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Friday, November 29, 2013

The Story of Us

This weekend's Trifextra challenge: a 33-word free write.

Hubs and my upcoming vow renewal (in honor of our 15th anniversary) has me feeling all gooey and lovey-dovey lately. Groaning and eye rolling are perfectly understandable.

First blind date
Hello, fate

Married fast
"Will it last?"

Baby soon

And another
Joined big brother

Fifteen years
Sometimes tears

Mostly smiles
Despite trials

Love abounds
And surrounds




Before stretch marks, worry lines, gray hair and all
the fun bonuses that come with children.

In the interest of full disclosure, that kid on the right is
really about 4 inches taller than me. (Thank you, heels!)

Monday, November 25, 2013

The Girl Behind the Wall

Pluck her from her comfort zone.
Convince her not to stay alone.

The charming girl behind that wall
Is terrified to let it fall.

She’s going to take a lot of work.
For that, just thank a certain jerk.

The one who baited, promised, flattered
And—once he won her—left her shattered.

Now every man’s a ruthless snake,
A calling card for more heartache.

She’s had her guard up much too long.
Are you the one to prove her wrong?

Restore her faith in fairy tales?
Put the wind back in her sails?

It won’t be easy; she’ll resist.
She tends to soften when she’s kissed.

But please make sure your lips are true.
I’m ... she's pinning her last hopes on you.

This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "pluck" as defined below:

to move, remove, or separate forcibly or abruptly <plucked the child from the middle of the street>

Word count: 124

Friday, November 22, 2013

Sex, Sex, Sex

This weekend's Trifextra challengechoose a word and use it three times in 33 words. However, it must be either a verb, noun or adjective and the form of the word cannot change, it must appear exactly the same three times.

Heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual. I don’t judge.

My sex life? My business. Your sex life? Your business.

Unless you and I are having sex.

If that’s the case ... get your sexy ass over here.

Tuesday, November 19, 2013


Last week I had a piece of caramel popcorn in my hair for three hours before I realized it—and only then because the pest control guy pointed it out.

“Lucky for me your keen eye isn’t limited to spiders.” The joke fell flat. Maybe I should’ve smiled.

I’m a stay-at-home mom. That’s not a misnomer. I don’t get out much. With three kids under age 4 in tow, I need a sedative just to pick up the refill of my prescription sedative.

Lately I’m like a live-in companion to a man who pays me in boob gropes and beer farts. Our Sunday night sex appointments are currently on hold until The Walking Dead goes on hiatus. Good. I practically get knocked up just folding his boxers.

The most thrilling part of my day—besides taking my bra off after dinner—is ogling my new neighbor. Every morning at precisely 10:25, I let Disney Junior babysit the twins and confine Manning to the ExerSaucer. (Hubby took advantage of my post-delivery euphoria when it came to naming the last kid.)

Then I position myself by the window. Like clockwork, Hot Dad strolls past a few minutes later enroute to the park with his pristine little princess. She never has grass stains on her clothes or bruises from a Mega Bloks brawl.

Monday it took longer than usual to free Maisy from Mason’s headlock, so I missed the sexiest ass ever covered in khaki.

Yesterday I woke up early to decipher the triple stroller. For an extra Pop-Tart, Maisy let me brush her hair. I pulled on my nicest yoga pants and a fitted top rather than one of Hubby’s huge, holey concert tees.

Hot Dad was pushing his daughter on the swing when my brood arrived.

“Hello,” I chirped.

“Hey there.” His smile heated my insides. That, or my shirt was cutting off my circulation.

“My mommy watches you in the window,” Mason announced.


I’m expecting a restraining order notice any day now.

This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "companion" as defined below:

a :  one that is closely connected with something similar
b :  one employed to live with and serve another

Word count: 333

Monday, November 11, 2013

When She's Gone

Every day my mother seems thinner, fuzzier, and less able to do for herself. I’m terrified her final day is officially on the calendar. She is too. Will she leave me next month? Next year? We don’t dare speak it, yet the fear of death is a tempest over her sickbed.

Still, I think she’s ready to go. The love of her life has already waited four years to see her again. And she feels like shit. Constant nausea and an uncooperative brain ravage her waking hours. Her twig-like legs won’t obey, choosing instead to arbitrarily jut out from under her or remain defiantly stationary.

Lately she’s been asking what things of hers we want so she can remember us in her will. We refuse to shop through her possessions. Besides, what I really want is my old mom—and life—back.

One day she was living independently, and I spent hours writing. The next day, she fell and suddenly needed constant care and supervision. She says I’ve become the parent and she the child. I secretly, shamefully resent this staggering responsibility as characters in my now-neglected novel become strangers to me.

When she’s gone, I’ll hate myself for getting irritated when she needed “just one more thing.” Will I forgive myself for pouting about ruined plans and sleeping on the couch outside her bedroom? Probably not.

Her new wheelchair helps … when she remembers to use it. I worry another fall could do her in. She’s hit her head so many times there’s a quarter-sized cavity in her scalp. I can flush out the pus and change the dressing without retching now.

When she’s gone, the vacant bed will chastise me for grumbling about driving her to thrice-weekly doctor appointments. Her arsenal of pills (that didn’t do enough) will deride me for each time I impatiently repeated myself for her waning ears.

Every day I pray for strength to be the daughter she deserves so I can live with myself when she’s gone.

This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "remember" as defined below:

a :  to keep in mind for attention or consideration <remembers friends at Christmas>

b :  REWARD <was remembered in the will>
Word count: 333

Friday, November 8, 2013

Oh My "God!" This Was Hard.

This weekend's Trifextra challenge: "Buddhist cosmology tells of Trāyastriṃśa, or the Heaven of Thirty-Three gods, which rule over the human realm. This weekend we're asking for exactly 33 of your own words about a god of your own devising that shares heaven with the other thirty-two gods. Make it yours and have fun with it."

As the title indicates, I struggled with this prompt. Maybe it's because I already have a god on my mind this morning. You see, I am madly in love with the god of thunder, and "Thor: The Dark World" comes out today. Woo-hoo! It's hammer time!

Anyway, here's what I pulled out of ... somewhere. Let's call him the god of vengeance.

He tallies your stains on their unripened souls. His wrath wells, permeating the prismatic air. With icy whispers through uncoiled fingers, he orders your reckoning. You, desecrater of innocents, shall know true pain.


Thursday, November 7, 2013

Pardon Me; You're on My Last Nerve

I'm in a foul mood.

I've had four hours of sleep, Hubs left yesterday for 11 days in Germany, I've been taking care of my mother round-the-clock for a month, there are currently five dogs (who poop, bark and insist on being fed daily) in my house, and my children are gorgeous little sloths who can't remember to put their dirty clothes in hampers. What better time to vent my frustrations? Besides, it's my blog and I can kvetch if I want to.

If you think any part of this post is about you, it probably is. As a writer, I do get inspiration from the people in my life. Anything you say or do to piss me off can and will be written against you. Just making you aware of your Miranda Writes. That pun would be so much cooler if my name were Miranda. Sigh.

So, here is a list of people who get on my @*&#^% nerves:

People who whine incessantly on Facebook
Hey, Debby Downer! Can't you just post monthly bathroom selfies, recipes and political rants like my other friends?

Speaking of Facebook: People who announce every visit to the gym
Goody. I hope a barbell falls on your chest.

People who make me repeat myself
Oh, I'd be delighted to say that again since you couldn't be bothered to pay attention the first time.

Parents who bring kids to adult-only functions
Because we enjoy the occasional child-free night out--and we aren't inconsiderate jerks--we got a sitter. So, why would we want to be bothered with your kid?

Parents who think their children are perfect little angels
Your kid is probably the meanest, sneakiest, worst behaved, most manipulative, most deceitful one in the bunch.

Parents who firmly believe their kids tell them everything
(Refer to the previous item, and then smack yourself for being so naïve.)

Mothers who use words like "momager," "momopolize" and "mompreneur"
You make me want to momvomit.

Doctors who think their time is more important than mine
Don't schedule me for 3:00 when you know full well I won't see the inside of your exam room until 3:45.

Drivers who don't turn right on red
I know you're texting, chatting or completing your online order, but I really need to get to my doctor appointment so I can sit in the waiting room for 45 minutes.

People who ask questions they could answer themselves with a little effort
Lazy Ass, let me introduce you to my friend Google. Ask him anything. He likes that.

People who treat me like their personal assistant because I'm a stay-at-home mom
If I wanted to be someone's bitch, I'd still be in the corporate world.

People who take credit for my accomplishments
Obviously my sole purpose for all that hard work was to make you look good.

Guys who hit on me in inappropriate settings/at inappropriate times (especially when I look like crap)
Yeah, I wore this T-shirt from 1997 and faded yoga pants to get your attention while we're picking up our kids after school.

Women who fail to realize their boyfriends/fiancés/husbands are losers
He can't hold down a decent job and flirts with your friends the minute you turn your back? Don't let that one get away, girl!

People who don't know the difference between their/there/they're
THERE they go proving THEY'RE idiots with THEIR inability to grasp a third-grade English lesson.

People who don't know the difference between your/you're
YOUR failure to recognize the difference proves YOU'RE a dumb ass.

Fellow moviegoers who haven't yet mastered the art of the whisper
I didn't plunk down $30 for admission, a vat of popcorn and a bucket of soda to listen to you theorize and analyze every plot point.

People who owe me money but have apparently been stricken with amnesia
Thank goodness for Instagram so I can see all the cool things you're doing instead of paying me back.

People who don't RSVP
Next time I send you an invite, remember this handy mnemonic device: Only rude, selfish, vacuous pinheads show up for an event without taking 30 freakin' seconds to confirm their attendance in advance.

People who won't take responsibility for their screw ups
This is kindergarten-level stuff. Fix it. Replace it. Correct it. At least apologize.

This is in no way a complete list, and I reserve the right to add to it after I've actually left my house today.

Monday, November 4, 2013

The Art of Craft

Paul stopped hiding his affairs eventually. Who has time for craft and subterfuge with so many sluts to be had? Catching him last time barely registered a blip on my emotional radar. I despised myself for staying. What could I do? We had kids, a mortgage, a fucking Beagle. 

Clearly, I was dead inside. How else could I continue to let Paul touch me? So when my high school boyfriend found me on Facebook, I was surprised to feel excitement ... lust.

It would be weeks before I wound up underneath Brian. At first we flirted innocently online. When I vented about Paul, he admitted his wife had cheated, too. We commiserated about our shitty marriages via text and phone calls. One day Brian put it all out there.

“They’ve done it. Why shouldn’t we?”

Deciding to cheat on your cheating spouse isn't easy. You’re still violating your vows—however broken they may be.

We deliberated over a covert dinner in a neighboring town. Despite thinning hair and a widening middle, Brian looked fan-fucking-tastic.

“Revenge sex won’t realign the planets,” I cautioned.

“I’m willing to try,” he grinned.

We met during lunch breaks and whenever we could steal away. Brian became a wiz at detaching his baby’s car seat base for backseat quickies.

I’ve forgotten how we ended up there that day, but in Brian's bed we relished the opportunity to be completely naked. His soft chest hairs tickled my breasts, surging heat throughout my body. When the front door opened, Brian froze mid thrust. Discarded clothes marked our path. We hadn’t bothered closing the bedroom door.

With their daughter on her hip, Brian’s wife flung the diaper bag at his head. Then she trained her sights on me.

“Get out of my house,” she screamed. “Whore!”

Her hypocrisy incensed me. I tore into her, spewing highlights of her infidelities.

The room fell silent.

“What the hell is she talking about?” She glared at Brian. He looked down, shrugged.


Whore: party of one.


This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "craft" as defined below:

skill in deceiving to gain an end <used craft and guile to close the deal>
Word count: 333

Friday, November 1, 2013

A Contract Killing

This weekend's Trifextra challengeIn The Scorpio Races, author Maggie Stiefvater writes, "It is the first day of November and so, today, someone will die." Give us the next 33 words of this story, as you imagine it.

It is the first day of November, and so, today, someone will die.

But who will miss that beached whale? IHOP? Embarrassed lotharios who sneak her past their roommates? Not the unfortunate souls who’ve shared plane seats with her saddlebags.

She's signing that gym contract.