Creative Juice and Vodka

I find being a woman absolutely exhausting. Of course, as a female, I’m faced with the obvious, myriad of stereotypical, gender-specific responsibilities such as cleaning, cooking, and raising children, and I’m good enough at all that, but then there’s also the being a woman part.

Let me be clear, I’m not talking about my girl parts … I’m talking about my brain parts ~ the parts that require mental, physical, and emotional upkeep and implementation. This requires far more attention and intention than I am usually willing to commit.

On a scale of one to ten, with one being ~ “capable of spending twelve hours on the couch watching an entire season of America’s Next Top Model”, and ten being ~ “totally capable of a creative-bat-shit-flip-out”, I’m anywhere from one to ten at any given point of any given day. I spend more time running up and down that scale than Rocky at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, though I find, more and more, that I’m happy resting at about a two and just thinking about what I would be doing at about a nine. I’m becoming convinced that my thinking parts are going to be my undoing.

As soon as my eyes open, I start thinking and planning my day. First I plan to jump right into the shower, do my hair, and apply a thick coat of beautification. Then I’ll get the kids up and ready for school … we call this The Nightmare Before Breakfast. Some of them are up before me and some of them require interrogation lights and the scream of a coach’s whistle. I did learn not to rip the blankets off the bed while my oldest son is still asleep in the morning though … that experience sent me promptly to the kitchen to hit my orange juice with a couple shots of Stoli … let’s just say I learned that lesson the hard way.

So, I feed ‘em, dress ‘em, and send ‘em on their way. Then I clean up their mess. Then what? By the way, I still have on my pajamas … I have not showered, fixed my hair, or put on a heavy coat of beauty. Maybe I should do that … but nooooooooooooooo, not me. My inner butterfly takes over and I flutter from this to that, read a few blogs, throw in some laundry, start emptying the dishwasher, ponder my existence beyond the perimeter of my property. Get an idea, talk on the phone, take a walk around the block, put out the dog … I might even think about writing something. I could work on the projects I’ve already started, but they are wrought with issues I don’t care to face before noon.

First of all, there are the problems I’m facing with my hypothetical cookbook (working title: Hypothetical Cookbook). Currently, it consists of five Foodie Tuesday blog posts and an index card recipe for brownies that I picked up at a cookie swap, but have never made. The concept is cutting edge … it’s a pre-made scrapbook/cookbook that makes Martha Stewart look like a check out girl at the Hobby Lobby. There are some problems with the cost though … according to my receipt collection from various trips to the craft store, each cookbook that will take roughly 6 weeks to make will cost about seven hundred dollars each. This cost analysis is extremely troubling to my primary investor/husband. He might come around though, after I finish the first one and he sees for himself how spectacular it is.

Then there’s the problem of completing my historical fiction screenplay, Girlz Nite Out!!!. It’s loosely based on the cultural and political contributions of Margaret Thatcher and Golda Meir. Right now, I’m working on the part where the girls are on the run from a federal agent (Ronald Reagan) after a night of too many margaritas and something of a crime spree. They pick up a sexy hitchhiker along the way, which gets Golda very generous with the flirting. To that the stranger says, “I’m married and I’m a preacher. Do you want to give me a ride or get in my pants?” Then Golda says, “You’re a preacher? Really? Well, slap my ass and call me sunshine! Hit it, Iron Lady!” … then Margaret puts the pedal to the metal and they disappear into a cloud of dust, swallowed up by the Texas plains. I think I know how it’s going to end, but I still have to work out some of the technical details.

If only I could buy an over-the-counter, creative control supplement, perhaps I could produce something worthy of all the time I spend thinking of things I might or might not create.

Damn, I need to cut this short … I absolutely have to go take a shower … after I make these brownies ... and find the screwdriver.