Today at lunch I heard “Stacy’s Mom” on the radio. I remember when it came out and every boy on New House 5 would belt it out at random and unfailingly inappropriate times. In line at Si Señor. On the way to calculus. During Alias. In the middle of a late-night, serious heart-to-heart conversation! And I remember how much I used to hate it. Not just the poor timing, but the song itself. I mean, seriously, it’s one thing to say someone’s a MILF, but it’s a whole other thing to write a song about it. And what about poor Stacy, huh? HUH?

Well, before I could remember any of my past indignation, I turned up the volume and began to sing along.

I hear typing! Real, live, FAST typing. Productive typing. The kind of click click clicks that are going somewhere, and ain’t stopping for no one, no how.

That’s so exciting!

It’d be more exciting if it were my typing, though. See, I’m a writer. I’m supposed to write. But I don’t. Instead I read Dooce, and I play with my puppy, and I check my email just in case something new has come in the past 30 seconds. (Nope, still nothing.) I do pretty much everything except write. Which I think means I’m a pretty bad writer.

My boyfriend, on the other hand, is writing typing. He won’t let me say he’s writing, because he’s not a writer. He published this book once, but that doesn’t count. That was a true story. (Really? I convinced someone not to jump off a roof? I don’t remember that…)

“What are you, then?” I ask him.

“What do you mean?”

“You published a book, but you say you’re not a writer. So what are you?”

He thinks for a moment. “I’m an author,” he finally answers.

Ah, it all makes sense now.

… o_O

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