I went to
yet another writers conference this past weekend. This one was hosted by Bainbridge Island’s own, Field’s End. In one breakout session about humor, Danish novelist Peter Fogtdal asked us to write a scene about embarrassment.
Always a good student, I did the assignment. So I’ve decided to use that as today’s blog post (yes, I am THAT lazy, shuddup).
Her Morning Ritual
Hilary had no choice. At least that’s how she saw it early that Sunday morning.
Because if she did have a choice, she would obviously not be squatting, relieving herself in the shadowy corner of her one-car, detached garage.
Perhaps she’d start a new Sunday morning ritual, she chuckled. She never did find that church that was going to bring her closer to God. Hopefully he wasn’t watching her now.
Renting a one-bedroom, one-bath house never seemed a real problem to Hilary until, post wedding nuptials, house guests began arriving. Her relatives, her husband’s relatives, their friends, whoever visited slept on a rickety, faded, fold-out couch and absorbed the entirety of the tiny living room. As well as the entirety of Hilary’s privacy, what little she had left in their 800 square foot house after Zack moved in.
But she’d learned that house guests didn’t only infringe on her general privacy. By sleeping with their heads positioned near the door to the sole bathroom, they unintentionally stole Hilary’s bathroom privacy.
Which she missed a great deal as she braced herself on her yellow VW’s cold bumper and tinkled on the no-longer-dusty dirt floor.
She took a moment to exhale and noticed the sunbeams reaching tentatively toward the windshield. Looking at the situation from this awkward angle, she realized, perhaps it wasn’t gone after all, her early morning bathroom privacy.