AuthorsDen.com   Join Free! | Login    
   Popular! Books, Stories, Articles, Poetry
Where Authors and Readers come together!

SIGNED BOOKS    AUTHORS    eBOOKS new!     BOOKS    STORIES    ARTICLES    POETRY    BLOGS    NEWS    EVENTS    VIDEOS    GOLD    SUCCESS    TESTIMONIALS

Featured Authors:  Susan Lindsley, iC Schutter, iDave Cole, iDavid Schwinghammer, iLeslie Garcia, iAlan Brenham, iDavid Gelber, i

  Home > Humor > Stories
Popular: Books, Stories, Articles, Poetry     

Micki Peluso

· + Follow Me
· Contact Me
· Sponsor Me!
· Books
· Articles
· Poetry
· News
· Events
· Stories
· Blog
· 100 Titles
· 255 Reviews
· Save to My Library
· Share with Friends!
·
Member Since: Feb, 2008

Micki Peluso, click here to update your pages on AuthorsDen.




Featured Book
Mind Games
by William Walling

An interstellar criminologist and planetary security director schooled in advanced empathic perception conducts an investigation into a royal assassination accompanied by..  
BookAds by Silver
Gold and Platinum Members


Books by Micki Peluso
A Day in the Life of a Non-worker
By Micki Peluso
Friday, October 10, 2008

Rated "PG13" by the Author.

Share    Print  Save   Follow

Recent stories by Micki Peluso
· Views from a Hospital Room
· Lifelong Friends
· Lifelong Friends
· The Day of Reckoning
· My Contra-cultural Marriage and Religious Chaos
· THE MEAN MACHINES
· A Christmas Family Portrait
           >> View all 41


This is a funny, tougue-in-cheek story about a writer balancing her life-based on true life.

 

 

 

 

 

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A NON-WORKER

 

 

The rain beats furiously against the window, interrupting a restful, dream-filled sleep, in which I am floating in a sea of acceptance slips, signing book contracts, and arranging to fly to California for the Carson show. The menacing buzz of the radio alarm clock goes off every ten minutes, the exact time it takes to drift back to sleep. At 7 a.m., there is no good reason to be awake. I don't have to attend school; nor do I have to leave for work, a bone of contention among those in my family who fervently believe that I should make them a hot breakfast before sending them out into the real world.

Misery, the fifteen-year-old dog who has lived up to her name, lays her large, shaggy head on my pillow, and pants morning breath into my face. The bluish glare of her cataract-coated eyes warns me that she will not be held accountable for what may happen if I don't let her outside immediately; a realistic deterent to further lazing in bed.

By 8 a.m., the house is quiet once again. Even the pounding rain has tapered to a fine drizzle. My four-year-old grandson Ian, dropped off by my daughter, walks into the kitchen to announce that he is "here", as his eleven-month-old brother, Jesse, babbles nonsense from the playpen. The baby's voice has the penetration of a well-known grease-cutter.

It's Monday morning and another non-work week is about to begin, during which time I will babysit two lovable, but precocious boys, run business inventories on two computers, manage a three story home, and do freelance writing; and count my blessings that I don't have to go to work.

By the time I gulp two cups of coffee, and complete three fourths of The New York Times Crossword Puzzle, Jesse's insistent soprano voice is reaching high C. I consider doing a warm, grandmotherly article on minding toddlers, but when Jesse leans over the playpen and spits up on the dog, my enthusiasm wans.

The next hour consists of what my "new age" daughter calls creative playtime. That translates into letting the children do whatever they please. I am as modern as the next person, but after Ian poster paints the white formica countertop in black stripes, insisting it's his pet zebra, free expression ends. Jesse's creativity is limited to the realization that his diaper is detatchable, presenting endless possibilities.

By noon, I've put the house back together, made lunch for the boys, driven Ian to nursery school, and tucked the pit baby(so nicknamed for his tenacious grip on breakables) into bed for his one treasured nap.

Two hours later, I've compiled inventory, mailed overdue bills, and sent manuscripts off to the literary meat market, while the Apple IIE works its internal magic with the numbers I've posted into it. I've hung up three times on a telephone computer robot, who wants to know my vital statistics, and bought a year's subscription to Field and Stream, in order to make the salesperson leave.

While the Apple is printing out evaluation reports, I type a short story into the IBM, inspired by the momentary peace and solitude. Engrossed in my work, I don't realize that Ian has been dropped off from nursery school, until he plops a hideous(I never said that) green lump of clay sculpture on my keyboard. Seven pages of manuscript disappear, lost forever in that mysterious story-eating gray box; just when Mary was lusting after John.

The type of calmness that sometimes precedes insanity washes over me. I make Ian a healthy snack, not laced with cyanide, and even manage to tell him how much I missed him.

"You didn't miss me, Grandma," he says. "You're the one who took me there and left me."

I'm tempted to say, "You're right," but I hug him instead. Ian settles in for some violent cartoons, and the siren-like wail of the pit baby marks the end of creative writing.

The teenager, made into an only child by the absence of five grown brothers and sisters, storms into the house. She throws her books on the table, raids the refrigerator, and gives me a twenty minute discourse on her first day of high school; heavy on boys, light on scholastics. She informs me that much as she would love to watch her nephews for me, she must get to the Mall at once. Owning only four new outfits, she doesn't want to repeat herself in a five-day school week. Everyone(related to the infamous "they") will notice.

By now it's 4 p.m., and my manuscripts are still in the mailbox, soggy from the misty rain. The mail carrier, over five hours late, neither knows, nor cares that I wait anxiously each day for acceptance/rejection slips. An hour later, I spot him running down the street, new on the job and obviously frightened. Misery, in a rare moment of bravado, must have given him a toothless, raspy snarl, for now the mail dropped in haste on the unprotected porch stoop is as wet as the outgoing mail. It's mostly brown envelopes, signifying returned manuscripts, and I'm in no mood for rejection. I'll open them later.

As Jesse methodically empties all the kitchen, cabinets and drawers, I concoct a simple dinner of chili with beans and brown bread. Dining with small children will either cause compulsive eating or pseudo anorexia. Ian detests all healthy food, and Jesse concentrates on feeding his supper to Misery, whose sense of smell has deteriorated to the point where she indiscriminately devours scraps of bread and shredded napkins.

The last hour before my daughter comes to collect her sons is spent re-stocking the cabinets, brushing crumbs out of the dog's eyes, picking up the fifty or more toys that Jesse has hurled from his playpen, and bathing the boys. Ian has an inborn aversion to having his hair washed, and Jesse likes to scuba-dive, giving me heart failure and more gray hair. By the time their bath is completed, and the bathroom is under water and smells like wet dog. Misery, in her senility, refuses to relinquish her spot on the soft rug next to the bathtub.

Their mother arrives and asks the same daily question, "Were they good?"

I give the same answer, "Perfect!", and she carts them home. I am alone; at least for another twenty minutes when the breadwinner comes home.

My husband walks in the door with that "don't even ask me about my day", look on his face, and heads for his recliner. The pile of damp, warped mail catches his eye, and he rummages through it.

"Hey, I think you might have sold something," he says. "Don't you want to open it?"

I move in slow-motion, back pain radiating down my legs from constantly plucking Jesse off the staircase, and listlessly open the SASE.(self-addressed stamped envelope) "Look at that," my husband says, glancing over my shoulder. "You just sold another article, made $150.00, and you never had to leave the house." He grabs his paper and settles into his chair with the martyred look of a man who has battled rain, fog, and bumper to bumper traffic to provide for a wife who sits home and nonchalantly collects honorariums and checks. I hate that look.

After a full ten minutes of savoring my sale, I trudge back to the IBM, free to write for three more hours. But by now Mary is no longer lusting after John.

       Web Site: A Writer's Journey

Want to review or comment on this short story?
Click here to login!


Need a FREE Reader Membership?
Click here for your Membership!


Reviewed by Regis Auffray 7/6/2011
This is so well done, Micki. You so effectively present your point of view. Thank you for sharing. Love and best wishes,

Regis
Reviewed by Carvin Wallson 7/24/2009
I really liked the piece. I'm fairly new to the game, so have yet to have the feeling of an acceptance letter--but aren't rejection slips more fun anyway? There's no indication that the writer even took a cursory glance at your work, just a simple "You don't meet our needs at this time." I also liked how you portrayed the mail man. It was like the opposite of Bukowski's "Post Office"--maybe your man was a sub working to support his own literary habit and knew all along the feeling of having one's hopes and dreams left up to an overworked civil servant.
Reviewed by Sandie May Angel-Joyce 10/16/2008
Good for you, Micki! Thank you for sharing the good news of your article being sold!!! I like it when it happens to authors I know. Just seems to make the hardwork more worthwhile.

Sandie Angel :o)

Popular Humor Stories
1. Better Late Than Never. ...
2. Top 10 Things to Avoid Doing…Now and Forev
3. Nude-Night-Naughty 6
4. A Man and His Dog
5. Big Bird & the fish pond
6. The World of Aposiopesis
7. She Told Me To Do It
8. Duped-Net: Undercover Blues
9. Drill Sergeant
10. The DMV Funnies

A Large Double-Double Please by Sharon Lockwood

A Large Double-Double Please is a melting pot of ideas and funny anecdotes spun around every aspect of coffee in an attempt to bring two worlds together - the public and the server..  
BookAds by Silver, Gold and Platinum Members

Deedee Divine's Totally Skewed Guide to Life by Diana Estill

From holiday hazards to riffs on road trips and the decline in our nation's GNP ("Gross Needless Products"), humorist Diana Estill sets loose her alter ego Deedee to share outrageo..  
BookAds by Silver, Gold and Platinum Members

Authors alphabetically: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

Featured Authors | New to AuthorsDen? | Add AuthorsDen to your Site
Share AD with your friends | Need Help? | About us


Problem with this page?   Report it to AuthorsDen
© AuthorsDen, Inc. All rights reserved.