This is my entry into this weekend’s Trifextra Challenge. This week’s challenge is asking for exactly 33 words including an idiom somewhere within.
Month: March 2013
This is my entry into this weekend’s Trifextra Challenge. This week’s challenge is asking for exactly 33 words including an idiom somewhere within.
What is the deal with Toilet paper (or bathroom tissue, or toilet tissue, or ass-wipes)? Why can’t there be a delicate (read ‘delicate’) balance that manufacturers can use to make the perfect TP?
This weekend my family had a guest in the house. His name was Friggin’ Flu. I think my son met him at school, made friends with him, and eventually FF followed him home. When my son came into the house, he had already began to show signs of contact with this unwelcome house guest, his eyes watering, his skin pale in color. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but then my ever gracious host of a son introduces FF to me. In no time at all my temperature was a-rising and I began to weaken. Thank heavens I had the sense not to introduce this rude visitor to anyone else close to me. I told my lady about our visitor and she visited the drug store to pick up a few essentials that may actually scare off the rude visitor before he could ruin the long weekend.
By Friday, my son’s temperature was 104, so along with my ever present box of kleenex, I headed out the door,son in tow, rude visitor with us, and my lady, who drove. Half way to the hospital my son informs us that he was getting sick, and did, all over the back seat of the car. He even threw up on the headliner, as well as on my favorite hat and my lady’s coat. I dropped my lady and my son off at the hospital, and headed home to clean up the car. Of course that idiot of a visitor, Friggin’ Flu came with me. Apparently he had this thing with hospitals, he hated them.
While cussing at FF, I inadvertently turned my head from the road for a brief second and when I looked back up, I see a 2000 lb moose standing directly in front of me on the highway. The good Lord must have been watching over me because somehow I managed to get our rackety Chevrolet Cobalt around the back leg of the enormous animal and then steered right back on the road.
By now the smell of my son’s vomit, coupled by the bile in my throat from that near death experience had caused me to get very nauseous, so much that I had to pull the car over on the side of the road. Bent over the edge of the ditch, I got sick as well, (hey, at least it wasn’t in the car!) I noticed FF giggling as I heaved most of the week’s suppers.
When I got home I worked to clean the car the best I could before experiencing yet another piece of my house guest’s power, Diarrhea. I made it to the toilet when my lady called. She needed me to bring in my son’s MCP card so that they could admit him to the hospital. She said that we were in for a six hour wait to see the doctor. This weekend kept getting better.
I swallowed a few meds that promised to give relief from Diarrhea and I was off…in my vomit filled cobalt, along with that ignoramus of a sidekick, back to the hospital. Getting to the door and running for the nearest bathroom, I just made it to the toilet. I am thinking that I am now in Heaven. A toilet seat, a locked door, no sign of FF, and then I reach for the toilet paper.
ONE FRIGGING SQUARE AT A TIME! What the hell? Piece by piece the small squares of paper break off in my hand. How am I supposed to wipe clean with this? It gets worst. In an attempt to grab enough paper, the roll hooks in the stupid holder and now I am getting toilet paper pieces. Small pieces of the small squares! How the hell do I deal with this? Half an hour later, the toilet paper dispenser disassembled using a dime I had in my pocket and I finally have enough paper to successfully wipe my ass.
When I come out from the bathroom I am greeted by two security guards, my worried girlfriend, and some foreigner doctor who is buckled over in pain. Apparently he had been waiting for 45 minutes to use the only available bathroom in the entire hospital. He rushes in like a madman. I smile while leaving, fully realizing that there isn’t a piece of toilet paper anywhere near that hell hole of a bathroom. Not only that, I think that I may have plugged the toilet as well.
When I get back to the waiting room, we sat and waited another two hours before finally getting in to see the on-call doctor. He looked very familiar! Where did I see this guy? Oh ya, the bathroom (hehehe)
Long story short, our son had a fever, the doc recommended Tylenol and Advil, and we were on our way home. She drove. What a day!
Years prior to meeting my lady, I dated a lot. One of those dates was with a new woman who had just moved to our town. She had classy written all over….and those leather pants…drew me right to her.
We had dinner a few times, nothing more. I wanted more, but there was just something inside that warned me of impending danger. Then I wanted her even more. I could tell that she was fond of me as well, or at least that is the impression that I got. She would call almost every day, asking me to drop by, have a drink and a chat.
She had the longest legs I ever seen on a woman. Long and sleek. Cold black hair that fit her just right, and a perfect face; even her perfume was just right, not too strong, but strong enough to tell you that she was in the room. I wanted more than friendship, a lot more.
I never asked for more because I just never had the courage, that and I witnessed her shoot down guys who were far more confident than I was.
It was easier to be her friend. Sure she would ask me to do things for her,mostly computer work, but hell, it was worth it, just to spend time with her.
She moved on, so did I, but I always regretted not pursuing her a bit more. Years passed and I never seen her, and then, just last week, she called, “My laptop crashed, could you fix it please”.
Her husband dropped it off, I explained my rates, he agreed and left. When they came to pick it up, she flipped. “Pay you? For What? Friends don’t charge friends! No hello’s, no thank you’s, just an endless barrage of curses at both him and me. To think that it could have been me in his shoes, married to her, abused by her.
I now consider myself a lucky guy for letting her go.
This is my entry into this week’s Trifecta Challenge. The word is Lucky (Adjective)
I found out something this weekend…men and women are different. No, I don’t mean that one sex has more bumps than the other, everyone knows that, but we are different in different ways. Take for instance the way in which we think.
This past Saturday we were treated to a beautiful sunny day. Given that I live in Western Newfoundland, that is quite the mouthful. Usually around this time of year we are up to our knees in snow (well we still are actually), but the temperature actually rose to +10 degrees Celsius (That’s 50 degrees Fahrenheit to our American cousins), which is really warm for this time of year. I woke up the minute the sun came up, and naturally I wanted to enjoy this beautiful day.
When my lady finally awoke ( I had already ate, fed the little guy, and cleaned up after him), I approached her to see how she wanted to spend this glorious day. I even provided a few fun suggestions such as taking a bicycle ride, going to the beach with the dogs (the shoreline has been snow free for several weeks and the dogs really needed a good run), going for a car ride somewhere, and other great ideas, and her response was “Let’s clean the basement”. My heart sunk.
Why spend the day in a dark basement, among the winter’s junk and dust when we could be outside? I had so much energy. Her response? “The sun obviously energized you, so why not make good use of this energy by cleaning the basement?” I could have thought many many good uses of this energy other than cleaning the basement, but like I said earlier, women and men think differently.
Okay, I tried to work with this. “How about we clean the basement this morning, and this afternoon we do something I want to do?” That didn’t work, because her response was “We will see”. I remember mom telling me “We will see” and it didn’t mean squat, I feel that this situation is much the same. What did we do in the afternoon you may be wondering? We cleaned the garage. Oh well, now that the basement and the garage is clean, that frees up next weekend…right?
Nope, she already has next weekend planned. She plans to paint the entire house. My girl is a hard worker, and yes, I know exactly how lucky I am…
Thanks to a very kind nomination from The Imaginator, (Check him out, his blog is equally awesome) I have been awarded the Awesome Award of Epic Awesomeness (try saying that ten times with crackers in your mouth). As with most of the other blog awards, there are three rules (some have more, some less), and they are 1. Write 10 awesome facts about yourself ( I suppose I should try and think on this one, and make the facts at least mildly amusing or entertaining); 2. Nominate ten other bloggers who write equally awesome content; and finally 3. Inform the others that they won. (the easy part)
First I guess I should start with ten awesome facts about me (Only ten??? I could write for days…). Here goes, in no particular awesome order:
As for my nominees, I have a blogroll that features many amazing writers. Below is a list of the blogs I checked out this morning.
The third part of this award is to inform the winners that they have won the award. The letters are in the mail.
There you have it, I fulfilled all the requirements of this award. Now if you will excuse me, I shall go and hang my award next to all my other trophies and awards. Well to be truthful, I hung it next to my 1976 Spelling Bee award, my most and only prestigious award to be posted on my wall of fame.
As she shuffled across the floor, feet never seeming to lift, she found her way to the counter. Reaching in the cupboard, she slid her fingers from the bottom of the door and up until she found the knob. Carefully propping herself against the counter, she reached inside the cupboard to find the perfect bowl.
When the correct bowl was discovered, she carefully put it on the counter. She then felt her way across the cabinet and found the drawer where the utensils were stored. She found her whisk and lay it on the counter. One hand in the flour and one in the bowl, she was able to judge exactly how much flour she needed, the same for the eggs and the other ingredients. She carefully mixed the ingredients together, always with her secret ingredient of love. When this was finished, she poured the mixture into cupcake pans, clicked the oven controls to the exact heat (she memorized the number of times she needed to hit the button to get the perfect heat setting) and she put the cookies in the oven.
She scuffed her way back to her favorite chair and sat down and told us stories of when she was little. When the oven beeped, she returned to the oven and took out the steaming hot cupcakes that she made from scratch. Slowly making her way to the fridge, she reached in and found exactly what she wanted, mostly from memory. She took out a bowl of icing that she had made earlier that day, and proceeded to cover the cupcakes with the tasty topping.
She asked that we come over to the counter, and when we did, we were each treated to the tastiest cupcakes in the world.
My grandmother, Emma Luedy, was a strong woman. In her life, she survived the hit and run death of her husband, she raised eleven children, she dealt with diabetes (which caused her to go blind), she took a heart attack, and underwent two surgeries to remove blood clots. In all her life, she never complained once or got depressed over anything.
In her spare time, she wrote stories (they say that she is where I get my story telling skills), songs, and poetry. She maintained a flower garden, grew her own vegetables and did all her own cooking, which also included the cupcakes I described above. and through all of this, she never let anything get her down.
I used to drive my nana to the grocery store every month. I still remember her shuffling through the aisles, chatting away. She could really move. At 17, I had a difficult time keeping up with her.
From time to time, her relatives from New Waterford would come to the island to visit. They would sit at her little table and her little house would fill with laughter and stories of the old days.
These days I am heavily involved with finding out more about my nana’s side of the family. I created a facebook page devoted not only to the Luedy families, but also of the Blanchards, Roaches, Muises, and any other family I can link to the tree. I have learned some amazing stories from my newfound relatives, and I plan to write these stories in a book in the near future. I would love nothing more than to have my Nana here by my side, chatting to relatives from all over the world. I know she would love it as well.
The past is a scary thing sometimes. Such was the case for Elly Bromback. Elly has been receiving psychiatric care for the past ten years now, mostly to help her get over the horrid years she faced as a child.
Elly’s psychiatrist, Dr. Helen Hastings, recommended that Elly revisit her childhood home. She felt that upon re-entering the home, Elly might overcome of her fears.
Elly hesitated at first, but after the long climb up the stairs, she felt confident that she could now put her past behind her. Her hands trembled as she twisted the old glass doorknob, and putting her shoulder against the door, she was able to open it.
That all too familiar odor hit her as she entered the dark kitchen. Once inside, she shuddered to think what would happen if she seen him. This was not about to occur, as he passed long ago, shot in the line of duty, buried a hero.
As she walked down the hallway, a cold chill filled her body. Carefully heading towards her old bedroom, a squeaky floorboard filled the emptiness with a loud creak. With that, Elly broke down in tears, falling to her knees on the floor.
All at once she was back there, lying beneath the covers, remaining as quiet as she could, hoping that for one night her daddy would forget she was there. Everything was still now, and then it wasn’t. The floorboard creaked, and he burst into her room, getting ready to infect his little girl with his cowardice and cruelty. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. All the horrible noises were back, the sound of his belt hitting the floor, the sound of the mattress squeaking. Suddenly, her scream sounded, and Helen came to her rescue, holding Elly in her arms.
“The bastard!” cried Elly. “He died a hero, but he was nothing more than a pedophile who raped me and my sister every night, even after mom died!”
This tale is my entry into this week’s Trifecta Challenge. This week’s word is Infect: contaminate, corrupt <the inflated writing that infects such stories>
33 words for the picture above: My entry to Trifecta.
Crawling from the ashes
of our almost destroyed Earth
it’s newest inhabitants surge forth
a building on the hill with stories of fail
a warning for all
protect the earth or it shall fall
At just over four feet, all the courage in the land
he protects his little cousin from all that’s at hand
a piece of string tied to a mop makes a trusty steed,
He’s ready to take on dragons, he fights for whoever is in need.
He wears an birch branch on his side, it acts as his sword
after a hard battle, milk and a cookie is his only reward.
With the battle all over he comes into the house
hugs me and his mamma and then goes back out
with a milk moustache and chocolate all over his face
to save the world and make it a better place
He walked tall, all six foot five of him, mostly with his head held high, looking high into the heavens. A proud man who dressed the part; but that was about it. For everyone else in town he was but a joke.
His parents had money, you could tell from the clothes he wore. Three piece suit, long sleeve shirt with solid gold cuff-links. He wore the same thing every day. We used to wonder if he washed his clothes every evening, or he had several the same style, or he just wore em dirty. Nobody ever got close enough to tell whether the clothes were clean or dirty, nobody gave a damn.
Some families would have had him committed, but his parents were too proud. They raised him and he stayed at their side until the day they had both passed, his mom and dad each in their late nineties. Then he was on his own. Alone. No brothers and sisters; I guess that after raising a son like that, they probably didn’t want any other kids. He must have caused them grief for sure. Back then nobody understood disabilities.
The first week after the funeral he walked up and down the street, still proud, but different. His proud smile replaced with a tired frown. Sad really.
The second week his clothing grew tattered and worn, and he looked hungry. Merchants and store owners offered him food, but growing up proud, he turned them away. Some said that he slept in ditches, others say that he still lived in the old house where he grew up.
By the end of the month, nobody seen him anywhere. Some worried, but most didn’t seem to care. We rode out to his house on our bikes, and we found him.
There he lay, sprawled across the kitchen floor, his parents’ picture grasped in his hands. I guess it was his time to go. He still wore his fancy clothes, all three pieces, tattered and worn.
this is my entry into this week’s Trifecta challenge. The word is ‘time’
: an appointed, fixed, or customary moment or hour for something to happen, begin, or end <arrived ahead of time>
b : an opportune or suitable moment <decided it was time to retire> —often used in the phrase about time <about time for a change>