Labels: fiction, Internet, LIFE AS GRETA, me, writing
Meet Greta. A 30-something single-mom living in Chicago proper and ghostwriting for a man she has never met. She’s stuck in the fashion of the 80s, obsessed with food, Oprah, Do-It-Yourself television, and Internet shopping.
If that isn’t intrigue enough for you, then know this—Greta is going on an adventure of love, life, and motherhood. You’ll be along for the ride. AND you can add your two cents into the storyline. That’s right! I’ll be taking comments, suggestions, and sometimes incorporating them into the plot.
Labels: fiction, Hybrid Mom, LIFE AS GRETA, me, serial fiction, writing
I remember when I enjoyed sex. The hot, stickiness of the sweat. The animal attraction. The idea that my husband wanted no one but me and was proving it to me with every pounding rhythm into my body. Oh and the spontaneity. In the living room. On the floor. Bedroom. Bathroom. While trying to have a conversation on the phone. Well, it was wonderful once. Until we had the baby. And I wanted nothing more than a few hours of un-interrupted sleep and no hands pulling at my already sore and chaffed breasts.
"Hon?"
It was Dan. He'd just come out of the shower after his workout. He's second work out of today. Even though it was after ten o'clock at night. I'm convinced he's a maniac. I haven't left my pajamas in three days.
"Have you seen my back button down?"
That would be the shirt I ironed this afternoon. After the baby had power puked on it over the changing table only a few hours before. And then I had washed it. And dried it. And then finagled the urchin down for a late nap so I could iron it before Dan graced us with his presence after working a full day at work.
"It's on the chair. By the closet." I pulled the burgundy bead spread closer to my body making sure to tuck it in on each side. The constant breastfeeding chill hadn't left my body since the feeding a whole hour ago.
Dan nodded and headed straight for the chair. Naked.
I know that dampness of his body--well toned body at that--should turn me on. Or at least bring some sort of stirring into my nether-regions. But instead, I am blase. And tired. And most of all, craving sleep. And for every moment Dan prances around the room, getting necessities ready for his morning routine, it is a moment less I can enjoy sleep. And with every minute passing, I am a minute closer to the next nursing routine. Only mine is about fifty-two minutes away now.
"How was baby today?" He grinned tossing the towel into the hamper and sliding the mirrored closed door aside.
"Penny was fine. Corrigable anyway."
His eyebrows furrowed. I couldn't tell if it was from the lack of clean trousers in the closet or at my modest attempt at sounding cheerful (if not humorous).
"She had a little rice cereal today. Has to be the first time she hasn't just spit it out and smeared it on her face."
I carefully left out the details. The part of admitting that she then did spit up the cereal on his new shirt.
Dan nodded, ignorant of the earlier mishap.
Labels: fiction, meme, writing prompt
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