Small But Perky

I'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 Mouse Monikers). 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.

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 Mouse Monikers). On top of that, there are these two kids who keep asking me to feed them and drive them places.

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.

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.

Speaking of boobies, which I do often (see previous admission of immaturity in paragraph #3), I thought up the breast ... I mean, best ... 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.

A Dear Hubs Letter

Dear Hubs,

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.

I've found someone else.

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 you.)

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 delish!)

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.

Hubs, Thor. Thor, Hubs.

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, ridiculously 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:

• You could bounce a quarter off that ass. Ok, that's shallow, but it needed to be said.
• 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.
• 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.
• 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.

I think you get the picture.

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.

With warmest regards,

Ivy

Happy Mother's Day. Now Go Get Undressed For Brunch!

Hubs,

It's time for the (sorta-annual) Don't Screw Up My Mother's Day post.

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. 


Zoo Brunch
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.

Nekkid Brunch
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?)

Some of the website copy:

"Beautiful murals fill the wall along the patio." Biggest waste of money ever. Who's going to notice the art with everyone's naughty bits dangling?

"Every direction you look, it's like paradise" ... and an amateur porn shoot.

"Dine inside in air-conditioned comfort" and your nipples will be harder than calculus by the time the check comes.

Medieval Times
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

"Fun" Run

There's nothing fun 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.

Cooking Class
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? (Why can't realtors ever stick to your wish list? Do they not want the commission?) Just because we got stuck with 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.

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.


Mother/Daughter Pole Dancing Class
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.

Planetarium Outing

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, "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? Seriously?!)

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. 

A (Passive-Aggressive) Letter to My Dear Hubs

Hey, Babe!

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.

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.

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 Maury combined.

As we were leaving for school this morning, I noticed a bike on our neighbors' front lawn.

Me: "Is that your bike?"
Son: "No."
Me: "Are you sure?"
Son: "I'm not 100% sure."
Me: "THEN GET OUT OF THE CAR AND GO LOOOOOOK!"
Son: "Oh, OK."

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 hilarious? I laughed at an unnaturally high volume for a full minute. Those little jokesters of ours!

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

Ciao, mi amore!

Study Break

This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge is to come up with 33 words inspired by this photo:



http://foter.com/photo/or/

 

I pose near the glass, thin arms flexed.
Will she ever look up from that text?
I’m all substance—no style.
But if I make her smile,
Who knows what could transpire next?

#

 

 

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.

You know what? I'm posting it anyway. Here is "Finals Week":

She studied in vain for a test.
Watching her stirred the urge I’d repressed.
As my teeth tore her skin,
Her blood dripped from my chin.

There once was a girl named Celeste.


Whenever, Wherever, However

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.

“Come snuggle.”

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.

“How come she never wakes up when you carry her back to bed?” I ask.

“Well, I’m a ninja, so ...”

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.

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.)

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. 

“The door?”

“Already locked,” he declares.

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.

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.

But not this morning.

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

WHATEVER

(adverb) Used to show that something is not important

Word count: 333



Ferbie and Grinch: A Bromance

Here's what happens when you combine a dog-tired Yorkie, a Grinch plush, and a healthy dose of post-holiday cleaning procrastination.

 

Grinch's expression could have one questioning his motives,

but his intentions are strictly platonic.





Grinch is going to have a bad case

of dead arm after this spoon fest.



Snuggle buddies!



        

Grinch demonstrating how Daughter sleeps with (or on) me.

 

Photos used with permission from Ferbie, our Yorkshire Terrier.
Well, he didn't exactly say yes; but he didn't say no either. 

Three Little Words

The folks at Trifecta have challenged us to write a three-word New Year's resolution.

Oh, man. I can think of a bazillion.

Finish that novel.
Drink less booze.
Go to church.
Don't overwhelm myself.
Say "no" more.
Say "yes" more.
F*cking swear less.

Hubs offered a suggestion: "Don't hit people." I didn't appreciate the implication that I'm violent, so I smacked him.

In the end, I guess I really need to:

Just do better.

Twelve Days of Crappy Christmas Gifts

This 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?

Yeah, sure. I think this would be a little closer to reality.


Day One: partridge in a pear tree
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.

I already had an inkling you were my true love, but this ultra-unique romantic gesture clinches it.


Day Two: turtle doves
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 those are really pretty. But these are nice, too. And better looking than the partridge.

Love you!


Day Three: French hens
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?


Day Four: colly birds
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!


Day Five: gold rings
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.

Love you, Sweetie!


Day Six: geese a-laying
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.


Day Seven: swans a-swimming
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 does 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.

Look, help me get rid of all these damn birds and maybe we can work things out.


Day Eight: maids a-milking
Hey, uh, eight chicks (I mean women; not more birds, thank goodness) just showed up at my door with mops. I mean, I could 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.

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.


Day Nine: ladies dancing
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.


Day Ten: lords a-leaping
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.


Day Eleven: pipers piping
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!

Ya know, if this is your way of getting me kicked out so I’ll move in with you, you could just ask.


Day Twelve: drummers drumming
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.

But, hey, a generous guy like you should have no problem finding someone else.

Just Put It on My Card

This week's Trifecta challenge: Write a 33-word piece to produce laughter and festive cheer.

Dashing to the stores
Those deals expire today.
Over ads we go
Drooling all the way.
Registers lit up;
Receipts eagerly signed.
What fun it is to shop until
My Visa gets declined!

Our Elf Has Gone Rogue

I wrote this story a couple weeks ago, but I added an update this morning. I decided to use this for the Trifecta challenge because it fit the prompt, and it's time someone raised awareness about rogue elves.

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

FATHER
a : one related to another in a way suggesting that of father to child  
b : an old man —used as a respectful form of address

Word count: 333

Our Elf Has Gone Rogue

We have an elf, but he doesn't hang out on shelves. No, our elf--Clyde--prefers the company of Barbie and her friends to books and dust bunnies. He doesn't wear any femmy red bodysuit, either. Our elf has style.

Clyde's a pimp. Not in a "bitch betta have my money" way. What I mean is he's a player. The ladies love him. (You know what they say about elves with big feet.) His girls don't even mind sharing him. The other day I overheard Barbie's trashy sister Skipper announce, "Ain't no fun if my homies can't have none." Until I discovered Clyde's proclivities toward the honeys, I used to wonder why Daughter's dolls were never dressed. Sluts.

Clyde's been with us four years now. In that time, we've overlooked LOTS of questionable behavior because, well, he's a fun guy. And he always leaves out the really bad stuff when he reports back to good ol' Father Christmas. Besides, our naughty list worthy offenses are nothing compared to Clyde's antics. We can't help but love the little dude, though. He's the life of the party, and he tells the most hilarious dirty jokes. Ever heard the gem about the elf, the unicorn and the fairy? That one still cracks me up.

Well, today Clyde went full-on rogue. I received the following photo via text this morning--no doubt from an untraceable phone:

Obviously, we feel awful for Mr. and Mrs. Snow. And abducting innocent snow children is nothing short of heinous. But where are we supposed to get $1,000,000? I could implore my loyal readers to each donate a dollar, but that would net, like, three bucks.

Why couldn't Clyde be content to poop chocolate chips or make snow angels in our flour like other people's elves? Why?!


UPDATE: The Snows returned with nary a carrot out of place. Clyde apologized, but he's back to his old tricks. Aladdin has every reason to be pissed. From what I've heard, once you go elf ...

#

Dazzle Me

This weekend's Trifextra challenge is to write a 33-word piece including these three words:

myopic
dazzle
basin


Wanna truly dazzle me this Christmas?

Keep the diamonds. Instead, how's about you teach my tragically myopic children to use garbage cans, rinse toothpaste out of the basin and flush their @&*%$ toilet?

Sex, Sex, Sex

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


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

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

Unless you and I are having sex.

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

Rut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello,” I chirped.

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

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

Sigh.

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

# 

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

COMPANION
a :  one that is closely connected with something similar

b :  one employed to live with and serve another

Word count: 333



Dark Spirit

This weekend's Trifextra challenge: write a 33-word piece about a beast in an unusual place. I've encountered this beast many, many times.


The benevolent beast in the Bacardi Black bottle

     assures me I can dance

         convinces me I'm irresistible to all men

             transforms me into a total badass

                 makes sure I remember none of it

Photo borrowed from arsthanea.com

Don't Say I Didn't Warn You

This weekend's Trifextra challenge: write 33 words that follow this illustration in a book:



Artist credit: Dan Duford
www.poisonedplayground.com

Luke grabbed Lilly and pulled her up the embankment.
They ran until they cleared the brush.
"Mum was right,” Lilly said breathlessly once they reached home.
“Liam’s face really did freeze like that!”

Intimacy

Elle lay awake listening to the summer storm beat the shuttered windows. Half of their four-day vacation had been rained out. But they weren't exactly there for sand and sun. The studio condo held all they required: booze, leftover takeout Chinese, and a bed.

Chris sat up and cracked his neck. As he leaned down and kissed Elle's head, he farted.

“Can't blame that one on Woofy," Elle snickered.

“Guess not," he yawned. "Happy anniversary, Babe." They'd officially been dating two years.

She responded with a tender, closed-mouth kiss. Her morning breath could kill weeds.

Elle headed to the bathroom. She was just going number one, so she didn't bother shutting the door. Chris had nursed her through that stomach bug when stuff was pouring out of both ends. A little pee was nothing.

She returned wearing only her tank top.

“Well, hello," Chris drawled, his brows bouncing.

“Wanna try it again?" She bent over the foot of the bed, presenting her bare behind.

“Um … I thought we decided no gifts.”

Elle answered his smart-ass remark with a mock glare. “Shut up and come here.”

“You sure?” Chris, amused but wary, positioned himself behind her.

She had never reached this level of intimacy with previous boyfriends. Sure, she'd slept with some, but she hadn’t gone there with them. Chris was different. Corny as it sounds, he was her forever.

“Go for it.” Elle teasingly gyrated against Chris's crotch.

“I don’t know. You screamed bloody murder last night.”

“Well,” she huffed. “It hurt.”

Chris's fingers traced the small of her back. “I’m surprised nobody called the cops.”

“Come on,” she urged, fisting the nautical quilt and burying her face in the coordinating pillow.

Chris grabbed Elle's ass. With both thumbs, he firmly squeezed the ripe, bulbous zit on her left cheek. The pillow swallowed her squeals as the pus finally burst her skin. Elle stood up, rubbing the sore spot.

“My hero,” she gushed.

Chris pulled her close. "That's love right there, Babe."

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

 

ASS

(adverb/adjective) often vulgar—often used as a postpositive intensive especially with words of derogatory implication <fancy-ass>

 

Word count: 333

Skywalker Family Therapy Notes

This weekend's Trifextra challenge: write 33 words about a famous trio. 

These ARE the words you're looking for. (I believe my "cool mom" points just went through the roof.)

Treatment impetus:  twins' rebellion against father

Initial assessment:

• male/female twins with history of incest
• father presents with possible borderline personality disorder
• son displays abandonment issues
• daughter exhibits bad-boy fetish

Recommendation: aggressive therapy

Girls' Weekend

Liz had been editor of the school paper. She’d reamed me over my admittedly mediocre story on the bulldog mascot contest winner.

“The article’s about a bitch. Doesn’t mean you have to be one,” I’d retorted. We’ve been inseparable ever since.

This is our last hurrah before her big day. As we drive up the coast to Myrtle Beach, I phone Home Depot using the car’s Bluetooth.

“Yes. Hi. I’m looking for some caulk,” I say. “It’s for my friend. She already has white caulk at home. What she really needs is some black caulk. Do you have any black caulk?"

Liz covers her mouth.

“We have several colors,” Home Depot Guy says.

“OK, so she can just come in, point to it and say, ‘Gimme that caulk right now?’”

Silence. “Uh … sure.”

Liz erupts in laughter.

* 

We check in and get dressed.

“Look how fast we can be ready when we don’t have to do our hair,” Liz remarks.

Señor Frog's is crawling with overgrown, tight-shirted college guys. About four vodka cranberries in, I look Liz in the face.

“Dump Kyle," I blurt.

“Kyle is …”

“An ASSHOLE," I yell just as the music pauses.

She shrugs. “But I need him right now.”

I return from the bar with three shots and a 6’2” ginger.

“Liz.” I smirk. “Brendan.”

“Hey.” She self-consciously touches her purple wig.

As Liz dirty dances with the underage hottie, she looks so healthy. Since she stopped the chemo, the color has returned to her cheeks.

“I’m done chasing this fucking rainbow,” she’d said.

Brendan escorts us across the street to our hotel. Liz kisses him hard but sends him on his way.

I remove my green wig—shaving my shoulder-length hair was actually kind of liberating—and hand her a gift bag. The T-shirt reads:

YES, THEY’RE FAKE.
MY REAL ONES TRIED TO KILL ME.

“When I get out of the hospital,” Liz smiles, flinging herself on the bed. “I might just get rid of my asshole too.” 

  

#

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

RAINBOW
[from the impossibility of reaching the rainbow, at whose foot a pot of gold is said to be buried] : an illusory goal or hope

My Sweet Apostrophe

This weekend's Trifextra challenge: Write a 33-word apostrophe. About.com defines apostrophe as, "A figure of speech in which some absent or nonexistent person or thing is addressed as if present and capable of understanding." 

So, of course, my first impulse was to write an apostrophe about the punctuation mark of the same name. Yep, that's how my mind works. I've learned to just go with it.


O, my sweet apostrophe!
Show me thy versatility.
How I love when you’re possessive. 
Join two words as one. Impressive!
Do pluralize that single letter,
But not whole words. (“S” does that better.)