tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40931176447134663322024-03-13T15:11:50.614-04:00Mommy DourestIvyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.comBlogger106125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-69677333171045424792018-02-14T23:09:00.001-05:002018-02-15T09:02:14.201-05:00A Valentine<div style="font-family: helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="color: purple;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">This blog is like an eye exam. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I come here about once a year to discuss the way I see things. I really should visit more frequently. My blog, I mean. Well, I wouldn't mind visiting my eye doctor more often. He's kinda cute. </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: purple;"><i>Anyway, please enjoy this public reminder to my husband that I'm wicked funny and that I love him immensely (even though I'm crushing on my eye doctor). </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Happy Valentine’s Day to my guy. My dude. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">My <i>Ross</i>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Remember how Phoebe said Ross was Rachel's lobster because lobsters mate for life?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">That's <i>so</i> us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">You know ... now that I really think about it, Ross and Rachel had a pretty dysfunctional relationship: jealousy, crappy communication, cheating; and they basically fought for ten years </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">before they finally got their shit together. (I mean, that's assuming they lived happily ever after once Rachel gave up a dream job in Paris for Ross. Yeah, I'm sure there wasn't any lingering resentment over that.)</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"We were on a break. And, besides, I was drunk and horny."</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Right. So, that's not quite us.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Oh, I know. Let me speak to your inner nerd. (Actually, your outer is pretty nerdy too. Yeah, you’re a nerd. It’s ok. Nerds are sexy.) You’re the Anakin to my Padme, you know, before he force chokes her into unconciousness. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="270" src="https://data.whicdn.com/images/94778725/large.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">“Ok! You got me. I ate the Thin Mints!” </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Scratch that. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Jack and Rose. Oh, that's a good one! They met and fell in love super fast, just like us. Sometimes you just know, right? Of course Jack ends up freezing to death because Rose bogarts the whole door. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="154" src="https://assets.heart.co.uk/2017/05/jack-and-rose-door-theory-titanic-1485944694-herowidev4-0.jpg" style="font-size: 12pt; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">“So I said, ‘Mom, why don’t <i>you</i> marry his toupee-wearing ass?’ <br />
And she was like ... Jack? <i>Jack</i>? Are you even listening to me?”</td></tr>
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Well, hell.<br />
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Is there no pop culture example that matches our level of commitment? No two iconic characters who have withstood the test of time to emerge as the very model of true love and devotion? </div>
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I got it!<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">You’re the Bert to my Ernie. Those two have been together for, like, half a century and they’re still going strong. Sure they have their struggles and don’t always see eye to eye. But they obviously adore each other. Yeah, they're in it for the long haul. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Like us. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0RhMc_nkEcM/WoTeowJORvI/AAAAAAAALqo/UswAK3vXrZ0oLthtu37MzQYNcx_qNyWTQCLcBGAs/s1600/bert%2BN%2Bern.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0RhMc_nkEcM/WoTeowJORvI/AAAAAAAALqo/UswAK3vXrZ0oLthtu37MzQYNcx_qNyWTQCLcBGAs/s320/bert%2BN%2Bern.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Have Bert and Ernie always been this hot? <br />
Seriously. I don’t recall them being so gorgeous. Dayum.</td></tr>
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Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-73376425315829566912017-02-14T13:25:00.001-05:002017-02-14T13:25:39.689-05:00My Leading Man (Based on a True Story)<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Yes, it's really been two years since my last blog post. What's your point? I'll have you know I wasn't twiddling my thumbs. In those two years I started a thriving business, took care of my mother, dealt with a couple of angsty teenagers, and discovered Netflix. So, yeah, I've been kinda busy. Not that I have to justify my blog slacking to you. Instead of being all judge-y, how about you just read this new post and get off my case?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Because we're huge movie buffs, I decided to express my love for my love using the titles of all nine 2017 Best Picture Oscar nominees.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Happy Valentine's Day to my leading man! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You're the Cary Grant to my Deborah Kerr;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Jimmy Stewart to my Irene Dunne;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Ryan Gosling/James Garner to my Rachel McAdams/Gena Rowlands;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Hugh Grant to my ... whoever played his love interest in "Love Actually." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm not one to keep my feelings <b><span style="color: red;">HIDDEN. FIGURES</span></b> that I would write
something witty to tell you how much I adore you, huh? Right now you're probably shaking your head and muttering, "What a show off." I love when you call me that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">From your <b><span style="color: red;">ARRIVAL </span></b>on
our first (blind) date, I sensed I was meeting someone who would play a
significant role in my life. After we kissed goodbye under the <b><span style="color: red;">MOONLIGHT </span></b>on
our second date, I called my mom to tell her I was going to marry you. Thanks
for making my prophecy come true. As you’re well aware by now, I like to be right. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You make me feel valued, beautiful and secure. It’s such a
comfort knowing that—no matter what—you support me. You don’t just go to bat
for me; you swing for the <b><span style="color: red;">FENCES</span></b>. Come <b><span style="color: red;">HELL OR HIGH WATER</span></b>, you will make sure I’m happy
and fulfilled. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It hasn’t all been rum and roses. (The saying is “wine and
roses”, but you know I never touch the stuff. Plus “rum and roses” has a nice ring to
it.) I mean, nobody’s perfect. Not even you. There have been times when—if I’d had
the means—I might have transported you to WWII-era Okinawa and left your ass at
the top of <b><span style="color: red;">HACKSAW
RIDGE</span></b><span style="color: red;"> </span>without so much as a squirt gun
to defend yourself. But despite what you might think, given the aforementioned alarmingly
specific death plot, I almost never fantasize about killing you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’d be </span><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: red;">LION</span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> if I said you’re the fortunate one. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am blessed beyond measure to have your heart,
and I’m so honored you accepted mine all those years ago. You’re an amazing
husband and father. We’ve built a wonderful life together. Through good times
and bad times, I would choose you all the time. And I would follow you from shore to shore;
from <b><span style="color: red;">LA LA LAND</span></b>
to <b><span style="color: red;">MANCHESTER BY
THE SEA</span></b>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Love,</span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Your leading lady</span></span>Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-58075594986786964582015-05-09T16:50:00.002-04:002015-05-09T17:01:44.758-04:00Happy Mother's Day. I Got You Some Air!I was leaning toward skipping the annual-<em>ish</em> Mother's Day blog this year. I've been busy, OK? But then Hubs posted this ad on Facebook, and I realized I can't take any chances. <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fPOFQWBcGnE/VU5aNNjo7MI/AAAAAAAAAxM/4oYs31OrgKk/s1600/hooters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="147" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fPOFQWBcGnE/VU5aNNjo7MI/AAAAAAAAAxM/4oYs31OrgKk/s400/hooters.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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So, Hubs, here's what not to do for me this Mother's Day if you have any hopes of repeating the act that made me a mother. <br />
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<strong>Hot Yoga</strong><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pMLjyBbUyfw/VU5MdL9xywI/AAAAAAAAAvs/2SokPczU2yU/s1600/mother's%2Bday%2Byoga.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pMLjyBbUyfw/VU5MdL9xywI/AAAAAAAAAvs/2SokPczU2yU/s320/mother's%2Bday%2Byoga.png" width="207" /></a></div>
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Contort my stubby legs and T-Rex arms into a pathetic pretzel while my boobs produce enough sweat to drown a grown man? <em>Nah</em>'maste right here in this chair. Thanks, though. </div>
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<strong>Mammogram Screening</strong></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kjvHTV9ukoM/VU5MnnAPwXI/AAAAAAAAAv8/R8k0duiD1rU/s1600/May-2015-Mammogram-Pricing-Special1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kjvHTV9ukoM/VU5MnnAPwXI/AAAAAAAAAv8/R8k0duiD1rU/s320/May-2015-Mammogram-Pricing-Special1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Speaking of my boobs--which I do often because they're kind of hard to ignore. I mean, these things are a BIG part of my life. My cups runneth over. You know what I'm sayin'? As such, squishing my ample girls between two cold metal plates is not my idea of a suitable Mother's Day gift. I realize you're concerned about my health. So take that $100 and buy me a juicer instead; because I'm likely to put a vice grip on a couple round things on <em>your</em> body if you buy me a mammogram. </div>
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<strong>Toxin-Free Air</strong></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GZfoTvinaPY/VU5RsG423zI/AAAAAAAAAwY/XzJx7OPRjJE/s1600/greenpeace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GZfoTvinaPY/VU5RsG423zI/AAAAAAAAAwY/XzJx7OPRjJE/s400/greenpeace.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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This is tantamount to me giving you water for Father's Day. Or dog poop. Or something else of which we currently have <span style="background-color: white;">an un</span>limited free supply. Yeah, I realize our grandchildren's grandchildren are at risk of wearing gas masks to the treeless, grassless, Styrofoam-littered community park, but that's their problem.</div>
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<strong>Fifty Shades of Grey DVD</strong></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-923aZmurTMY/VU5TmGbwXVI/AAAAAAAAAwo/kYwvrky6UYU/s1600/50%2Bshades.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-923aZmurTMY/VU5TmGbwXVI/AAAAAAAAAwo/kYwvrky6UYU/s320/50%2Bshades.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
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I'm sure some moms are all twitchy with anticipation of getting this on Sunday. Well, I've seen the movie and it was about as sexy as watching a Dave Ramsey get-out-of-debt podcast. I'd rather be spanked with a riding crop--across the face--than sit through that drivel again. If I wanted to see a sadist get his jollies beating someone, I'd watch The Itchy & Scratchy Show. Besides, the mouse and cat have better chemistry. </div>
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<strong>Brazilian Wax</strong></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CJW4LOjo8FE/VU5Y5OTq6iI/AAAAAAAAAw8/i0s9Yblo3uU/s1600/brazillian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CJW4LOjo8FE/VU5Y5OTq6iI/AAAAAAAAAw8/i0s9Yblo3uU/s320/brazillian.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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Hey, I know! Let's both get our no-no spots waxed. You first. </div>
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Well, Hubs, I hope you have a better understanding of what<em> not</em> to do to make my day special. If not, I may have to take you into the "red room" and beat the shit out of you, you know, in the name of romance. </div>
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Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-1373532479442640692014-11-15T08:26:00.004-05:002014-11-15T20:22:57.789-05:00#EthnicallyAmbiguousPeopleProblems<span style="font-family: inherit;">Daughter and I attended a screening of "Beyond the Lights" a couple nights ago. I had completely forgotten she'd auditioned for a small role (the main character as a child) in the film. Daughter recalled it as the young actress sang a song that was part of the audition. The role was for a biracial girl who can sing. With her mixed heritage and soulful voice (as determined by the unbiased ears of her proud mother), Daughter seemed perfect for the part. But we quickly realized while watching the movie that she was not a good fit. The role called for kinky hair, which was an important plot point. Daughter <i>got that </i><em>good hurr</em>; her loose curls would not have worked. She even does a spot-on British accent that would have served her well for the one line she would've spoken. But hair is hair. You can't fake that shit; not convincingly. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We chalked it up to a great reminder that sometimes--no matter how talented you may be--you just don't have the right look for the part. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">That wasn't the only time Daughter has been asked to audition for a role she isn't right for. She read for the daughter of the main characters in "The Conjuring." Hubs and I laughed when she got the request because the couple is white and their daughter is their biological child. It's based on real people, after all. So a little beige girl up in there would look a tad silly. But Daughter auditioned anyway.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She also auditioned for some movie in which she was to play a younger version of <span style="color: black;"><span class="itemprop" itemprop="name">Isabelle Fuhrman's character</span>. </span>If you've seen Ms. Fuhrman in "Orphan" or "The Hunger Games," you know she's white. Like <em>white</em> white. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">But Daughter auditioned for that, too. What's that? You'd like Daughter to try out for the role of "small Jewish girl" in a Hanukah print ad? She'll be right there! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Daughter <em>always</em> auditions. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">You never know what may come of it, or what connections you'll make. So, if she gets an invitation to read for the role of a half-girl/half goat with green eyes and a red fro, Daughter will audition. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Over the summer Daughter auditioned for a role in a much-hyped film releasing next year. They haven't announced who's been cast in "her" role, but the character's family has been announced. The dad looks biracial. The mom is brown. The brother is browner still. Not sure how my little beige child would fit credibly into that family, but "The Cosby Show" got away with it ...</span><br />
<br />
Although she's half black, Daughter almost never gets auditions for black characters. There was that one Church's Chicken TV spot. We drove four hours round trip to discover what I'd already suspected; she was the only butterscotch chip in that chocolate chip cookie. You have to wonder what the casting director was thinking. But, hey, we stopped at our favorite outlet mall on the way home, so the day wasn't a total loss. <br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Such is the life of an ethnically ambiguous actress. Truth be told, the majority of work she books is Hispanic roles. Hell, if I didn't know better, I'd think she was a Latina. What can you do? Enroll the girl in Spanish lessons, that's what. </span><br />
<br />
Así es la vida!<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ArgPbqyyigU/VGdM-AL8sXI/AAAAAAAAAvE/fpimeXn5FHI/s1600/Regan%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ArgPbqyyigU/VGdM-AL8sXI/AAAAAAAAAvE/fpimeXn5FHI/s1600/Regan%2B1.jpg" height="400" width="301" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My ethnically ambiguous future star</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-78131011969050412702014-08-29T09:20:00.001-04:002014-08-29T16:33:06.767-04:00Small But PerkyI'm just gonna put it out there: I've been neglecting my blog. But you need to cut me some slack. I've been busy with other creative ventures (insert shameless plug for <a href="https://www.facebook.com/mousemonikersinc">Mouse Monikers</a>). Life's all about balance, ya know? Lately, it seems as if I'm balancing a stack of plates on my head and both hands, while walking a tight rope. And, let's be honest, I've probably had a couple drinks. <br />
<br />
I hate depriving you of my wit, but that's how it has to be for a while. After all, I'm writing a novel AND building a business (insert another shameless plug for <a href="https://www.facebook.com/mousemonikersinc">Mouse Monikers</a>). On top of that, there are these two kids who keep asking me to feed them and drive them places. <br />
<br />
This doesn't make up for my negligence, but I'm gonna leave you with this text convo between Hubs and me this morning. If you're like me--immature with a 13-year-old boy's sense of humor--you'll have a laugh. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KSkxUzFlTIA/VAB0RijKR_I/AAAAAAAAAug/pw9umyTvTPE/s1600/boobies%2Btext.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KSkxUzFlTIA/VAB0RijKR_I/AAAAAAAAAug/pw9umyTvTPE/s1600/boobies%2Btext.jpg" height="640" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<em>Disclaimer: While I'm sure Hubs wasn't expecting me to make our texts public, a writer's spouse gives up all rights to privacy. For reals. It's in the vows. Nothing's off limits. He should've known I'd milk this for all it's worth; that I'd squeeze every last drop of humor out of it.</em> <br />
<br />
Speaking of boobies, which I do often (see previous admission of immaturity in paragraph #3), I thought up the breast ... I mean, <em>best</em> ... shirt to wear on my upcoming trip to Disney World. Hubs made me pinky swear not to create this shirt to wear around innocent children. I really don't see the harm since most of the little dears probably can't even read yet. Well, I'm at least sharing it here. Brilliance like this demands to be seen. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XpjOSm85tnk/VAB6ejan5xI/AAAAAAAAAuw/YMPi_To-BA0/s1600/hakuna%2Bmy%2Btatas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XpjOSm85tnk/VAB6ejan5xI/AAAAAAAAAuw/YMPi_To-BA0/s1600/hakuna%2Bmy%2Btatas.jpg" height="207" width="400" /></a></div>
Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-85802107389164014402014-07-27T10:37:00.002-04:002014-07-29T13:20:54.991-04:00A Dear Hubs LetterDear Hubs, <br />
<br />
I've been putting this off because you've been pretty decent to me over the last 16 years. But you're coming home tomorrow night, so this has to be done now.<br />
<br />
I've found someone else. <br />
<br />
Look, no one ever means for this to happen. It's just one of those things. (Insert two or three more breakup clichés--except "it's not you, it's me." It's definitely <em>you</em>.) <br />
<br />
Let's be honest. You had to see this coming. You're always going off on these exotic work vacations without me. Germany, Italy ... Iowa. Case in point: you're in China right now. The closest I've ever gotten to China is watching "Shanghai Noon" over a plate of La Choy's mini chicken egg rolls. (Have you tried them? Those things are <em>delish</em>!) <br />
<br />
I don't want to go on and on (and on and on) about your shortcomings. I'm sure you feel bad enough finding out you've lost the love of your life. I would, however, like to introduce you to my new fella. After all, he's going to be your children's stepdad. <br />
<br />
Hubs, Thor. Thor, Hubs.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dPfaohbRxcQ/U9AKccaq-QI/AAAAAAAAAuQ/vEDI9a4PPR4/s1600/thor+and+me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dPfaohbRxcQ/U9AKccaq-QI/AAAAAAAAAuQ/vEDI9a4PPR4/s1600/thor+and+me.jpg" height="640" width="417" /></a></div>
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In case you've been stricken with temporary blindness from all that sightseeing in Beijing, let me explain Thor's appeal. First, he's freakin' hot. Like, <em>ridiculously</em> gorgeous. He might even be an inch or two taller than you. Lest you think I'm with him for purely shallow reasons, here are some of Thor's other attributes:<br />
<ul>
<li>You could bounce a quarter off that ass. Ok, that's shallow, but it needed to be said. </li>
<li>He never leaves me. Never. This man stays put. I'll run errands all day, come home and he's standing right where he was when I left. That's dedication right there.</li>
<li>He's an attentive listener. I can talk to him for HOURS and he never interrupts me. He just stands there staring at me with those sexy, brooding eyes. Thor understands that sometimes I need to vent. I'm not always looking for him to solve the problem.</li>
<li>He carries a hammer all the time, so he must be really handy. I bet he'll tear right through that honey-do list you never seem to have time for.</li>
</ul>
I think you get the picture.<br />
<br />
So, when you (finally) get home tomorrow night, you might want to get yourself a hotel room. Please don't come here looking for a fight. I can't predict what Thor will do. I mean, look at that face. Does he seem like someone you want to cross? I don't think so. Just grab the kids and go.<br />
<br />
With warmest regards, <br />
<br />
Ivy<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-80178231794593092462014-05-09T23:11:00.003-04:002014-05-10T16:05:57.803-04:00Happy Mother's Day. Now Go Get Undressed For Brunch!<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hubs,</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's time for the (sorta-annual) Don't Screw Up My Mother's Day post. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With such an eclectic mix of Mother's Day offerings, you're probably struggling to choose the best way to celebrate me this weekend. I'm usually pretty easygoing. (Shut up. I am so.) But if you drag me to any of the following events, I will throw the mother of all tantrums. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Zoo Brunch</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, I'm down to get my Mother's Day grub on, but putting a big-ass elephant on an advertisement for brunch at a zoo doesn't make me feel great about stuffing my face with gluttonous abandon.</span><br />
<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V0MoLi5V0e0/U22QbzMOwVI/AAAAAAAAAr8/n4vAYZmhSps/s1600/elephant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V0MoLi5V0e0/U22QbzMOwVI/AAAAAAAAAr8/n4vAYZmhSps/s1600/elephant.jpg" height="174" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><strong>Nekkid Brunch</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This aptly named restaurant at a nude-y resort wants moms to join them for a delicious, clothing-optional meal. (Why am I suddenly picturing a plate of two hard-boiled eggs and Polish sausage?)</span><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></strong><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vrGklvQmVT0/U25MUS2-cqI/AAAAAAAAAtk/_s7G-_UzNJ4/s1600/FullMoon.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vrGklvQmVT0/U25MUS2-cqI/AAAAAAAAAtk/_s7G-_UzNJ4/s1600/FullMoon.gif" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some of the website copy: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
<em>"Beautiful murals fill the wall along the patio."</em> Biggest waste of money ever. Who's going to notice the art with everyone's naughty bits dangling? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>"Every direction you look, it's like paradise"</em> ... and an amateur porn shoot.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>"Dine inside in air-conditioned comfort"</em> and your nipples will be harder than calculus by the time the check comes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Medieval Times</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If I wanted to watch a battle during dinner, I'd just tell Daughter that Son tweeted excerpts from her journal. For the record, my money's on the girl. I know he's a foot taller, but she fights dirty. #WW3</span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SeF6frggX_Q/U23RvO8EHVI/AAAAAAAAAss/s6Swv6KY8rk/s1600/medieval+times.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SeF6frggX_Q/U23RvO8EHVI/AAAAAAAAAss/s6Swv6KY8rk/s1600/medieval+times.jpg" height="320" width="256" /></a></div>
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<o:p><strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Fun" Run</span></strong></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uQvoovzIgAY/U25GQh6QW4I/AAAAAAAAAtI/o5k35ZJy7_0/s1600/fun+run.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uQvoovzIgAY/U25GQh6QW4I/AAAAAAAAAtI/o5k35ZJy7_0/s1600/fun+run.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There's nothing <em>fun</em> about running. I've tried it. And what's all this about a runner's high? I never got high. Lost control of my bodily functions? Yes. But high? Not even close. That's just another crackpot conspiracy theory right up there with dead Paul McCartney and a race of elite reptiles secretly controlling humans.</span></div>
<br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Cooking Class</span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hold up.
Let me get this straight: I’m supposed to spend my special
day preparing my own meal? Remember when we were house hunting and our realtor couldn't seem to find any homes without a kitchen</span>? (Why can't realtors ever stick to your wish list? Do they not want the commission?) Just because we got stuck with<em> </em>a kitchen doesn't mean I make a habit of going in it. Incidentally, I don't enter Son's room either, but for entirely different reasons. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-l5_qxqwCqd8/U223Whx5EiI/AAAAAAAAAsM/iVtM8Fqy_O8/s1600/Mothers-Day-Brunch-Cooking-Class-nyc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-l5_qxqwCqd8/U223Whx5EiI/AAAAAAAAAsM/iVtM8Fqy_O8/s1600/Mothers-Day-Brunch-Cooking-Class-nyc.jpg" height="257" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The event description says “BYOB encouraged.” Yeah, because I'd have to be slurry, slurpy drunk to actually pay for the privilege of cooking my own brunch.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mother/Daughter Pole Dancing Class</span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What exactly was the thought process behind this? To give girls a marketable skill so they won't have to resort to more cerebral pursuits? Why not get the whole family involved? Dads can show their young sons how to make it rain up in there and how to hold in whiskey farts during lap dances.</span><br />
<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zK942UB3uEM/U218k1CJvII/AAAAAAAAArs/C76ilSzoQHM/s1600/Mother+Daughter+Pole+Class.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zK942UB3uEM/U218k1CJvII/AAAAAAAAArs/C76ilSzoQHM/s1600/Mother+Daughter+Pole+Class.JPG" height="186" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Planetarium Outing</strong></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xklVOsMbryg/U23H5MRYScI/AAAAAAAAAsc/EuZd2EGXa1c/s1600/web-image-529x338_Mothers-day-20141.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xklVOsMbryg/U23H5MRYScI/AAAAAAAAAsc/EuZd2EGXa1c/s1600/web-image-529x338_Mothers-day-20141.jpg" height="255" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: Arial; text-align: left;">Gazing at the stars from a cushy recliner sounds cool, but it's too risky. Imagine a grown woman busting out laughing when the narrator says, </span><span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: left;">"Astronomers discovered Uranus is full of ice and rock." You know how immature I can be. I can't even look at a map of Thailand without snickering. (Bangkok and Phuket? <em>Seriously</em>?!)</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, Hubs, I trust I've made it clear what to avoid this Mother's Day weekend. You know me; I'm not one to be demanding. (Shut up. I am not.) Just make sure I'm well fed, well rested and well loved, and we shouldn't have any problems. </span></div>
Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-63719434944582752012014-03-25T07:10:00.001-04:002014-03-25T09:15:09.821-04:00Such a Tease<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #2e2d2d;">“Go anywhere your mind wants to travel. Take us
there too.”</span><o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I said I was only doing one more prompt, but how can I
resist a free write? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know this is the last <a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2014/03/trifextra-week-105.html#comment-form">Trifecta challenge</a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">evah</i>, but my mind just wouldn’t allow me
to go to a sad place. I’m sailing on a Disney cruise in five days, and Hubs
and I renew our vows in a week—nothing but happiness here (and a smidgen
of pre-trip stress). Besides, I hate sad goodbyes. Had too many of those in my
life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, here’s where my mind traveled:</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Legs intermingle<br />
Emboldened by drink.<br />Your hand parts my thighs. <br />
I’m nearing the brink.<br />I twitter and chirp.<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Laughs)<br />
“Who let in the birds?”</i><br />Your fingers plunge and …<br /><br /> I have no more words.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
#</div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To the Trifecta community and the dear, dear friends I’ve made from these challenges:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">
</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br />Thank you for the lovely words you left on my entries over the
past year. Sometimes life got in the way of me responding (like last week) but
I appreciate your thoughtful, encouraging comments more than I could ever
express. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">XO</span>Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-2871652063358852072014-03-17T21:33:00.000-04:002014-03-18T08:47:53.183-04:00My Writing Process (A Blog Tour)<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">My amazingly talented friend
Kir invited me to take part in a "My Writing Process" blog tour. Each
Monday, a new batch of bloggers answers a set of four questions about writing.
Today is my turn. Check out Kir's post from last week at </span><a href="http://kirstenapiccini.com/"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #3b5998;">kirstenapiccini.com</span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">. Prepare to be inspired. She
certainly has that effect on me.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">What I am working on</span></strong><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I am working on an erotic
novel which I hope to develop into a trilogy. (Because don’t all erotic novels
come in threes?) Mine is a story of love, loss, friendship and betrayal. The
sex in my book furthers the narrative of the various relationships. I would
like to think if you deleted all the naughty parts of my book, what remains
would still be compelling. I want my characters to be captivating even if they
weren’t having hot, sexy sex. But they do have hot, sexy sex. </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">How my work differs
from others of its genre</span></strong><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I’m relying on hearsay
to answer this one. Oddly enough, I don’t actually read erotica. And—once I
started writing my book—I made a concerted effort not to read books in that
genre. I don’t want to be influenced by what someone else has written.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Based on common complaints
I’ve heard from erotica-devouring friends, I hope to deliver a series that
doesn’t:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<ul type="disc">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">contain copius grammatical errors
<o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">dissolve into farfetched
scenarios by the final installment <o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">feature a woman who is an
infuriating doormat <o:p></o:p></span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Ouch. That sounded bitchy. Blame my
friends. <br />
<br />
My book has humor—probably not terribly common in erotic novels. My main
character is a snarky, quick-witted and frank narrator. You get to be privy to
her uncensored thoughts. And there’s plenty of fun dialogue and comic situations
sprinkled among the serious plot stuff and sex scenes. You’ll laugh. You’ll
cry. You’ll burn through batteries.<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Why I write what I do</span></strong><br />
<br />
Writing inspiration is everywhere: a phrase uttered on television, the way my
dogs' paws smell like corn chips. Strange things. Mundane things. Anything can
jumpstart my imagination. Man, I love that rush of inspiration. It's such a
high. Writing truly is my drug. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">My erotic novel arose out of
sheer, unbridled envy. All the hoopla over the Fifty Shades trilogy got to me.
For months it seemed every of-age, literate female I encountered recommended
the series to me. It dawned on me that writing erotica is right up my alley. I
love sex and I have a dirty mind. I can take any discussion down an inappropriate
road--just ask my friends ... or my mom.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Also, I wanted to write a
novel that’s relatable to women like me. This isn’t a story about 20-something
singles. My main characters are full-fledged grownups. They’ve been married and
they have children. I want to show that women like that—women like me—can still have steamy, fulfilling sex lives. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">How my writing
process works</span></strong><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">When I get an idea, I have to
stop what I’m doing and write it down. I’ve actually pulled into a parking lot
to jot down my thoughts. At the beginning of a large writing project, I have a
pile of notes written on all sorts of things: ads, bills, my kid’s report card.
I use those notes to create an outline of the major plot points. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">My next step is to sketch out
my characters. The draft I’m currently writing spans several years, so I
created a spreadsheet that helps me keep track of characters’ ages at the time
of specific plot points. So, as you can imagine, I spend a lot of time planning
before ever writing a sentence. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">This isn’t the case for short
stories. That’s more of a stream of consciousness thing. And then I revise it
and hack it to all hell until it becomes something I can live with. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I try to commit a couple
hours a day to my novel. When I start writing, I tend to get carried away,
though. I get lost in my story, and my characters refuse to be silenced. They
couldn’t care less that clothes need folded, kids need fed and my ass needs to
be worked out.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">At each new writing session,
I review what I last wrote, make any necessary changes, and then I'm off and
running again.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">*
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Now it's my turn to introduce
the next stop on your blog tour: <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Glynis Rankin is a poet and author of inspirational women's fiction, <strong>The Between</strong> and <strong>Linger</strong> and other short stories. Glynis writes at <a href="http://glynis-imaginings.blogspot.com/">Imaginings of a Nubian Mind</a>. Pay her a visit. You won't be disappointed.</span>Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-46590150730935043102014-03-17T14:17:00.002-04:002014-03-17T14:28:10.482-04:00FriendI retired from Trifecta weeks ago, but when I heard it was closing its doors this month, I thought I would link up once more. <br />
<br />
Prior to discovering Trifecta in May 2013, I hadn't participated in an ongoing writing challenge. The prompts gave me a reason to look forward to Monday mornings and helped me overcome apprehension about sharing my fiction. I never placed on any editor-judged challenges, but was recognized during several community-judged challenges. Having fellow writers deem my work worthy of the winners' circle was a much-needed confidence boost. When I start doubting my writing ability, I can look back at those winning entries and remind myself that I must not totally suck.<br />
<br />
Through Trifecta, I've connected with some ridiculously talented writers who just happen to be fabulous people. I would love to keep in touch. Look me up on Facebook. I guarantee you I am the only <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ivy.dayemagner">Ivy Daye Magner</a> there.<br />
<br />
I will always be grateful to Trifecta for the new friendships and the inspiration to put fingers to keys.<br />
<br />
Did you really read all that? Wow. I hope you still have the energy to read my response to <a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2014/03/trifecta-week-114.html">this week's prompt</a>:<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">My
tears satisfy your shrouded spite.<br />
Ever eager to entertain my woes;<br />
Astounded your double-edged advice <br />
Flopped ... <em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">again</span></em>.<br />
Sweet lips.<br />
Bitter heart.<br />
While you’re rubbing my back,<br />
Can you pull out that knife?</span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
#</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>The prompt: write exactly 33 words including the include the word "satisfy" as defined
below:</em></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
<span style="color: red; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<em>SATISFY</em></div>
<span style="color: red;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: red;">a :
to make happy : please<br /><em>b : to gratify to the full : appease</em></span></div>
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
</div>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-29498042051574639742014-03-07T09:31:00.002-05:002014-03-07T09:32:31.140-05:00Boxed In<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Written for this week's Lillie McFerrin Writes </span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="http://lilliemcferrin.com/five-sentence-fiction-furious/">Five Sentence Fiction</a> prompt. Word: FURIOUS</span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
furious pulse of hail thrashing the window was oddly calming, pulling her out
of her muddled head. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He’d whispered midnight assurances into her hair, expertly
negotiating the removal of her clothes and inhibitions. From then on he was vague
plans, premeditated arguments, and the scowl on her mother’s face. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She never divulged that his practiced ambivalence stimulated her; that she fed off the mayhem
of this tilted, insecure relationship. Now he's threatening to ruin it all with
that hinged box containing the promise of a new monogram, Sunday night meatloaf
and joint checking.</span></span>Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-55515883532734437372014-02-26T12:00:00.002-05:002014-02-26T14:56:44.145-05:00A Momentary Lapse (I Should've Cleaned the Toilets Instead)I am weak. I told myself not to, but I couldn't resist. It taunted me. Enticed me. Reeled me in. I knew it would lead to no good, but I just had to. <br />
<br />
I got into a Facebook argument.<br />
<br />
I know, <em>I know</em>. Why couldn't I leave it alone? Who cares if someone's status update is ill-informed, ill-conceived, offensive, insensitive, judgmental, short-sighted, egotistical, racist, sexist, anti-SAHM, anti-working mom, fat-shaming, skinny-shaming, and/or promotes animal cruelty? I could go on and on and on. But seriously--what good is engaging the poster in a debate? They're only words on a screen. I should've rolled my eyes and scrolled down to see what hilarious meme George Takei just posted. <br />
<br />
Opinions are like assholes: Everybody has one and some people's stink more than others'. Your opinion (and--for that matter--your asshole) does not impact my life. Even if your status update or comment blatantly disparages sarcastic, large-breasted, fiscally conservative, socially liberal, 5'4", black, female bloggers who love all things Disney; it's of no consequence to me. <br />
<br />
Fingers have been known to type more than mouths would say; in those cases it's not really an authentic debate. Where's the fun in that? And if said argument occurs on their timeline, their friends, family members, ex-coworkers, and that weird neighbor of theirs who yells at himself will all rush to their side. Pack mentality and Internet bravado will always win out. <em>Always</em>.<br />
<br />
There are more worthwhile, more fulfilling things I could do with my time than allowing myself to get sucked into a Facebook pissing match. I could deep clean the five toilets in my house. I could root out that ingrown hair on my inner thigh. I could forage through the dog poop in our yard to confirm my suspicion that one of our pooches ate my dangly earring.<br />
<br />
So I am publicly vowing to stop getting into Facebook arguments ... unless someone suggests Chris Hemsworth is not the absolute hottest man on this planet. Don't go there. I will virtually tear you apart.Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-67322575819150658302014-02-21T10:37:00.000-05:002014-02-21T12:47:04.616-05:00The Pieces<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dozens of white clay baskets lined the art room shelves. I had etched tiny tulips—Mother’s favorite—into mine. Throughout the week, we glazed our baskets and Ms. Huck fired them. <br /><br />I put my masterpiece in a glitter-adorned paper sack and carefully placed it in the bottom of my locker. I was convinced Mother would come back once she saw the beautiful basket I made for her. <br /><br />The night Mother left, we’d eaten tater tot casserole. (It’s funny the little details you recall.) After dinner, Mother shooed Cass, Gigi and me outside. She didn’t make us put on shoes, and we reveled in the rare opportunity to run around the backyard barefoot. We picked mulberries, transporting them in our shirts. Mother and Daddy were still at the dinner table as we padded by. I was relieved they were too engrossed in conversation to yell at us for our berry-stained clothes and feet.<br /><br />Mother was gone the next morning.<br /> <br />Two weeks would pass before we saw her again. Mother’s Day. She was meeting us at the Dairy Queen and we were spending the afternoon with her. I chose a nice shirt for Daddy, ironed Cass and Gigi’s dresses and fixed their ponytails. In the car, I held the paper bag gingerly in my lap.<br /> <br />Mother came alone. Mr. Morris had taken his kids to visit their grandmother. She mashed us into a teary, four-person embrace. Mother looked the same, but smelled different. Fresh peaches. She and Daddy hugged like reluctant acquaintances. They talked outside as we finished our cones. Daddy waved goodbye sporting the desolate expression that had become his trademark. <br /><br />Mother’s new home was bigger and had a pool. We swam, ate lunch on her manicured lawn and watched a movie. Although it was her special day, Mother gave us gifts: a giggling baby doll for Cass, a purple stuffed bear for Gigi, and a Barbie styling head for me. I presented her with the clay basket. Mother gushed, displacing a marble statue to showcase my creation on her mantel.<br /><br />Cass and Gigi fell asleep as Mother drove us home. She and Daddy carried them into bed. Mother stayed for coffee. For those brief minutes, all the puzzle pieces were in place.<br /> <br />Then Mother left.<br /><br />Over the next three years, we saw less and less of her. Mr. Morris’s children lived with their mother and had access to ours every other weekend. Meanwhile, I shopped for my first bra with Mrs. Devereux, our neighbor. When Gigi started losing teeth, Mother wasn’t there with her supply of silver dollars, so the tooth fairy switched to bills. Cass eventually stopped screaming for Mother whenever she awoke from a nightmare.<br /><br /> Daddy dated some, but nothing ever came of it. His heart wasn’t his to give. Once Mother and Mr. Morris got engaged, Daddy resigned himself to a life alone. I resigned myself to having one parent who wasn’t there and one who was there but <em>wasn’t</em>. I bandaged the boo-boos, packed the lunches and kept the little ones quiet while Daddy slept, which was often.<br /><br />When Daddy burst into my room that night, he spoke in excited gasps. Mother was coming home. He was leaving to get her and I was to quickly tidy up his room. There wasn’t time for questions.<br /><br />I was waiting in the living room when they came in. Daddy supported Mother, whose every step brought pained grunts. She held one arm to her chest protectively. Even in the darkness I could see the discoloration on her face. They walked past me and headed to their ... <em>his ... </em>bedroom.<br /><br />“There was an accident,” Daddy vaguely offered over breakfast. Mother was still sleeping. Cass and Gigi raced down the hall, book bags bouncing wildly against their backs.<br /><br />“Why is she here?” I whispered. The younger girls weren’t aware Mother had returned. <em>We’ll talk later</em>, his eyes said.<br /><br />The school day blurred by. I told no one of Mother’s sudden reappearance. Why would I? I seldom mentioned the woman who’d reduced herself to birthday checks, extravagant Christmas gifts and five-minute phone calls.<br /><br />My bus dropped me off a half hour before Cass and Gigi’s. Mother was sitting by the picture window wearing Daddy’s pajama top, her legs underneath a quilt.<br /><br /> “Hi, sweetie,” she chirped warmly, as she should’ve after every school day for too many months to count.<br /><br />I sat at the far end of the couch, scrutinizing her blackened eye and the gash in her cheek.<br /><br /> “What happened to you?”<br /><br />Daddy, who’d taken a personal day, brought her hot tea. They exchanged a glance.<br /><br /> “I had an accident.”<br /><br />“Bullshit.”<br /><br />“Rachel!” Daddy scolded.<br /><br />“It’s OK, Ben.” Mother lifted the cup with her good arm, and then reconsidered. She delicately ran her fingers across her swollen lip.<br /><br />They never told me the truth, but I overheard snippets about charges and restraining orders. In the days that followed, a truck brought Mother’s essentials and delivered the rest of her possessions to a storage unit to be sorted out later. One morning I noticed the clay basket on our mantel. I knocked it to the floor. Mother never asked about it. She just picked up the pieces.<br /><br />She threw herself into the mommy role, enrolling Gigi in gymnastics and hosting a lavish party when Cass turned nine (the same age I was when Mother left). When I started my period, she bought me feminine products and took me out for a celebratory dinner. It did feel good to be taken care of.<br /><br />The night Mother left again, I was reading under my blanket with a flashlight. Creaky floorboards ratted her out. We met in the hallway; I was the only thing standing between her and whatever she wasn’t getting from us.<br /><br />“What should I tell Cass and Gigi?” The words burned my throat.<br /><br />Mother reached out to caress my face. I surprised us both by letting her. She silently bent to grab her duffle.<br /><br /> And then Mother left me to pick up the pieces.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">#</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em>I wrote this 1000-word piece for</em> <em>the </em><a href="http://writeonedge.com/2014/01/it-takes-two-a-writing-contest/"><em>It Takes Two</em></a><em> writing contest hosted by Write on Edge and Bannerwing.</em> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<em>The details:</em><br />
<h1 style="text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="font-size: small;">“It takes two to make an accident.”</span></strong></h1>
<h1 style="text-align: center;">
<strong></strong><span style="font-size: small;">F. Scott Fitzgerald, <em>The Great Gatsby</em></span></h1>
<ul><em>
<li>1000 word limit, all genres of creative writing are welcome.</li>
<li>linky is open until Friday, February 21, at 11:55pm Pacific</li>
<li>Use the Fitzgerald quote above as an opening/closing line or draw inspiration from it, your choice.</li>
<li>Community voting opens 2/22 and closes 2/28 at 11:55pm Pacific.</li>
<li>Community and editorial choice winners will be announced on <strong>Write on Edge</strong> and <strong>Bannerwing Books</strong> on Monday, March 3, 2014.</li>
<li>All entries must be original work, only published on your personal blog/website, and by entering you give <strong>Write on Edge</strong> and <strong>Bannerwing Books</strong> permission to reprint your entry in <em>Precipice, Volume III</em>‘s print and digital formats, as well as permission to edit for grammatical, spelling, and typographical errors.</li>
</em></ul>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-35868426339986407012014-02-19T11:06:00.002-05:002014-02-21T11:04:06.839-05:00A (Passive-Aggressive) Letter to My Dear HubsHey, Babe! <br />
<br />
I bet you're having a fantastic time in Italy. I know you're "working" and you go there as often as most people go to Publix, but you're enjoying yourself at least a little bit, right? Gosh, I sure hope so. One of my Facebook ads this morning asked me if I needed a trip to Italy. Everyone's a freakin' comedian these days.<br />
<br />
Speaking of Facebook, I saw the photo you posted last night. That spaghetti and Chianti looked sublime. Makes me feel less guilty about you missing out on the Arby's feast we have planned for tonight. <br />
<br />
The kids are fine. They still can't find any of the twelve wastebaskets in the house, nor have they figured out what that mystical lever on the toilet tank does. But, otherwise, they're peachy. School finally resumed Tuesday after a week off for Snowmageddon 2014 and Monday's scheduled holiday. It's a good thing, too. All that forced togetherness had me wondering how much I could get on the black market for a curly-haired Instagram addict and a tall, skinny kid who eats more than all the morbidly obese toddlers on <em>Maury</em> combined.<br />
<br />
As we were leaving for school this morning, I noticed a bike on our neighbors' front lawn. <br />
<br />
Me: "Is that your bike?"<br />
Son: "No."<br />
Me: "Are you sure?"<br />
Son: "I'm not 100% sure."<br />
Me: "THEN GET OUT OF THE CAR AND GO LOOOOOOK!"<br />
Son: "Oh, OK."<br />
<br />
The punchline: Daughter put Son's bike in our innocent neighbors' yard in retaliation for Son putting her iPod on top of my car. Isn't that <em>hilarious</em>? I laughed at an unnaturally high volume for a full minute. Those little jokesters of ours!<br />
<br />
They both had soccer practice Monday night. Drop offs at 7:00 and 7:30 at two different fields went smoothly. In between the 8:00 and 9:00 pick-up times, I sat in my car eating leftover, lukewarm Pizza Hut and wondering if you were sleeping well all alone in your quiet hotel room. <br />
<br />
Oh, I had to buy daughter new cleats because she inherited your giant feet. Did you know the poor dear can't play well unless she's wearing cute, overly-priced shoes? <br />
<br />
Our three Yorkshire Terrorists are living up to their nickname. Old, senile Sassy is still pissing in the house every chance she gets. She stepped up her game today by taking a dump in the living room. And the pups (hmmm ... maybe if we quit calling our 2-year-old dogs "puppies," they'd quit behaving like puppies) are still absconding with everything that isn't nailed down. Socks, hair bows, expensive American Doll accessories, important papers--anything that fits through the pet door. By the look of the backyard, our goal of starting our own landfill is coming along great. <br />
<br />
Don't worry: our vow renewal plans are going swimmingly. My seamstress is soooooo creative. She's doing all sorts of things I never even imagined (or asked for). You won't see my dress until we're on the beach celebrating 15 years of wedded bliss. But I think I'll be just as surprised as you are by the finished product.<br />
<br />
I don't want to give you the impression things are all bad. Why just an hour ago, I received an email from a lovely gentleman who apparently met me on some beach. Now he wants to give me a cut of $18 mil in unclaimed funds that his deceased customer left behind. No strings attached! I don't know why he picked me. After seeing me in a swimsuit, he probably realized how desperately I need lipo and laser hair removal. Anyway, I better go so I can email him our bank account information.<br />
<br />
Ciao, mi amore!Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-20331810147279946322014-02-10T15:19:00.001-05:002014-02-11T06:59:00.577-05:00No Love, No Tears, No Pain, Etc.<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><em>This week's </em><a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2014/02/trifextra-week-102.html"><em><span style="color: #5321bb;">Trifecta Writing Challenge</span></em></a><em> is to come up with 33 words about love gone wrong; however, the piece cannot include the following words:</em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Calibri;">love, sad, tears, wept, heart, pain</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here are my 33:</span></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Whispers yell<br />
Rumors swell<br />
<br />
My past sin<br />
Your chagrin<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Passion wanes<br />
Our knot strains<br />
<br />
Your mistrust<br />
Breeds my lust<br />
<br />
<em>"Lock the door,</em><br />
<em>Paramour"</em><br />
<br />
You suspect<br />
I deflect<br />
<br />
And you stay<br />
While I stray</div>
Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com48tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-91264332498147646762014-02-03T22:56:00.000-05:002014-02-04T08:44:38.319-05:00It's Complicated<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I realize I haven’t been very attentive lately. And when I did finally see you the other night, all I did was criticize you. I felt shitty about that. I just didn’t like some of the stuff I saw. You were pretty messed up. I felt it was my duty to straighten you out.<br /><br />We’ve hit some rough patches, but I think we should ride this thing out. I promise to keep a more open mind and try not to be so disparaging.<br /><br />You know at one point I actually thought about bringing someone else in to … um … spice things up. I‘m too possessive, though. The thought of anyone else touching you freaks me out. That doesn't mean I won’t pass you around like Thanksgiving yams when I’m finished with you. (Haha!) But right now, let’s keep this between us.<br /><br />Look, it won’t always be good. Some days I will lavish attention on you. And then weeks might go by without any word from me. Not a single word. It’s not as if I’m <em>trying</em> to neglect you. I do have other stuff going on and people who depend on me. I have a family, remember? I refuse to feel guilty about that. It doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about you. I think about you all the time. <br /><br />I guess I’m a little gun shy. My track record up to this point hasn’t exactly been stellar. I won't manipulate history: It was me, not them. I take full responsibility. We’d be going along great and—all of a sudden—I’d lose interest. Either that or something felt off, and I didn’t know how to fix it, so I bailed.<br /> <br />I want this time to be different because I think you’re the one. I’m not just saying that. It’s going to take more than a little writer’s block to make me quit on you. So, as-yet-untitled first draft, my schedule is wide open today. How about we spend a couple hours between your sheets?</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br />
<o:p><br />
</o:p></span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">#</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">This
week's </span></em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2014/02/trifecta-week-111.html"><em><span style="color: #5321bb; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Trifecta Writing Challenge</span></em></a><em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">:</span></em>
<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The
entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "manipulate" as defined
below:</span></em></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: red; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">MANIPULATE<br /><span style="color: red;">to change by artful or unfair means so as to serve one's purpose : to doctor</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: red; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"></span><o:p><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri;"></span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Word
count: 333</span> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">
</span>Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-2846594666770161862014-01-27T11:00:00.000-05:002014-01-27T12:08:36.639-05:00Study Break<em>This week's </em><a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2014/01/trifextra-week-101.html"><em>Trifecta Writing Challenge</em></a><em> is to come up with 33 words inspired by this photo:</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9RcxwU7EK8c/UuZuAlBHRbI/AAAAAAAAArI/92U3J9BZiRk/s1600/girl+in+glass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9RcxwU7EK8c/UuZuAlBHRbI/AAAAAAAAArI/92U3J9BZiRk/s1600/girl+in+glass.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://foter.com/photo/or/">http://foter.com/photo/or/</a><br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I pose near the glass, thin
arms flexed.<br />
Will she ever look up from that text?<br />
I’m all substance—no style.<br />
But if I make her smile,<br />
Who knows what could transpire next?</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
#</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em>I initially wrote a different limerick for this prompt. It was dark. Really dark. What does it say about me that I looked at this innocent photo and immediately went to such a macabre place? If I'm ever wrongfully accused of murdering someone (which I'm 97% certain I would never do), could such posts be used against me during my trial? I wouldn't survive prison. I talk a good game, but I'm basically soft and girly.<br /> <br />You know what? I'm posting it anyway. Here is "Finals Week":</em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She studied in vain for a test.<br /> Watching her stirred the urge I’d repressed.<br /> As my teeth tore her skin,<br /> Her blood dripped from my chin.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There once was a girl named Celeste.<br /></span></div>
Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com42tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-20969391825193346022014-01-21T08:55:00.001-05:002014-01-21T08:55:30.296-05:00(In)Discretion<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The message had been vague. An industry type. I’ve been personal assistant to a well-known TV producer (closeted queen) and, most recently, an Oscar-winning costume designer (Oxy addict). But don’t expect any tell-all books from me. I have a reputation for being discreet. Plus, I can’t spell worth a damn.<br /><br />I opted for my ivory Dolce pantsuit—a castoff disguised as a Christmas bonus from the costumer. The meeting was held in a rented Burbank office. Interviewing with a third party is typical, as these clients are far too busy for such minutiae. The burnt-orange man in the summer sweater barely looked up as he detailed the job. <br /><br />“He works all hours and likes to have somebody on hand. Are you OK with a live-in position?” Without waiting for my answer, he went on. “Truth is, he’s lonely. But I didn’t say that.”<br /><br />Coaxing me out of my $1200/month shithole wasn’t hard. And I understand lonely. I’m a parentless only child. My father sold his first novel and moved us here from Ohio when I was ten. Within a year, he’d performed the clichéd disappearing act with some surgically enhanced starlet. My mom succumbed to breast cancer a few years back—shortly after my college graduation. Oh, and I haven’t had a decent date since Bush No. 2 was in office.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<br />*</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />The gates part before I announce my name to the box. As I step out of my car, the main house’s enormous, ornate doors fling open.<br /><br />“You’re a vile, decrepit, shitstain of a man!”<br /><br />A surprisingly refined-looking woman in a quaint peasant blouse bursts out. She furiously shakes a leather satchel, littering the ground with yellow papers.<br /><br /> “Good luck, girly,” the woman scoffs, dropping the bag at my feet.<br /><br />I watch her speed through the closing gates before turning toward the house. A handsome, gray-haired man in a stately monogrammed bathrobe appears in the doorway. After surveying the paper trail, he shrugs and grins sheepishly.<br /><br />“Hello, Erica,” he says.<br /><br />“Hello, Dad.”</div>
</span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">#</span></div>
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">This week's </span></em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2014/01/trifecta-week-110.html"><em><span style="color: #5321bb; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Trifecta Writing Challenge</span></em></a><em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">:</span></em>
<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The entry must be 33-333 words and include the
word "quaint" as defined below:</span></em></span><o:p></o:p><br />
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<span style="color: red; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">QUAINT<br />
a: unusual or different in character or appearance: ODD<br />
b: pleasingly or strikingly old-fashioned or unfamiliar <a quaint phrase></span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"></span><o:p><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri;"></span></o:p><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Word count: 333</span>Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-75043281184861889512014-01-13T11:59:00.001-05:002014-01-13T12:17:50.818-05:00At First Sight<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This week's <a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2014/01/trifextra-week-100.html">Trifecta challenge</a> is to write a 33-word follow-up to this snippet:
</span></em><br />
</span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The first time I saw. . .</span></em></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The piece should be exactly 38 words, and all words must be one syllable each.</span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The first time I saw you, I fell hard.<br /><br /> Big feet, red face, head cone shaped.<br /> <br />You were just right.<br /><br /> Now here you are ...<br /><br />Huge feet, peach fuzz, your dad’s bowed legs.<br /><br /> You are just right.<br /><br /> My son.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>As my first born turns 14 this week, I wonder what happened to that chubby little boy who arrived on his due date (albeit after 24 hours of labor). Now he's all legs and I can count his ribs. Sigh. In a flash, I went from picking him up to looking up at him. </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em> </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>Fortunately, he hasn't completely changed ...</em></span><br />
<br />
<br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N-M--sHhZLw/UtQUqguNnDI/AAAAAAAAAqs/_Zihv3nNshE/s1600/reed,+me,+darren.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N-M--sHhZLw/UtQUqguNnDI/AAAAAAAAAqs/_Zihv3nNshE/s1600/reed,+me,+darren.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span>Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-5763046740824383012014-01-06T17:02:00.000-05:002014-01-07T12:59:08.778-05:00Whenever, Wherever, However<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">Sunlight
streams into our bedroom via discount curtains I've been meaning to replace.
It’s Saturday morning. He’s already awake, reading emails about budget
constraints, delivery deadlines, or whatever. The workaholic ditches his
iPhone once he notices my newly conscious state.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="background: white;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">“Come snuggle.”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="background: white;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">He pats the void between us—the one very recently occupied by a wild-haired
toddler. I slide over, taking my place inside his warm arm.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="background: white;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">“How come she never wakes up when <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i>
carry her back to bed?” I ask.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="background: white;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">“Well, I’m a ninja, so ...”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="background: white;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">I smile at his silliness. I smile at the sensation of his words
reverberating from his chest to my cheek. I smile because I know what his
snuggle invitations mean. After nine years, I’m onto his schemes. And I’m a
willing accomplice. We are thieves, stealing little moments between potty
accidents, toy battles and nightmares featuring vague monsters.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="background: white;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">As usual, my feet are ice. But he doesn’t flinch when my frigid toes breach
his soft leg hairs. His hand is on my ass. It’ll end up there several
more times today. (A quick slap if we pass each other in the kitchen preparing
tonight’s kid-friendly cuisine. A little squeeze while we retreat down the
hall, having tucked each child under a Disney-themed bedspread.)</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="background: white;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">I’m covered neck to ankle in flannel pajamas older than our oldest
offspring, yet I shiver when his lips sweep my forehead. As I stretch to nuzzle
his neck, I feel him growing against my hip. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="background: white;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">“The door?”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="background: white;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">“Already locked,” he declares.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="background: white;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">I love that he assumed we’d have sex this morning. I love that he’s in the
mood although he spent the greater part of last night with tiny feet in his
back.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="background: white;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">Once upon a time, we had sex like freshly paroled ex-cons. Nowadays we take it
whenever, wherever and however we can get it—which occasionally amounts
to quickies in obscure parking lots before relieving the sitter. Sometimes
we’re too damn exhausted for anything beyond snuggling. </span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";"></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 13pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI";">But not this morning.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
# </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><em>This
week's </em></span><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2014/01/trifecta-week-109.html"><span style="color: #5321bb; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><em>Trifecta Writing Challenge</em></span></a><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><em>:</em></span>
<em><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The
entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "whatever" as defined
below:<o:p></o:p></span></em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"></span><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri;"></span><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri;">WHATEVER</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri;">(adverb) Used to show that something is not important</span></div>
<span style="color: red;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<span style="color: red;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-top: 0in; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: red; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri;">Word count: 333</span></div>
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</div>
<div align="left" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-55159081364472457662014-01-03T16:13:00.000-05:002014-01-03T16:41:15.996-05:00Ferbie and Grinch: A Bromance<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Here's what happens when you combine a dog-tired Yorkie, a Grinch plush, and a healthy dose of post-holiday cleaning procrastination.</div>
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</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uBYudzW_HMA/UscaPZHtd9I/AAAAAAAAApE/dEDsG8i_08Y/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uBYudzW_HMA/UscaPZHtd9I/AAAAAAAAApE/dEDsG8i_08Y/s320/2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Grinch's expression could have one questioning his motives, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
but his intentions are strictly platonic.</div>
<div align="center">
</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-u9gfAtvkkNM/UscbF-Zk_PI/AAAAAAAAApY/hQTIaBpz0m0/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-u9gfAtvkkNM/UscbF-Zk_PI/AAAAAAAAApY/hQTIaBpz0m0/s320/4.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dWocvorgkTs/UscaQB3o5YI/AAAAAAAAApI/YkYMflGrAco/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dWocvorgkTs/UscaQB3o5YI/AAAAAAAAApI/YkYMflGrAco/s320/3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Grinch is going to have a bad case </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
of dead arm after this spoon fest.</div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-76DTsYjmwnQ/UsccsGaevYI/AAAAAAAAAp4/rE0Kgf2GQ0w/s1600/6b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-76DTsYjmwnQ/UsccsGaevYI/AAAAAAAAAp4/rE0Kgf2GQ0w/s320/6b.jpg" width="216" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6_5CGjKXFSo/UscbJNrf3xI/AAAAAAAAApk/CuAH5cTIZA0/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6_5CGjKXFSo/UscbJNrf3xI/AAAAAAAAApk/CuAH5cTIZA0/s320/7.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
</div>
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Snuggle buddies!</div>
<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5GX_o8px86k/UscaNQIvy3I/AAAAAAAAAo8/1FeftSI6jv4/s1600/10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5GX_o8px86k/UscaNQIvy3I/AAAAAAAAAo8/1FeftSI6jv4/s320/10.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Grinch demonstrating how Daughter sleeps with (or on) me.</div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>Photos used with permission from Ferbie, our Yorkshire Terrier.
<br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Well, he didn't exactly say yes; but he didn't say no either.</span> </em></span>
</div>
Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-64871146745651807512013-12-30T09:24:00.000-05:002013-12-30T13:23:51.861-05:00Three Little WordsThe folks at <a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2013/12/trifextra-week-ninety-nine.html">Trifecta</a> have challenged us to write a three-word New Year's resolution. <br />
<br />
Oh, man. I can think of a bazillion.<br />
<br />
Finish that novel.<br />
Drink less booze.<br />
Go to church.<br />
Don't overwhelm myself.<br />
Say "no" more.<br />
Say "yes" more.<br />
F*cking swear less.<br />
<br />
Hubs offered a suggestion: "Don't hit people." I didn't appreciate the implication that I'm violent, so I smacked him.<br />
<br />
In the end, I guess I really need to:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>Just do better.</strong></div>
Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com53tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-78589217991599550022013-12-25T11:37:00.000-05:002013-12-25T11:37:52.423-05:00Our 2013 Rap Sheet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>This is a revised version of our Christmas letter. I deleted names and other personal details because I refuse to make things easy for internet lunatics and stalkers. They'll have to put in their own work like everyone else. </em></div>
<em></em><br />
<em>If you're a relative/friend/coworker/acquaintance and you didn't get our letter this year, we:</em><br />
<em><br />a. didn't have your address<br />
b. never receive one from you (tit for tat and all that)<br />
c. don't like you enough to waste the stamp<br />
d. some combination of the above<br />
e. all of the above</em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #00863d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #00863d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Aren’t you sick of braggy Christmas letters? </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #00863d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #00863d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Well, this year we’re
keeping it real, yo! We’re gonna tell you all the bad stuff we did in 2013.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jb3qOBB0CVE/UrHnQdcZg0I/AAAAAAAAAoM/cDW0n23YRLo/s1600/Reed+mugshot+blog.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="342" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jb3qOBB0CVE/UrHnQdcZg0I/AAAAAAAAAoM/cDW0n23YRLo/s400/Reed+mugshot+blog.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Son, 13<br />
Alias: Stretch McGee</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Offenses:</div>
<ul>
<li>Ditched his family every chance he got on their Disney cruise over last New Year’s</li>
<li>Outgrew his jeans twice</li>
<li>Forced his parents to endure frigid temps (40°!) to watch his fancy footwork on the soccer field </li>
<li>Sported a mustache that looks like Justin Bieber's</li>
<li>Wore headphones and pajama pants all the time</li>
<li>Stole every pencil in the house to draw his original comic series “McFancy”</li>
<li>Committed multiple zombie homicides on Xbox Live</li>
</ul>
<div>
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GTXSX27rv-k/UrGpiJ8j9ZI/AAAAAAAAAn8/0fvW67J9av4/s1600/Regan+mugshot+blog.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="351" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GTXSX27rv-k/UrGpiJ8j9ZI/AAAAAAAAAn8/0fvW67J9av4/s400/Regan+mugshot+blog.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daughter, 11<br />
Alias: Baby Girl</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Offenses: <br />
<ul>
<li>Only came in fourth place at the school spelling bee </li>
<li>Ditched her family to spend spring break in Myrtle Beach with friends </li>
<li>Had a pop star-themed sleepover birthday party and kept her parents up way too late</li>
<li>Was the tiniest, yet the loudest, cheerleader on her city rec squad</li>
<li>Attended a P!nk concert in Atlanta with her mom and conned her mother into buying a $5 cup of pop</li>
<li>Allowed her feet to keep growing (currently size 6.5), requiring new shoes three times</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MbS_tVCaHnY/UrGphMNscMI/AAAAAAAAAn0/C8XvNfOPoD8/s1600/Darren+mugshot+blog.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="342" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MbS_tVCaHnY/UrGphMNscMI/AAAAAAAAAn0/C8XvNfOPoD8/s400/Darren+mugshot+blog.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hubs<br />
Alias: <span style="background-color: black;">Mags </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div>
Offenses:</div>
<ul>
<li>Visited Germany and Italy three times each, Florida and Iowa; only took his wife on the Iowa trip </li>
<li>Subjected his family to countless hours of country music while honing his guitar skills </li>
<li>Chaperoned his son’s field trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains, and his daughter’s field trip to Tybee Island, GA, and brought back grimy, muddy laundry both times </li>
<li>Habitually fell asleep during family movie nights and dark amusement park rides</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5O0G3uZoge0/UrGpgjY0rxI/AAAAAAAAAns/1MNsOEjOhoc/s1600/Ivy+mugshot+blog.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="351" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5O0G3uZoge0/UrGpgjY0rxI/AAAAAAAAAns/1MNsOEjOhoc/s400/Ivy+mugshot+blog.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ivy<br />
Alias: The Boss</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Offenses:<br />
<ul>
<li>Didn’t finish her novel (has only written 125 pages so far)</li>
<li>Let her children invite too many friends (29!) to their annual Halloween party </li>
<li>Wrote posts that embarrassed her family on her blog mommydourest.blogspot.com </li>
<li>Went on two girls' trips (Disney World and Universal Studios) instead of the contractually agreed upon one trip per year</li>
<li>Kept saying “pop” even though it’s “soda” in the South</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #00863d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: yes;">We hope y'all aren't too disappointed in us now that you know all our dirty secrets.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #00863d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: yes;">Wishing
you good health, good fortune,
and good times in the coming year. (Yeah, we know we said that in 2012, but we still wish those things for
you!)<br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #00863d; font-family: Calibri;">Love, </span><br />
<span style="color: #00863d; font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #00863d; font-family: Calibri;">Us</span><br />
<span style="color: #00863d; font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #00863d; font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-65301659273148550492013-12-19T07:55:00.000-05:002013-12-19T22:23:04.350-05:00Twelve Days of Crappy Christmas GiftsThis Christmas, if your man surprises you with a shiny new vacuum, don't strangle him with the hose attachment. Things could be worse, girl. Take "The Twelve Days of Christmas." Are we supposed to believe someone was so jazzed to receive 23 birds that they wrote a song about it? <br />
<br />
Yeah, <em>sure. </em>I think this would be a little closer to reality.<br />
<br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong>Day One: partridge in a pear tree</strong><br />
When I opened the door to see the tree sapling with a little birdy on my porch, I gushed like a schoolgirl. I begged my neighbor to plant the tree in my backyard because I detest gardening. But, you couldn’t have known that. I gotta be honest, though; the partridge is kinda ugly. But, it reminds me of The Partridge Family, which reminds me of David Cassidy, who was a total cutie. So, that works.<br />
<br />
I already had an inkling you were my true love, but this ultra-unique romantic gesture clinches it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Day Two: turtle doves</strong><br />
My friends are so envious. All they ever get are roses. I don’t know where the hell I’m gonna put three birds, but I love your wacky sense of humor. Question: Was the pet store out of regular ol’ white doves? Now <em>those</em> are really pretty. But these are nice, too. And better looking than the partridge.<br />
<br />
Love you!<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Day Three: French hens</strong><br />
You're certainly keeping this bird theme going. You nut. Do you volunteer at an aviary or something? Please don’t think me ungrateful, but would it be OK if I fry these bad boys up? I mean, a girl’s gotta eat, right?<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Day Four: colly birds</strong> <br />
Is this your idea of a joke? The neighbor lady is threatening to call animal control on me. I’m a laughing stock among my friends. And I’m up to my eyeballs in feathers and bird shit. If you care about me at all, stop this insanity. In fact, just lose my number. Freak!<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Day Five: gold rings</strong><br />
Oh, Baby. I love you soooooo much! I had my doubts after all that silly bird business, but you’ve redeemed yourself. Say, would you mind if I sell two or three of these rings to pay for my lawyer? I’m planning to sue my landlord for unlawful eviction. My lease never said anything about a limit on how many pet birds I could have.<br />
<br />
Love you, Sweetie!<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Day Six: geese a-laying</strong><br />
What the hell is wrong with you? What am I supposed to do with a bunch of horny geese? Huh?! Geez! Ever heard of roses? Chocolates? You need to do something about this sick addiction to ugly birds. Don’t call me until you've gotten some help.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Day Seven: swans a-swimming</strong><br />
OK, I can see how you might have misunderstood me. The swans are beautiful, but I don’t want any more birds—not even cute ones. Where are you getting all these goddamned birds, anyway? And how did you have time to set up that huge above ground pool in my backyard? Well, it <em>does</em> get pretty hot around here in the summer months, so the pool will be nice to cool off in … once I get the swans out of there.<br />
<br />
Look, help me get rid of all these damn birds and maybe we can work things out.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Day Eight: maids a-milking</strong><br />
Hey, uh, eight chicks (I mean women; not more birds, thank goodness) just showed up at my door with mops. I mean, I <em>could</em> use some help cleaning up all the bird crap, but I live in a duplex. Don’t you think one maid would suffice? There’s something else: They brought a cow. Did you know about the cow? I don’t think my neighborhood is zoned for livestock. <br />
<br />
Don’t get me wrong. It was a nice gesture. I think, with a few ground rules, we might be able to make this work.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Day Nine: ladies dancing</strong><br />
Um … so I came home for lunch to find a bunch of women doing the polka on my front lawn. I know we discussed taking our relationship to the next level, but this is a helluva way for me to meet your mom, aunt and sisters, don’t you think? I hope they weren’t offended that I didn’t join in. I’m really more of a hip-hop girl.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Day Ten: lords a-leaping</strong><br />
Uh, Babe ... The UPS guy just showed up with a large box of little Jesus figurines that hop when you wind them up. I didn’t even know you were religious. I guess we still have a lot to learn about each other. I wonder how much something like this would go for on eBay. They're freaking out the birds.<br />
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<strong>Day Eleven: pipers piping</strong><br />
Hon, I finally got my landlord calmed down over the birds, the cow and the noise complaints about the polka music. Now you send over your bagpipe-playing friends at 1 a.m.?! Some of these dudes seem pretty trashed, too. One guy bent over and … well, let’s just say he must get a nice breeze under that kilt. The neighbor lady came charging out in her robe, screaming at me. Then she took one look at your buddy's ... um ... jingling balls and high-tailed it back inside. Ha!<br />
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Ya know, if this is your way of getting me kicked out so I’ll move in with you, you could just ask.<br />
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<strong>Day Twelve: drummers drumming</strong><br />
Um … I don’t know any other way to say this, so I’ll just come right out with it. This isn't working. It’s not you; it’s me … OK, I guess you’ll find out sooner or later. You know those drummers you hired? Well, I recognized the guy from Sick Thicket. Didn't I tell you I used to go to their concerts all the time? Anyway, we got to talking, and turns out we have a lot in common. We just connected. No one ever means for these things to happen. <br />
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But, hey, a generous guy like you should have no problem finding someone else.Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093117644713466332.post-4849732246453904612013-12-16T09:51:00.001-05:002013-12-18T02:16:44.179-05:00Just Put It on My Card<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This week's <a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2013/12/trifextra-week-ninety-eight.html">Trifecta challenge</a>: Write a 33-word piece to produce laughter and festive cheer.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><em>Dashing to the stores<br />
Those deals expire today.<br />
Over ads we go<br />
Drooling all the way.<br />
Registers lit up;<br />
Receipts eagerly signed.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><em>What fun it is to shop until</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><em>My Visa gets declined!</em></span>Ivyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14933355170869547421noreply@blogger.com25