Waiting for my Meaty Bone

When my kids were little, I read an article about creating a ritual for little hurts, specific comforts not related to food. The writer suggested anything would do, even a drink of water, that the undivided attention is what actually comforts the child. So I held and rocked the kids...sang to them...counted to three and yelled OWIEEE! with them. And always, when they got past the worst of the crying, I offered them a drink of water. Eventually, they equated a drink of water with love and concern. Katie once got hurt at her dad's house and came home indignant at her step mother. "She didn't care at all, Mom. I even had to get my own drink of water!"


My little doggie was very easy to house train. When she went outside as a puppy, I praised her and petted her and made a fuss when she did her business. As soon as we got back in the house, I gave her a small treat. She's 7 years old now, but that's still our routine. Once in a while I forget, and she sits in front of the treat jar, waiting patiently for her Meaty Bone.


A couple weeks ago, I landed a big writing assignment, one that meant I wouldn't have to worry about money for the rest of the year. I danced and sang when I got the email; had two glasses of pinot grigio that night. The first official document arrived: a non-disclosure agreement. Several more documents arrived, each from a different location and with a different corporate name. Some of those names were registered outside the country. The company did not have a corporate web site. Google turned up some pretty unsavory accusations.

I decided to take a wait-and-see approach. I need the money. All marketing is a shading of the truth. Who made me the arbiter of truth and goodness? I told myself lots of things as I waited for the actual assignments to arrive.

When the details showed up, it was as bad as I feared: possibly illegal, certainly unethical. I dithered. I argued with myself. I imagined being called to give a deposition. I imagined the people who might be misled by what I wrote. I imagined living with my conscience.

Bright and early the next morning, I emailed the managing editor to explain that I could not accept the assignment. Judging from his terse but polite response, I'm not the first writer to walk away after the details were revealed.

Throughout that morning and afternoon, I obsessively checked my email as I worked on a series of short projects. Write a paragraph, check email. Write another paragraph, back to email.

After a couple hours, it hit me that I was waiting for my Meaty Bone. I was a very good girl. I did the right thing and now expected wonderful news to arrive or a great assignment to turn up in my treat jar/inbox. When I realized what was going on, I laughed myself silly.

The Universe did not deliver a treat for my trick. Hell, I even had to get my own damn drink of water.