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

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!

No Love, No Tears, No Pain, Etc.

This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge is to come up with 33 words about love gone wrong; however, the piece cannot include the following words:

love, sad, tears, wept, heart, pain

Here are my 33:

Whispers yell
Rumors swell

My past sin
Your chagrin

Passion wanes
Our knot strains

Your mistrust
Breeds my lust

"Lock the door,
Paramour"

You suspect
I deflect

And you stay
While I stray

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.


At First Sight

This week's Trifecta challenge is to write a 33-word follow-up to this snippet:

The first time I saw. . .

The piece should be exactly 38 words, and all words must be one syllable each.



The first time I saw you, I fell hard.

Big feet, red face, head cone shaped.

You were just right.

Now here you are ...

Huge feet, peach fuzz, your dad’s bowed legs.

You are just right.

My son.


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. 
 
Fortunately, he hasn't completely changed ...

 

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



A Melt With Three Sides

William’s already working when I arrive. I take my place across the table and start stuffing fliers. He flashes that smile—the one that always manages to melt my insides. Geez, I sound like a lovesick schoolgirl.

I love the way William clears his throat to fill awkward silences. I love that he goes by his full name, not Will or—Lord help me—Billy. I love that he cares enough about animals to volunteer at the Animal Rescue League. And, on a purely shallow level, he’s freakin’ hot.

We have a connection. I think. On the way over here, I talked myself into making a move. Ugh! Can't do it.

 *

I worked with Jordan today. It could be wishful thinking, but I feel such a connection. Sometimes the feeling is so strong I want to scream, “Hey, let’s do this thing!” I can barely stand when there’s silence, because the urge is overwhelming.

Besides being drop-dead gorgeous, Jordan has the biggest heart. And I'm a total sucker for the brown hair/blue eyes combo. We have so much in common.

Every time we work together, I leave pissed off at myself for letting another opportunity pass. Why can't I just grow some balls? I’m scared to put myself out there again, that’s why. But I can’t go on like this much longer.

 *

“Oh, those kids,” I groan under my breath as the last volunteer walks out the door. “Gah!”

“Who?”

“William and Jordan.”

“Still no progress, huh?” Jan, my co-volunteer coordinator shakes her head, chuckling. “Maybe we outta lock them in the storeroom. Remember that game Seven Minutes in Heaven?”

“I really thought William would make a move today. He seemed like he was working himself up to it.”

“Just keep scheduling them together, Cupid,” she says. “If something’s there, it’ll happen.”

I scoop up the stuffed envelopes, turn off the coffee pot, and grab my jacket and purse.

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “One of those boys seriously needs to man up.”

#

I woke up with this story in my head. Usually my first thought is about some crappy crap I have to do, so this was a much nicer start to my day. And the prompt word seemed to fit well. Oh, and may I please have extra credit for making each perspective 111 words? Thank you kindly.

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

MELT

to make tender or gentle. SOFTEN

Word count: 333

All That Matters

“Seriously. How much do you love this little tush?” Kay is covering the baby’s freshly bathed bottom in kisses.

“Uh-huh.” I nod distractedly, digging in a box. Since we moved a week ago, I can’t find shit. “I’m about to go buy a new toaster so I can have a fucking piece of toast.”

Kay lets out an exaggerated sigh. She hates when I swear. Sometimes I do it to get under her skin when I can’t voice my frustration with her, with our situation.

“Can you not?” She points at the baby with her head.

“She’s three fucking weeks old,” I counter. I’ll pay for that later.

*

Kay is lying as close to the edge as possible. The baby is in the bassinet beside her. I rub Kay’s shoulder, hoping my simple act of surrender will close the gap between us. She turns toward me, searching my eyes for remorse.

“I’m sorry, Babe. You know how I get when I'm sleep deprived.”

Kay softens. She leans over to kiss me. I take this rare opportunity, reaching under her pajama top. Our bodies move closer. Just as things are heating up, she stops my hand from going inside her waistband.

“We don’t wanna wake her.”

I didn't realize how much a baby would change our lives. But after three miscarriages, Kay needed this. She’s happier than she's been in four years.

Besides, that girl clearly wasn’t ready to have a baby. She’s only in tenth grade, for fuck's sake. She has three siblings—all younger. The girl's mom can barely handle them, let alone help her with a newborn. So, really, I did them a favor. Right?

On the news, their house looked cleaner than I’d ever seen it. I saw the squalor whenever I delivered their packages. During the interview, the girl barely cried over Bella. Bella. She probably named her after that "Twilight" chick. I mean, come on.

Marissa—that's what we named her—deserves better. In the end, that's all that matters. Right?

#

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


TUSH
buttocks (slang)

Word count: 333

The Story of Us

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

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

First blind date

Hello, fate

Married fast

"Will it last?"

Honeymoon

Baby soon

And another

Joined big brother

Fifteen years

Sometimes tears

Mostly smiles

Despite trials

Love abounds

And surrounds

You

Me

Us



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

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

The Girl Behind the Wall

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

# 

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

PLUCK

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

Word count: 124

When She's Gone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#

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

REMEMBER
a :  to keep in mind for attention or consideration <remembers friends at Christmas>
b :  REWARD <was remembered in the will>

Word count: 333

A Hint of Normalcy

Dana was oddly grateful for the trill of the alarm. She could finally stop chasing the phantom of a decent night’s rest. They’d gotten home around midnight—10 hours after the ambulance pulled up to the ER doors. Her husband had passed out again. This time Peter's head hit the rough concrete breezeway outside their apartment. Blood blanketed the ground in front of their doorway like the world’s least welcoming welcome mat.

The doctor released him after the usual MRI and CT scan dance.

“No abnormalities on the films,” he’d announced. Again.

Sure, Dana thought. Because it’s perfectly normal for an otherwise healthy 30-year-old man to black out eight times in three months. No headaches, no dizziness, no recollection of falling.

Peter’s "spells" were taking a toll. They’d been talking children. Until they got some answers, though, starting a family seemed too risky. Not that getting pregnant was actually a possibility. Sex was becoming a distant memory. He was always too tired.

But in bed the following night, Peter pressed against her. As much as Dana wanted to rebuff him in retaliation for spurning her advances, she yearned for him. His hands explored her body, her skin tingling at his touch.

“Condom,” she reminded.

“Let’s not.” His hot breath fell between her breasts. Dana’s fingers travelled up Peter’s back toward his hair. They stopped over a substantial bump on his neck.

Dana steered his fingers to the spot. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

Peter rubbed the area. “Nope.”

He coaxed her back onto the pillow with kisses.

*

Through the crack in the drapes, sunlight fell on Dana’s face. She’d had a decent night’s rest and fantastic sex. She smiled at the hint of normalcy. As Dana swung her feet to the floor, her thighs hit her stomach. She looked down to see her abdomen protruding drastically. Large lumps pulsated across her belly just beneath the veiny, nearly transparent skin. Mute with terror, Dana turned to Peter. A huge, busted cocoon lay shriveling in his place.

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

PHANTOM
a representation of something abstract, ideal, or incorporeal <she was a phantom of delight — William Wordsworth>

Word count: 333

For You, I Will

You wake me with a hand squeeze. It's late. Or really early.

Dutifully, I press PLAY. "Brandenburg Concerto No. 5” by Bach comes to life—softly to not disturb our babies down the hall. I snuggle against you, my behind hanging off the tiny, rented bed.

The opening chords remind us how to smile. You played this borrowed CD on our first date. The hair band devotee wooing the cellist. Your ploy worked. “Maybe better than you expected,” I later teased.

“I’m ready.” Your voice is weak but resolute.

Am I strong enough to end your pain?

I am.

Photo borrowed from telegraph.com.uk

 

#

 

In celebration of their 99th week, Trifecta is mixing it up today. This week's challenge is to choose ANY word from page 99 of the Oxford English Dictionary.  We can use any definition of our chosen word, but the piece must be 99 words exactly.


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

Attachment

Ravenous moans permeate the emptiness of my loft.
Fingers uncoil my carefully executed crown of curls.
I love.
He pities.
Guilt and scarred wrists tether us for now.
I will settle for that.

#

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

tether
loft
crown

Hunger Pains

Justin was sleeping off eight beers and a couple shots of Crown. With the grace of a gymnast, I inched to the foot of the bed, bypassing the creaky spring on my side.

The kitchen reeked of barbecue sauce. We’d been too tired--and drunk--to put away everything once the guests left. Justin’s signature queso dip had congealed after sitting overnight in the crockpot. As I shoved spoonful after spoonful into my mouth, I felt the familiar heaviness in my stomach.

The fridge was a gold mine. I found four pieces of the blueberry cheesecake our neighbors had brought and half a pitcher of homemade sweet tea. I gulped the tea, knowing the liquid would make the release easier when the time came. I ate the cheesecake with my hands, slurping fruit syrup off my scarred knuckles.

There wasn’t time to savor. There never is. Justin could walk in at any minute and find me polishing off six servings of lasagna. (You would think he’d notice we rarely have leftovers.)

I go to the restroom so often my coworkers probably suspect I have a cocaine habit. I might prefer that to them knowing I binge on Little Debbie’s. I’ve found that if I puke into my hand over the toilet bowl, the vomit doesn’t make that sloshing noise when it hits the water.

*

The dishes were soaking when Justin came down.

“Why didn’t you wait for me to help clean up?” He asked, with an alcohol-induced rasp.

“It wasn’t too bad.”

“Did you get any of those ribs Tim brought?” Justin languidly surveyed the fridge. “Damn, they were good.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did eat something though, right?” He squinted at me before swigging from the milk carton.

Justin has always blamed himself for not realizing sooner I was anorexic. I’ve been out of treatment for three years now, and I’m almost at my recommended weight. But he still worries about me starving myself.

“Yes, Honey,” I reassured him. “I ate.”

#

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

GRACE

a: a charming or attractive trait or characteristic
b: a pleasing appearance or effect : charm <all the grace of youth — John Buchan>
c: ease and suppleness of movement or bearing

Word count: 333 

Damaged Goods

“No.” I pushed him off me and searched for my bra and panties.

Scott slipped on his boxers before following me out of the bedroom. I made eggs while he made his case.

“You love me, right?”

“You know I do.”

“Then let’s do it.”

“No,” I said again.

“Why not?”

“First off, who proposes during sex?”

“I’ve proposed a million times. I’ve done roses, fancy dinners, made sure everything was perfect,” Scott grumbled. “The ring’s been sitting in your nightstand for months. Just say yes and put the damn thing on already.”

“I’m only 32 and I’ve been divorced three times. Three!” I argued. “I’m worse than Jennifer freakin' Lopez. And she has talent and a hot ass going for her.”

“Yours is hotter.” He pulled me to his chest, grabbing two handfuls of my butt.

I married Chad, my high school sweetheart, when we were 19. Everyone tried talking us out of it, even my dentist. They don’t understand how deep our love is, we told ourselves. Our 'deep love' dried up within a year. At 23, I wed my boss. Jim was 34; a bonafide adult. That marriage ended when I cheated with my brother’s friend. Matt, the friend, had chased me for years. We married the day after my divorce was final. Once Matt had me, his interest waned. My attorney handled my third divorce pro bono since I’d already given her so much business. She and I still text.

“Three strikes are a good thing in bowling,” Scott grinned. “They call it a turkey.”

I rolled my eyes and turned away so he wouldn’t see me smile.

“Come on, Babe,” he pleaded. “Make an honest man out of me.”

I looked into Scott’s eyes. For the past three years, he’d shared his apartment, his heart and his life with me. I wasn’t damaged goods to him. Standing in our kitchen—in our underwear, it suddenly seemed like the perfect moment.

“Go get the ring and ask me again.”

#

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

TURKEY
three successive strikes in bowling

Word count: 333  

The Itch

A few nights ago the kids stayed at my mom's, so Hubs and I went to a movie. When we came back to our empty house, we both wanted--no, needed--to do it. We couldn't wait 'til we got to our bedroom. So, in the middle of our kitchen, we shed our clothes and ...

... rubbed calamine lotion on each other.

Ooooh, yeah.

Right there.

Mmm-hmmmm.

Oh, didn't I mention Hubs and I have poison ivy? Go ahead; get the "Ivy has poison ivy" jokes out of your system. Hilarious, right? What's even funnier is I don't go outside, except to get in my car or check the mailbox. I prefer the great indoors. So how in the hell did I contract poison ivy?

My malady may be one of the few documented cases of LTD (laundry transmitted disease). Washing Hubs's poison ivy-infested clothes was my downfall. As if I needed another reason to hate laundry. I'm not one of those new age loons who finds this repetitive chore soothing or cathartic. I'll tell you what it is: It's a vicious cycle (pun not intended--but fabulous, nonetheless) of

1. washing
2. rewashing due to the musty smell clothes get when inadvertently left in the machine overnight
3. drying
4. throwing clothes in a heap on my bedroom floor
5. waiting for somebody else to get so tired of hunting for underwear they fold the heap of clothes  

The laundry process is time consuming AND you can catch poison ivy doing it? Hardly seems worth the risk.

Poison ivy has revealed unsettling flaws in our marriage. Yesterday I walked in on Hubs pleasuring himself (i.e., applying calamine lotion on his rashes). I honestly felt betrayed. I mean, we're supposed to be sharing this tiny, expensive bottle, and there he was using it without me. Trust has never been an issue with us ... until now. For the sake of our relationship, we bought more of that amazing pink elixir.

This ordeal has also spurred some bizarre competition between us. Hubs feels superior because he doesn't scratch himself as much as I do. But I figure since I'm so short my rashes are more concentrated and, thus, way more intense. Seems legit.

There is a bright spot in all this: My affliction has made me more tolerant of others. Now when I see a girl whose breasts are barely contained in her top, I no longer immediately assume she's an attention-seeking skank with low self-esteem. She could be a P.I.S. (poison ivy survivor) who's wearing as little as possible to air out her rashes. I'd grocery shop buck naked right now if I could.

You can't always tell a person is suffering from a non-life-threatening-but-really-really-annoying condition. So, the next time you're standing behind someone scratching her ass like nobody's business in the check-out lane, don't judge.

My apologies to any laundry-loving new age loons I may have offended with this post. If it'll make you feel better, I'll let you do my laundry.

Their Spot

This weekend's Trifextra Writing Challenge is to come up with 33 words inspired by the photo below. Restrictions: no creepy, dark stuff allowed.

 

Read about this amazing photo project: http://eirikso.com/2011/01/04/one-year-in-one-image/

Leaves snapped beneath them.
"Can I see you again?" He asked.

Snowflakes poured through unadorned branches.
"I'm pregnant," she announced.

Warm rain danced against the white tent.
"I do," their baby girl vowed.

The Only Love Story You'll Ever Read with the Word "Excrement" in It

Once upon a time there was a giant named D. He lived in the kingdom of Iowa. The kingdom was divided into two areas: Farmland and Everywhere Else. D lived in Farmland where stars shine brightly, corn stalks scrape the sky, and the air smells of pig excrement.

The giant often fantasized about what lie beyond Farmland's gravel roads. 

"Son, you must never enter Everywhere Else," his father cautioned. "The air is full of smoke and the people eat frozen vegetables."

Still, D felt destined for the land of mega-malls and mini-marts. He knew his father could never grasp this yearning. So one night D packed his chewing tobacco and snuck away to Everywhere Else. 

Life in Everywhere Else was certainly different. D would go entire days without ever encountering an animal. The people were the biggest surprise. They weren't just white; they were black and brown, too!

D the giant was lonely. He decided to seek the heart of a fair maiden. He considered the friendly lass who often stood on the corner, but he wasn't absolutely sure she was indeed female. He had almost given up on love when he met I.

D regaled I with stories of cow inseminations. I captivated D with tales of buying milk from a store. D was besotted. He didn't care that she couldn't tell a tractor from a combine. But what would his father think of the short, black maiden from Everywhere Else?

D brought I to meet his father. The people of Farmland were somewhat taken aback that she didn't own a single pair of cowboy boots. But they quickly accepted I, and D's father gave them his blessing.

D and I married and had two beautiful children, one of them a giant like his father. They moved to the kingdom of South Carolina, where they speak a strange new language, y'all, and consume mass quantities of a mystical potion called sweet tea.

And they all lived happily ever after

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This week's Trifecta writing challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "grasp" as defined below:

GRASP
to lay hold of with the mind : comprehend

Word count: 333