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 (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

It's Complicated

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.

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.

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.

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 trying 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.

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.

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?

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

MANIPULATE
to change by artful or unfair means so as to serve one's purpose : to doctor

Word count: 333

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.

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

 

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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.


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.” 

  

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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.)

Simon Says

“Sara wants to be Madonna circa 1985 for Halloween.”

“Cute,” Gary said over the razor hum. “Wait. Not that cone bra thingy?”

“That was the ‘90s.” I laughed. “No cone bra. Promise.”

I rinsed off my apricot mask and steeled myself for a debate.

“Simon says he wants to be a witch.”

Gary eyed my reflection. “Witches aren’t boys. He can be a wizard.”

“But he wants the pointy hat, the broomstick,” I countered. "The green face."

“If Simon wants to be green, let him be the Hulk.”

*

“Simon says boys on the bus have been teasing him.”

Principal Bennett furrowed her brow at us. “What sorts of things are they saying?”

Simon shrunk in his chair, his eyes imploring me.

“They’ve been saying he's gay,” I said.

“You know how middle schoolers are.” She waved her plump hand dismissively. “Everything’s ‘gay.’ It means ‘stupid’ to them.”

“Well, they call him ‘faggot.’” I thought my throat would close up. “One kid stuck his crotch in Simon’s face and asked if he wanted to suck his …”

I couldn’t look at my son. He’d begged me not to come.

Ms. Bennett stood up. “Simon, please wait outside.”

Once the door closed, the principal sat beside me.

“May I be frank, Mrs. Flask?”

I nodded.

“I think Simon’s wardrobe choices make him a target,” she said. “Perhaps more suitable attire would put an end to the teasing.”

* 

I stood on the porch trembling. I’d just returned from shopping with Sara, who was home from college. We had walked in on Simon with another boy.

“Simon says he loves him, Mom,” Sara explained quietly, touching my arm.

“You knew about this?!” I pushed her away.

*

Gary came home from work and found me in tears.

“Simon says Misty wants a divorce.”

“Why?!” He asked. “What happened?”

We’d been so thrilled when they started dating. And when Simon proposed to Misty, we knew his previous troubles were behind him.

“I don’t know,” I sobbed. “Simon wouldn’t say.”

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

MASK

a: a protective covering for the face
b: gas mask
c: a device covering the mouth and nose to facilitate inhalation
d: a comparable device to prevent exhalation of infective material
e: a cosmetic preparation for the skin of the face that produces a tightening effect as it dries

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.

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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.”

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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 

Dear Diary

This weekend's Trifextra Writing Challenge is to write a haiku: an unrhymed verse form of Japanese origin having three lines containing usually five, seven, and five syllables respectively.

 

So, here is my 17-syllable tribute to the diary:

 

Cleanse my soul, paper.

Capture, you, my heart's riddles.

No lies; no judgments.

Photo borrowed from faithandtheology.com

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.”

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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  

Georgia Revisited

Macie Fremont Timeline
Sept. 19, '88	-	Macie Fremont, 6, disappears
Sept. 20	-	Macie’s body is found in a field behind Westlake Primary School
Sept. 28	-	Acting on an anonymous tip, police question Georgia Williams, a seventh grader at Westlake Middle; Georgia confesses

She’d lured Macie into the thick brush with the promise of a cupcake. Georgia pushed and kicked the small girl. When she started crying, Georgia punched her in the mouth. She hit Macie on the head repeatedly with a large rock until she fell silent. Afterward, with a stick, she carved an X into Macie’s cheek like some crude brand.

"Why?" The detective asked.

“I wanted to see what dying looks like,” the 12-year-old replied.

Georgia Williams served 14 years before being paroled at 26, changing her name and fleeing Tennessee.

It's taken me almost two years to track her down. The pretty woman in her late 30s bears little resemblance to the pudgy-faced blonde of her youth. Her dark hair falls in a neat bob. Her eyes are warm, not vacant like in the arrest photos.

“Georgia?”

She doesn’t flinch. She’s well-rehearsed.

“You have the wrong house.” She smiles politely through the narrowing doorway space. I gently catch the door.

“I’m not planning to expose you,” I assure her. “I just want an update for my crime blog. I won’t reveal your new name or location.”

“Sweetie, you have ...” Her drawl betrays her.

I hold up a photo of Macie’s battered corpse. Georgia breaks down, allows me inside.

“Please let me be,” she whispers. “I have a new life here.”

“Shut up,” I hiss, pulling out my handgun. Georgia freezes.

“My parents never recovered,” I begin.

“Who are you?”

“I was born after you murdered Macie. The ‘replacement baby.’ But Mom was too depressed. So, I got shipped to Grandma’s. Did you know my dad killed himself?”

“I'm sorry,” Georgia wails. “Please don’t!”

“I heard you wanted to see what dying looks like.”

 I close my lips around the barrel.

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

BRAND
3a (1) : a mark made by burning with a hot iron to attest manufacture or quality or to designate  ownership 
     (2) : a printed mark made for similar purposes : trademark
  b (1) : a mark put on criminals with a hot iron 
     (2) : a mark of disgrace : stigma <the brand of poverty>

Word count: 333

Shadow of a Man

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

Photo credit: [ changó ] / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND

He kept his head down whenever the white ladies passed, resisting the urge to study their yellow hair and seemingly translucent skin. A misunderstood glance could result in him swinging from a tree.

Moving On

Sitting across from him, she struggled with the words she'd rehearsed in those restless hours of the night. Telling him was going to be decidedly harder than breaking it to the bathroom mirror. She'd considered doing it in a letter, but after eight years and recent circumstances, that seemed ... callous.

It's not you, she'd planned to say. It was true. He'd been wonderful to her. But marriage and a baby in quick succession had changed things, changed her, in ways she hadn't anticipated.

"I can't stay," she blurted.

His eyes searched hers for several seconds. Her cheeks burned, but--desperate to appear resolute--she returned his stare.

"You're leaving us?"

She nodded slowly. "I have to."

"I ... I don't wanna lose you," he said rather dispassionately. "But I can't say I'm surprised."

His nonchalance stung. You're not going to fight for me? Beg me not to go? 

And then it sunk in. He melted into his chair, his face contorted.

"What am I gonna do without you?"

Did his voice crack? She resisted the urge to squeeze his hand.

She'd seen him cry before--a month ago, after his mother died. On his first day back following bereavement leave, they'd gone to lunch. He broke down over steak and bleu cheese salad. They sat in the car while he tried to pull himself together. Her heart ached for him. He was good-enough looking, yet she wasn't attracted to him, not even when she was single. But that day, in a confusion of grief and sympathy, they kissed.

Working one-on-one was torturously awkward now. She felt exposed in department meetings, as if anyone could just look at them and know. At home she rarely mentioned work, fearful her husband would somehow sense her guilt. She'd been thinking about staying home with her daughter for a while. The kiss sealed the deal.

"Well," he conceded. "Would you please write up a formal letter of resignation for your file?"

"Yes, sir," she smiled somberly.

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trifecta weekly challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "appear" (defined as to have an outward aspect: seem). Mine is 333 words.

Love Defined

Okay, I'm not in love with him, but I do love him in a who-else-is-gonna-pay-my-rent-take-me-to-dinner-and-buy-me-shiny-things kind of way.

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trifecta weekend challenge: Write a 33-word confession. (Don't worry, Hubs; mine is purely fictional.)