In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Coming To a Bookshelf Near You.” Write a summary of the book you’ve always wanted to write for the back cover of its dust jacket.
Why are these people smiling? Could it be Valium?
Critics are raving about the tell-all book, “Outlaw Blended Families Now!” written by wife, mother, step-mother, ex-wife, working woman and all round bitch, Ms L. The author reveals how a new marriage that involves combining families, although filled with romance, goodwill and the promise of a bright future, can be derailed in short order by children, step-children, ex-spouses, alimony, child support, attorney fees, two sets of parents (and grandparents) for each child, visitation schedules, lack of income, too little time and too many commitments.
Ms L. postulates that if two people truly love each other, they should “suck it up” and raise their own kids before moving into a beautiful, calm and loving marriage thereby avoiding years of anxiety trying to co-mingle funds, kids, school functions, food likes and dislikes, clothing/fashions, teenage dating, schoolwork, cars and driving, after school jobs, college applications and the disparities of how the other set of parents bribe the kids; i.e., if the step-child receives a new car for his 16th birthday from his mom & step-dad while your child gets a 1993 Chevette with 201,000 miles on it, there’s bound to be ill-will.
Ms L is lobbying for a law forbidding re-marriages if either partner has a child under the age of 18, making allowances for widows and widowers. She further claims that the stress and anxiety of raising a blended family causes extreme weight gain and ugliness.
Asked if she regrets her second marriage with the addition of two step-children, Ms L snorted, “I wouldn’t change it for the world!” Why the dichotomy between her advice book and her own life? “I’m an exceptionally strong willed woman and whenever I got overwhelmed I napped. Keeping a bottle of Scotch in the cabinet above the kitchen stove helped. Combined families are not for the faint hearted. Now you’ll have to excuse me. I’m late for my botox appointment and then I’m off to Weight Watchers”.
“A great read. I couldn’t have thought up a better horror story!”, Steven King.
“Terrific character development. L’s description of the ex-spouses was superb and her plan for exterminating them was right up my alley,” Dean Koontz
Family
“Outlaw Blended Families Now!” – Coming to a Bookstore Near You
“V” is for What, Why, When and Where
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Fearful Symmetry.” Pick a letter, any letter. Now, write a story, poem, or post in which every line starts with that letter.
Vot are you doing?
Vy are you doing it?
Ven will you be done doing it?
Vere are you doing it?
Vy am I writing with an eastern European accent?
Ve were told to start every sentence with the same letter and I chose “V”; because this is
Very ridiculous!
Didn’t I Lock My Toolbox?
Writing 101 – Day Thirteen: Serially Found On day four, you wrote a post about losing something. Today’s Prompt: write about finding something.
Instead of its normal annoying humming, the pool pump was whistling at me. I turned off the pump, capped the chlorine container that weighs more than me and wiped off the jug of hydrochloric acid, propped the 12-foot pool broom against the ladder and went in search of my wrench in order to bleed the lines.
I keep the wrench in the pool closet along with the other pool paraphernalia; vacuum, chemicals, net, toys, chemicals, rags. Makes sense, right? No wrench. Oh, crap! Here we go again. A five minute job is going to take forever because someone (my husband) has “borrowed” my wrench. I checked the tool shed, went into the house and looked through my tool box (silly me), his toolbox (silly me), my quilting studio, kitchen junk drawer(s), and the pantry.
I tried to reconstruct my husband’s movements outdoors. I looked along the hedge, in the toolshed, around the driveway, the garbage area, near the kayak; no wrench. Lulled by the whistling of the pool pump, I sat down for a minute on the concrete bench overlooking the water and let my gaze rest on the dock. Aha! There it is!
Rusted and forlorn, half covered with pine needles, my wrench rested on the dock steps. “OK”, I thought. “A little naval jelly will remove that rust in no time”.
The naval jelly is in my tool box … uh oh.
The Slut and the Misogynist – A Conversation
Writing 101: Daily Prompts & Twists. Today’s Prompt: Write a post based on the contrast between two things — whether people, objects, emotions, places, or something else.
“You disgust me. You lie on his lap and rub your cheek against his chest and let him caress you just so you can get what you want.”
“What’s wrong with that? I like to be loved and stroked. I give him what he needs and he gives me what I want.”
“Well, he grabbed me by the back of my neck and threw me outside so I had to sleep on the patio last night. I looked in the window and saw you pawing all over him while he fed you from his plate and stroked your body.”
“I don’t know why you’ve got your whiskers in a twist. I love to be loved and petted. You’re just mean. You puked on his bathmat and he stepped in it and you used his shower as a litter box. I don’t know what kind of statement you were trying to make but you’re not going to get home cooked chicken and salmon morsels with that attitude. You need to learn to be sweet if you want love and affection.”
“Who said anything about love and affection? I want to be treated with respect. I want to be fed on time, have a clean litterbox and I want to have my ears scratched when it pleases me. I don’t want to lower myself to your standards, rubbing against his legs and purring. I think when they removed your claws, they removed your brain … you’re such a slut.”
“Why don’t you shut up? Go choke on a hairball and leave me alone.”
Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Mad as a Hatter.” Tell us about a time when you flew into a rage. What is it that made you so incredibly angry?
There is absolutely nothing more infuriating than a 16-year old son. I have no idea what finally flipped me over the edge. I remember yelling, “That’s it, you’re dead!” and taking off after him through the dining room, across the living room, and finally backing him into a corner in the laundry room. He was laughing while I was furious.
I advanced slapping any portion of his unprotected anatomy I could reach. He was about six inches taller than I.
“You will not talk back to me.” (slap on his shoulder)
“You will not make fun of me.” (slap on his chest)
“You will not laugh at me.” (slap on his other shoulder)
“You will show me respect.” (slap on his hip)
“You will pay attention when I’m talking to you” (slap on his stomach)
“You will speak to me in a civil tone.” (push with both hands on his chest)
That last one got him. He grabbed my wrists and collapsed against the wall laughing. “A civil tone? A civil tone? You’ve been reading historical novels, haven’t you?”
What’s a mother to do? I began laughing so he apologized, we kissed and made up.
But that tirade twenty years ago did the trick. He phones me almost every day to ask, in a civil tone, what I’m doing and if I’m OK. And, we always find something to laugh about.
Someone raised him right.
Mandala/Schmandala – Just Don’t Walk Into the Glass Door
When you can’t find a suncatcher to mount on your squeeky clean sliding glass doors to protect your family from walking into the newly polished glass, borrow your grandkids’ washable markers and draw a mandala – kind of.
I’m going to have to clean the glass again aren’t I?
Deer Mommy,
Writing 101 – Today’s Prompt: You stumble upon a random letter on the path.You read it. It affects you deeply, and you wish it could be returned to the person to which it’s addressed. Write a story about this encounter.
Walking my son home from the bus stop I noticed a grubby sheet of paper on the sidewalk; a piece of lined school paper folded in quarters.
“Deer Mommy,” it began in a childish hand. With all the misspellings of a youngster just learning to write it continued, “Don’t yell at Daddy. You scared me. Please. I love you, Sara “.
Oh. I know Sara from down the block.
I carefully re-folded the note, walked down to Sara’s house and slipped the note through the mail slot in her front door.
Lord, Give Me Patience … And a Lock for My Toolbox
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “If I Had a Hammer.” If you could learn a trade — say carpentry, electrical work, roofing, landscaping, plumbing, flooring, drywall — you name it — what skill(s) would you love to have in your back pocket?
I have a hammer – and a screwdriver and a once full and complete toolbox. Over time my tools disappear as my husband “borrows” them and I later find a rusted pair of pliers out by the pool pump, or my phillip’s head screwdriver driven into a plank down on the dock. Let’s not talk about my power tools. I can seldom find the matching battery charger for the tool I want to use. I haven’t seen my beautiful Dremel in years. I found my vise grips serving as the hose bib.
So, the only thing I want in my back pocket is a lock for my toolbox and lots and lots of patience.
Maybe you thought I was kidding?
Don’t Worry … It Was Only a Little Tumble Down the Basement Stairs
I’m the one on the right!
When I grow up I want to be Marilyn. No silly, not Marilyn Monroe … my 88 year old cousin Marilyn.
I am staggered by her tragedies and heartache; the loss of three children and her husband of 60 years who she adored from the age of 14. How many women not only survive such losses but continue life with grace and love and beauty?
I admire her stamina and attitude, her zest for life, and her personality. She is smart, clever, funny, interested and interesting. Her angels, ghosts and demons are reserved for her solitary nights; crocheting, listening to her audio books, Michael Buble, or watching the Food Channel until she can sleep.
She has crocheted hundreds of small afghans for the terminally ill children at Give Kids the World. Did I mention she is legally blind? Macular degeneration stole her sight slowly so she was able to learn to use her peripheral vision to “see”. She puts on her makeup, takes senior transportation to have her hair and nails done, goes to the liquor store and grocery shops by herself if necessary. She is greeted with smiles and loving kindness everywhere. She acquires new friends wherever she travels making lady-like, smart-ass comments and telling slightly suggestive jokes. She’s a clown and a flirt who loves to make people laugh.
So, when we got the call that she was hospitalized with a broken pelvis we were in a panic. My sister and I have attempted to take care of her long distance since her husband died. Marilyn was visiting her daughter out of state when she decided to do the laundry in the basement and fell down the stairs. She was 83.
After a short hospital stay, she was transferred to a rehab center where she enjoyed herself tremendously. She joked round the clock with the nurses, the aides, the therapists and she enjoyed the social activities. She was determined not to become an old lady with a walker. When she was released from rehab, she stayed with her daughter for a short while before deciding that she wanted to go home to her own apartment. She arranged with Delta for wheelchair service and flew home by herself. She and her friends then went to work setting up everything she needed for her home recovery.
We phoned every day and she would say, “Don’t worry. It was only a little tumble down the basement stairs.” And, then she’d laugh, “What’s a broken pelvis among friends?”
Last week was her 88th birthday. My sister and I visited to arrange a gala celebration. She went to the Hard Rock Casino for a little gambling, we took her to her favorite restaurant where she wanted to sit at the bar to drink wine and eat a rib eye steak; we shopped and cooked and had a small dinner party for her with balloons and gifts, linguine with clam sauce and a birthday cheesecake. We enjoyed a two mile walk , sans walker, with her each morning and had trouble keeping up with her pace.
Leaving, we got plenty of hugs and kisses and thank yous for making her feel so special. She joked that she can’t wait to see what we are going to do for her 90th birthday to top this one.
Zip-lining? Any other suggestions?
It’s All Fun and Games Until Someone Loses Their Weenie
We’ve all seen the movie where a man builds a fire by rubbing two sticks together to create a life-saving blaze when he’s lost in a frozen wasteland. Think Buck, the sled dog, and John Thornton in the Call of the Wild. They’d both have been frozen popsicles if that blaze had been my responsibility.
My sister, the Princess, and I arrived at the Myakka River State Park in Sarasota, Florida mid-afternoon. By the time we got the Casita backed onto the site (don’t ask), unhooked and set up we were starving. So, we had cocktails and appetizers and discussed starting a campfire to cook hotdogs. Grilling hotdogs on an campfire is the epitome of “roughing it” according to the Princess and something she’s always wanted to try. She brought kosher hot dogs, buns from the bakery, charcoal and lighter fluid, long expandable forks and a Bic lighter. I was supposed to provide the expertise.
We must have erased from our memories our previous attempt to start a fire. The Princess and I were having cocktails (notice a common theme?) by the fire pit at my cottage. We gathered leaves, twigs and some pieces of wood and made a teepee of them in the pit. It smoldered and smoked. We didn’t have any charcoal lighter so we threw rum on the smoldering mess. Embers started floating through the air and the leaves around the fire pit caught fire.
A successful fire built by my husband, The Man.
I ran to get the hose from the side of the house but it was about 20 feet too short. I was running in such a panic that I landed on my hands and knees when the hose suddenly played out. I ignored my scraped and bleeding knees and palms, jumped up and ran to help my sister stomp out the burning leaves around the pit. I yelled at her to stop stomping because she was wearing my purple Crocs and I didn’t know if they would melt onto her feet. I visualized purple plastic webbing fusing her toes together. Actually, there was no danger of setting the woods on fire. The whole sodden mess was due to damp leaves and wood.
Back to the present and oblivious to our miserable history, we put charcoal in the campfire pit, sloshed it with lighter fluid and lit it. Then we waited for the coals to turn white hot while we had another cocktail. The Princess speared the hotdogs onto our new forks and after a few minutes of holding the forks over the hot coals she began complaining that her back hurt from bending over the campfire. I told her to just put the hotdogs on the grill and turn them occassionally. You guessed it. One fell into the coals and one flipped into the dirt. I told her to rinse them off. 
When she returned to the fire, she said, “I don’t think that was such a good idea.” Huh? Turns out she rinsed them in the dishwater bucket that had Dawn soap in it.
I gathered up the surviving weenies. “You make us another vodka tonic and I’ll plug in the microwave.”
Adventures
Wander Woman 