We were discussing blogging when I mentioned that there were a few bloggers I’ve met online that are able to make a decent income at it. And, as per usual, no normal conversation can possibly happen at the Non Stepford House.
Diva: Dang. I need to get into the blogging business!
Imp: Me too!
Wolf: Yeah, it’d be nice to get a place where we can just lock Mom in a room and let her write.
Imp: See, this is what I’m afraid of! If I ever get good at this blogging thing, Dad will lock me in our room and make me write!
Wolf: Well… I’d let you out to eat…
Imp: No, more like you’d let me out to make you food!
Diva: Hey, I cook! I cook supper all the time!
Imp: Yeah, but eventually, you’d go on strike and then Dad would be like “Well, I don’t wanna cook. BRING OUT THE WIFE! RELEASE THE WIFE!”
Imp: See! He’s not even denying it!!
Diva: Yeah, we’d just have to shove you back in after you’re done…
Imp: That’s what I’m saying! He’d do the lion tamer thing, with a tinsel garland from the Christmas box and a chair! “Back, back, you foul beast!” *miming* I get the feeling Bazinga wouldn’t be the only one on a chain!
Wolf: Well, you’d be okay with a computer! …And a fridge!
Imp: What about if I have to pee?!
Diva: We’d give you a can.
Imp: *does the icky icky poo poo dance* You people are gross!
Wolf: Well, we can’t make Bazinga write…
Imp: *stares at Wolf*
So, basically, my husband admits that he’d like to lock me in a room, chain me to a desk, so that I can write for a living. Like…in Stephen King’s Misery. I never thought writing could be dangerous to my health. I mean, I know it makes Wolf nervous now and then, especially when I plot murders out loud, but some how I never thought it could be hazardous to me.
Hmmm. Is this his way of showing support?
And can I hold out for an en suite in the room?