Square Peg ● Round Hole







I am currently in a holding pattern as I wait for quotes from two editors willing to read my manuscript and go over it with a diligent eye. It’s like looking for a qualified daycare for a baby. Seriously, I am like one of those helicopter moms, which I made fun of while my kids were playing in traffic. Kidding.

Anyway, since I am taking a little hiatus, I spent yesterday in the coolness of my bedroom reading. Sure, it was sunny and I could be at the pool, but the temperature felt like the seventh center of hell, and I was pretty content not sweating. My phone rings, and it is my spouse, who is the opposite. He is playing golf with a friend. Good for him. He is a freak. So, this is how our conversation goes.

“Hey, I am going to play another nine holes. Do you all want to come out and meet me at the pool in about an hour and half?”

“No.” Obviously, my answer is simple, direct, and to the point. It’s cute that he is asking. But, I have been with him long enough to know that he really just wants his swim trunks. Which, I do point out later, he could store them in his locker and not have to call me. We both win in that regard.

“Does anyone want to bring Bailey out to the pool?” Seriously, I was pretty clear that I wasn’t leaving. I didn’t ask Bryce if he would be willing to take Bailey to the pool, because, well, I am an awful human. Whatever. Feel free to judge.

“No. No one wants to leave the house.” We end our stimulating conversation and I go back to my happy place. A few minutes later the phone rings again. This time it is my mother. Seriously. Why does the universe hate me?

“Hey, Mom. How are you?” Now, I should never ask a question that I don’t want the answer to.

“Do you have a few minutes to talk?” This question is a trap, friends.

“Sure.” I answer “sure” but honestly am not sure about anything.

“I don’t think this caregiver is going to work. There is something wrong with her. She calls me Ms. Maynette all the time. And, she brought me a piece of cake from her son’s birthday and it was smashed.” There was a litany of other complaints, but I decided that I wouldn’t bore you with those. Let’s just say they were as ridiculous as the cake issue.

Remember the sentence enhancers that I love. Well, I said the F-word under my breath for the majority of the conversation and I said it out loud too because I am classy like that. Here is my response to her.

“You have two choices. One, we get another caregiver that I am sure you will find fault with as well. Two, you go to an assisted living. Those are your choices.”

“Well, I don’t like those choices. Thanks for you help.”

“You’re welcome. Talk to you later.” We disconnect. I say the F-word over and over again like I have some sort of speech impediment.

I immediately called my sister to warn her, because that’s what we do, and then after that conversation, I try to regain some sort of peace. Christ. On. A. Cracker. I thought my “Do Not Disturb” sign was bright enough for everyone to see. Obviously not.

I try to remember that every situation offered to me provides excellent writing material. So maybe I should be a little more grateful.