red mosaic tile in the hostess area?  Remember when you took the kids there?  That is a super-funny story!” 

“Yes, you’re right!  Yes!  Red-tile-restaurant-dinner, red-tile-restaurant-dinner, red-tile-restaurant-dinner,” I begin chanting it like a mantra while I grab a towel. 

“What are you talking about?” shouts The Husband from the next room. 

“Nothing, Sweetie, nothing—I just had this great idea to write about, uh, uh … the restaurant with the red bench outside?  Wait, no.  The store with the blue chandelier?  Wait.  No!” 

Damn, Muse!  Come back! 

That night, I am lying in bed, just about to doze off. 

“Hey, MOV, it’s me!  I have such a great idea about the Space Shuttle!  You need to write this one down though.”  She pokes me in the arm with a sharp pencil.    

I ignore her, roll over, and go to sleep. 

I know I’ll probably see her again somewhere tomorrow, who knows-- maybe even on my drive to work.

MOV