EXCUSE ME, I’M TRYING TO WRITE

by Melodie Johnson Howe

I’m trying to write with Dr. Watson, an eighteen pound dog, in my lap. He’s snoring like old sot.

I’m trying to write with the dog off my lap, but asleep in a chair. He’s still snoring.

I’m trying to write with the dog outside. He’s barking.

I’m trying to write with UPS knocking on the door and both dogs barking. Zelda, the standard poodle, is now in the UPS truck. I’ll be right back.

I’m trying to write knowing there is no milk left in the refrigerator and I can’t have another cup of coffee unless I go to the market.

I’m trying to write. I sit poised in my chair ready to put fingers to the keyboard when I turn and look out my French doors. I see my husband trolling the back yard with a baggie covering his right hand. He leans over and picks up a dog turd. He holds it up to get a better look at. He calls my name. I open the door.

“Is this Zelda’s or Watson’s?” he asks me.

“Zelda’s,” I answer. (You have to be a connoisseur of something.) He pulls the baggie over his find and takes it and her to the Vet.

I’m trying to write. I forgot to tell my husband to pick up some milk. Damn.

I’m trying to write. I am down to one dog. He’s asleep on my office floor. The house is quiet. I take in a deep breath and let it out. I wriggle my fingers. I’m ready to write. Then two events happen simultaneously: the doorbell rings and Watson shoots straight up screaming like a bad actress in a slasher movie. I don’t move because I think I’ve experienced a coronary. I wait. No, I haven’t. Why do I feel regret? I answer the door. It’s my neighbor, The Evil Woman. She’s holding a packet of paint chips in her hand.

“I’d like to paint my house the same color as yours. Could you tell me the name of the color?”

This from a woman who, since she has moved into the neighborhood, has taken down half of my hedge and declared that her property lines extend into all neighboring yards?! This from a woman who has placed two huge cement balls on the pillars of her pretentious gates!? (I have restrained myself from sneaking out in the night and drawing happy faces on them.)

“You want to paint your house the same color as mine?”

“Yes. It’s a great color for resale.” She’s holding a paint chip against my wall.

“You’re thinking of selling?”

“You never know. If the price is right.”

For moment I consider giving her the name of the color if it will get her out of the neighborhood. But I can’t. This woman has taken everything from me: inches of my property, axing any tree in sight, and forcing me to look at giant cement balls which she lights up at night. And now my writing time.

“I’m a writer!” I snap at her.

“A rider? Where do you keep your horse?”

I drop my head and stare at the ground. I can’t take it anymore. I look up at her.

“My painter created the color especially for me. It doesn’t have a name. We worked together for weeks to get this exact shade. It was very expensive,” I lied.

“I think it’s this one.” She holds another chip to the wall. And she’s right. It is the color. I hate her. I detest her. She smiles. I close the door on her.

I’m trying to write. But now I’m obsessing over the fact that The Evil Woman, who has no taste and no boundaries, is going to paint her house the same color as mine. This is not a compliment. It’s another form of usurping. I think of those ugly cement balls. I bet she also has a pair of them under that sack of a dress she’s wearing. I think of an enraged tearful Margaret O’Brien in the movie, “Meet Me in St Louis,” knocking the heads of the snowmen off. I grin. Yes, I could go out there one night….

I’m trying to write. The gardener has arrived and is blowing a tornado of dust leaves around my door. The exhaust from his blower smells like a car running on kerosene. He smiles and waves at me. I gasp for air and wave back.

I’m trying to write. I stare at the bulletin board hanging on the wall in front of me. I’ve pinned a picture of Gertrude Stein to it. She’s sitting on a sofa with her white standard poodle named Basket. Gertrude looks serene. I wonder if Alice had to search out Basket’s do-dos. I look at the other pictures of writers I’ve tacked up: Edna St. Vincent Millay, Flannery O’Connor, Noel Coward, Collette (young), Collette (old), Tennessee Williams, and Dorothy Parker. There are no mystery writers. I’m stunned. I’ve never noticed this before. I have five women, one a lesbian, and two gay men. What does it mean?

I’m trying to write.

I’m trying to write.