My Muse Is a French Prostitute

We writers spend a lot of time searching for our muse. Most muses are fickle, flighty, and fairyesque. By fairyesque I mean more myth than reality. Rare is the writer who has any tangible evidence his muse even exists though some us like to imagine what the creature might be like.

But I was fortunate to have a brush with mine last night even if I was too dense to recognize it as such at the time. Let me set the scene for you.

There I was up stairs in my writing office. I'd been happily writing away for several hours when suddenly an aroma began to tickle my nose. No not the aroma associated with consuming far too many Shiners the night before while celebrating the Saints victory. This aroma was decidedly sweet. Decidedly flowery. And decidedly feminine.

Yep, it smelled like cheap perfume.

The only female in the house was my wife and she was downstairs happily watching her collection of DVR'd Snapped episodes. And yes it is a bit disconcerting to have a wife who loves to watch a show about women that off their men in strange and horrific ways, but I've already blogged on that subject here if you missed it.

So back to me and the mysterious cheap perfume smell. As I said my wife was downstairs and besides that this assault on my olfactory senses smelled nothing like anything my wife has ever worn.

Finding it strange I typed up the following Facebook message before shrugging off the aroma and getting back to work writing.

I'm sitting in my office, happily writing away with the door shut and suddenly I smell women's perfume -- Cheap women's perfume. Is my office haunted by some deceased tart with poor olfactory taste?

Then this morning, I smelled the exact same smell again while Jennifer was getting ready for work.

I asked her what perfume she'd put and she replied with, "I haven't put any perfume on."
"Well do you smell that?"

Jennifer looked at me like I was crazy and said, "No, I smell nothing. Maybe you're muse wears flowery perfume."

Then lo and behold I check my email and see that Betsy Dornbusch AKA Sex Scenes at Starbucks has made the same comment on my original Facebook message.

I believe they are correct. It is my muse. I'm flattered that suddenly my muse think I am perfume-worthy and I can only hope that since she came around again this morning that my calling her a dead t art with poor taste did not offend her. Also I hope she looks something like Holly Madison does in this outfit.