Humor · Writing

The Two Sentence Long Horror Story

Image courtesy of C&K Creations
Image courtesy of C&K Creations

One night, after I’d fallen asleep, my husband landed on a horror site and spent hours devouring short stories. For some reason, he immediately wrote an über brief horror story that went like this:

I returned home from work. My wife was not in her usual spot, which was strange because she’s been dead for two years.

That’s it. I know. I know. It’s not half bad.

My question to you is: Should I be worried?

Think about it. My husband’s sitting in bed, reading on his laptop in the middle of the night, when he, a non-writer by trade or hobby, suddenly decides to pen a horror story – one in which he could feature any number of vapid or unsympathetic victims –  but I, his devoted, albeit it snoring, wife, ends up as the corpse. Dead for two years, already. Like he’d been thinking about it for awhile.

I’m starting to understand why Edgar Allen Poe died alone on a park bench.

After all, we have three cats. At least two of them are jerks. Couldn’t the story have gone something like:

I returned home from work. Magellan, my cat, was not in his usual spot, which was strange because I put his ashes in that urn on the fireplace two years ago.

Okay, so Stephen King already covered that territory in Pet Semetary, but there were other options. For example, bosses. Lots of people despise their bosses. My husband, for one, does not, but, as far as I know, he doesn’t despise me either, so why not take this approach:

I returned to work. Mr. Jetson was not in his usual spot, which was strange because I bricked up that wall myself two years ago.

Or Hubby could have envisioned a situation in which we had a child. Dead kids are super creepy. And imagined spawn – well, you can write almost anything about them without scarring them for life or being arrested.

I returned home from work. My young daughter, Ashley, was not in her usual spot, which was strange because her corpse has been chained to a pipe in the basement for two years now.

Am I wrong? Way spookier than the dead wife scenario. By focusing on the daughter, we’re allowed to imagine that little girl from Poltergeist – all precious and blonde talking to her television – just before her eyes turn black, her mouth stretches into a Edvard Munch scream and thousands of spiders rush over her lips in a black river of legs and bodies. And no one freaks out because everyone knows it’s not about our rugrat; we’d never name a child, Ashley. Not when we could call her Shatner Gallifrey Pants.

How about a neighbor? One of ours revs motors for hours on end in our shared, echoing, back alley as a hobby. Why not him? Is there a better way to vent your frustration about slowly going deaf without anyone getting hurt?

I returned home from work. My neighbor was not in his usual spot, which was strange because I buried him and that damn Corvette engine under the rose garden two years ago.

It’s been a few months now. I try not to worry. I avoid those shows watched by suburban, middle-aged women about suburban, middle-aged women who are murdered by their suburban, middle-aged husbands, who have twenty-one year old mistresses named Bambi. I bought Mace. Magellan is my now my food taster.

Hubby hasn’t written any more horror stories.

But I have.

I returned home from work. My husband was seated in his favorite chair, which was strange, I explained to the hit man, because I thought you offed him two years ago.

Poetry · Writing

Just Four Friggin’ Lines #8

IMG_20150623_225958

Just Four Friggin’ Lines is a daily, weekly, completely random series for people who have the attention span of a goldfish with Alzheimer’s. People who have to cram their verse in between tweezing and waxing. Or mowing, as the case may be. There’s no judgment here; after all, it’s Just Four Friggin’ Lines. You, your monobrow, or whatever your situation may be are welcome.

Read, enjoy, share and contribute your own four-liner in the Comments below. Do it or I’ll give you a noogie. I triple dog dare you. C’mon, it’s Just Four Friggin’ Lines!

Follow Miss Snarky Pants on Instagram at dinsworth or on Twitter @CristyCLewis.

Poetry · Writing

Just Four Friggin’ Lines #5

IMG_20150615_173549

Just Four Friggin’ Lines is a poetry series for people who insist on listening with their eyes. And in honor of those who scribble verses like sleezy phone numbers on their palms and wrists, I bleed Just Four Friggin’ Lines of ink. Are you hemorrhaging words? Share your four lines in the Comments below and stop spurting all over your keyboard.

Poetry · Writing

Just Four Friggin’ Lines #4

IMG_20150612_155636

Just Four Friggin’ Lines is a new poetry series by Miss Snarky Pants – okay, it’s the only poetry series, unless you count my Big Bang Theory Haiku – written especially for people who like their poetry the way they like their flu shots: fast and painless. This might not be Shakespeare, but it’s Just Four Friggin’ Lines

 

Poetry · Writing

Just Four Friggin’ Lines #3

IMG_20150612_011829_resized

This is the third installment of Miss Snarky Pants’ random poetry series, Just Four Friggin’ Lines, written especially for you who get your poetry thang on while waiting at traffic lights. Read, enjoy, follow, share and contribute in the Comments Section below – particularly if you have a four-liner you’d like to pass along. After all, it’s Just Four Friggin’ Lines.  C’mon, there were more words on the back of that cereal box you read this morning. This is poetry. It’s way cooler to say, “I read an interesting poem at that long light on Washington Avenue,” than “I know how many calories are in a serving of Frosted Flakes.” And it’s Just Four Friggin’ Lines!

Poetry · Writing

Just Four Friggin’ Lines #1

IMG_20150610_134148

 

 

Just Four Friggin’ Lines is a new poetry series I’m writing for the lovely people who don’t have time to read my longer humorous, satirical, political or just-plain-indulgent-and-confessional posts. It’s poetry. Written in less than a few minutes, then printed out and photographed – so you know I didn’t come back and tinker with it later. It’s not meant to change the world or even be any good. The poems may be serious, funny, observational, lyrical, raw or bleak. But it’s my way of saying hello and, most importantly, it’s Just Four Friggin’ Lines.

This is number one.

Follow…so you don’t miss out.

***

Miss Snarky Pants is – usually- a humor and satire blog. Apparently, we’re branching into poetry, for no apparent reason. Deal with it. It’s JUST FOUR FRIGGIN’ LINES.

 

 

Humor · Writing

A Waist Is Born

My Waist Size...When I Was 12.
My Waist Size…When I Was Twelve.

I now have this thing called a waist. I know; I had to look it up, too. Apparently, this phenomena occurs when deposits of fat suddenly disappear like Christians before Armageddon, leaving you with two curved dents between your lower ribs and hip bones. Having only observed this waist thingie from afar, I’ve always likened it to a mythical creature captured only on blurry video. A Yeti. The Lochness Monster. J.D. Salinger.

And thanks to the miracle that are high-waisted, skinny jeans – the moment I tried on my first pair, I believed in Jesus all over again – my muffin top, if not completely gone, is tucked snugly into my waistband.

A few friends have noticed my new, slimmer figure, but many have been distracted by my hair, which is growing at an alarming rate for someone who isn’t imprisoned in a tower. Combine that with my new waist and I now have two whole things in common with Gisele Bundchen.

Gisele
Gisele Bundchen – My Doppelganger

Yesterday, I was donning one of my standard big-boned girl tents dresses to wear to my husband’s office cocktail party…and it was too big. Everywhere. I knew I’d lost some weight. My tees hung away from my body, instead of clinging to my muffin top like warm cinnamon glaze. Each week, to avoid looking like a lank-haired, poser, holding up my jeans with one hand as I lope down the sidewalk, I’ve had to bore a new hole into my belt.

The third new hole and dreaded party began what I call The Dress Guess. Which dresses fit me now? Which make me look like a sausage with a belly button dent? Which graze my waist and hips and, did I say waist? I slipped on one after the other and, at no point, did I feel like a sausage. It was like Christmas in July…mostly because it is, in fact, July.

For the past two years, my crammed dress closet has been virtually ignored, with the exception of a few frocks towards the front, all of which are stretchy, Empire-waisted numbers that have each garnered me myriad versions of the question: So when are you due? When I stepped out in a coral and white, fitted, sleeveless dress last night, I felt fierce. Sasha Fierce fierce. All I needed was a wind machine and some blonde hair extensions, and I was ready to march on stage and rip Jay Z a new asshole.

At one point during the evening, one of my husband’s co-workers asked me what I was doing to lose weight. “Nothing,” I answered truthfully. Hubby and I did move ourselves – and our 17,000 books – into a new place a month ago, so I did engage in quite a bit of exercise for a few weeks, but the weight continues to creep off, pound by pound, day by day. In retrospect, I should have answered, “Tumor,” or maybe, “Tapeworms.” Hubby insisted I suffered from an imbalance of the humors.

“Have you been watching what you eat?” the co-worker asked. Yes, I’ve been watching what I eat. In fact, I stare at my food quite intently as it leaves the plate, balanced on a fork, heading for my mouth. For example, this week I’ve seen beef and potatoes, macaroni and cheese, nachos, freezer pizzas, brownies and candied bacon. Last night, as I was pouring myself a glass of milk before bed, I noticed fresh brownies (I baked them for Hubby. Really.), stacked in a plastic storage container in the fridge. I told myself, “I’m going to pass on that brownie,” as I closed the refrigerator door. About fifteen minutes later, I decided to make good on that promise – and I passed on that brownie. I passed it on to my stomach and it’s currently lodged somewhere in my intestinal tract.

The other night, my husband asked, “What’s that dark stuff on your face?” I figured it must have been that crappy mascara I’ve been using or maybe stray brownie crumbs.

“Where?” I asked. “Under my eyes or around my mouth?”

“Neither,” Hubby replied. “Under your cheeks.”

I rubbed both cheeks vigorously with the heels of my palms. “Is it gone?”

“Nope, it’s still there.” Hubby’s forehead crinkled.

I dashed to the bathroom, curious about what could possibly cause my husband to look serious, and ogled my reflection in the mirror. After a moment, I figured out what merited Hubby’s worry. Returning to the living room, I flopped down on the sofa.

“The dark stuff is still there,” Hubby said.

“I know,” I answered. “They’re called shadows. I have cheekbones now.”

Yes, I have THREE things in common with Gisele. And one thing in common with actor, Benedict Cumberbatch, now that I think of it. No, wait. We’re all tall. FOUR things in common with the Brazilian supermodel and TWO with the best Sherlock since ever.

Benedict Cumberbatch - Those Cheekbones Will Cut A Bitch!
Benedict Cumberbatch – Those Cheekbones Will Cut A Bitch!

Granted, Gisele’s waist is tinier, her hair is lusher and longer, and her cheekbones could be used to saw all the lumber necessary to build a log cabin McMansion, but I can already see myself on the cover of Sports Illustrated. In the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalog. Married to a football player. Smug about an effortless beauty I did nothing to earn. Smugger about all things motherhood even though I’ve only been one for five hot minutes.

Whaaaat? Wait a sec. I hate football. I dig for my lingerie in the 70% off sale bin at Macy’s; if any of it matches, it’s pure coincidence. Certainly, I don’t stand around posing in it. I’m no breeder and I don’t aspire to rank just below Gwyneth Paltrow on the Most-Out-of-Touch-Celebrity-Ever Meter. I’d rather have four things in common with John Green or Elizabeth Warren or Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg or Harper Lee. C’mon, Tom Brady has got to be the most boring slice of white bread on earth. He makes beige look daring.

Still…I have a waist, cheekbones and two things in common with Benedict Cumberbatch.

And, probably, not a tumor.

 

***

If you enjoyed this Miss Snarky Pants post, you may also like these:

Yoga Is Not A Character In Star Wars

Part Deux: Yoga Is Not A Character In Star Wars

My Mortal Enemy: The Elusive Chin Up

Plus, follow this blog (use the blue button in the right hand column) and/or share it with your blogging besties!

Humor · Writing

Fictionary: Preventing The Extinction Of My Muffin Top

Image

What Is Fictionary?

It’s a clever word coined by my blogging buddy, Kylie, over at The Life of Kylie, that refers to new words, phrases, or new definitions for existing words or phrases – often punny in nature – created by people like me who have way too much time on their hands. What’s more, she’s turned it into a game. More accurately, a contest for which the prize is muffins or cupcakes. How could I not participate? Due to recent weight loss, my muffin top is shrinking at an alarming rate. A win, on my part, could help me regain my title as the Muffin Top Queen of the Blogosphere.

Will You Help?

Sure, images of starving children in Africa or pitiful pups in cages shown on television accompanied by any Sarah McLachlan tune are probably the triggers for the heart strings attached to your wallet. However, I totally want don’t need your money; I need your likes. Just one like and a comment celebrating my Fictionary genius from each of my loyal readers is all that is standing between this:

A Starving Muffin Top On Its Way To Extinction
A Starving Muffin Top On Its Way To Extinction

and this:

My Goal: Queen Muffin Top Of The Blogosphere!
Muffin Top Queen Of The Blogosphere

Don’t let this opportunity pass you by. Once my muffin top has gone the way of the Dodo Bird or the Saber-tooth Tiger, there’s no bringing it back. As I’m sure you are aware, the future of Miss Snarky Pants’ muffin top has been threatened recently by the destruction of its natural habitat (i.e. encroachment of high-waisted, stretch jeans), climate change (i.e. Bikram yoga), and, most critically, an interruption in the food chain (i.e. I’m out of vodka and lard!). Will you allow your children to grow up in a world devoid of Miss Snarky Pants’ spare tire? I didn’t think so.

Miss Snarky Pants’ Fictionary Entries

Adorababy: (adj.) The point at which an infant stops looking like a potato and begins to resemble a cute homo sapien.

Ex: A few days ago, the sight of little Katie’s squinched-up eyes and crimson cheeks made me recoil in terror, but now she’s adorababy.

Opression: (noun) The mark left on one upon whom Oprah Winfrey has fallen.

Ex: Though my broken arm has finally healed, the opression that the talk show host left on my wrist will never disappear.

Litterate: (noun) The score given to various forms of litter.

Ex: On a litterate scale of one to ten, a cigarette butt rates only a three, whereas one of Lindsay Lohan’s used fire crotch tampons is a ten.

Shampoo: (noun) 1. Faux fecal matter; 2. Non-Disney approved Winnie the Pooh merchandise

Ex: The old lady nearly shat herself when she discovered she’d been sitting on the shampoo that I placed on her seat.

Middlebrow(noun) The third brow which typically connects the left and right eyebrows.

Ex: Though many people think Michael Stipe was the driving force behind R.E.M., insiders claim that it was drummer Bill Berry’s middlebrow that inspired most of their hits.

Not Only Am I Losing My Religion, I'm Losing My Lunch Just Looking At Bill Berry's Middlebrow.
Not Only Am I Losing My Religion, I’m Losing My Lunch Just Looking At Bill Berry’s Middlebrow.

Nexus(proper noun) Blood supply store popular with vampires.

Ex: Forget that True Blood crap; I’m heading over to Nexus to stock up on some O negative.

Microwave: (noun) 1. A small salutation made with the hand when one is unsure as to whether or not the recipient is someone he or she knows.

Ex: He looked familiar, but after last week’s tequila binge, I wasn’t sure so I just gave him a microwave.

Nativity: (noun) The percentage of Native American ancestry that a Caucasian claims to possess.

Ex: I’m at least 1.25% nativity since my great great uncle’s sister’s friend once shook hands with a Cherokee.

Melodrama: (proper noun) Any situation involving alcohol, profanity, verbal rants, racial slurs and actor Mel Gibson.

Ex: Due to the number of recent complaints of Melodrama, the LAPD have assigned a police scanner code specifically for incidents involving Mel Gibson.

Not Another Melodrama, I Hope!
Not Another Melodrama, I Hope!

Mangrove: (noun) A nightclub or bar regularly frequented by single men.

Ex: Now that Bruce dropped that tranny he was dating, he’s been prowling every mangrove on the strip in search of a sugar daddy.

Collide: (past tense verb) The act of two people lying about the same thing simultaneously.

Ex: Mitt Romney and Paul Ryan collide about the details of Ryan’s tax plan during yesterday’s press conference.

Vulcanic Eruption( proper noun) The physiological response that occurs when Spock engages in sexual intercourse.

Ex: Oh, Spock! You’re hot and all, but if you have a Vulcanic eruption in my mouth, I’m going to bite your dick off.

Spock: My Vulcanic Eruptions Register A 12 On The Richter Scale.
Spock: My Vulcanic Eruptions Register A 12 On The Richter Scale.

Now What?

1) Take a moment. 2) Like this post. 3) Comment on my sheer wit and your favorite Fictionary entry. 4) Visit Kylie’s blog and tell her that you want to ensure that Miss Snarky Pants’ muffin top lives to see another day! 5) Pat yourself on the back for being such a lemming do-gooder.

Start baking those Recrimination Muffins, Kylie…

***

If you enjoyed this blog, stop being so friggin’ selfish and SHARE it. It’s easy; just click on those little buttons below. Facebook, Twitter, Reddit – everyone deserves the opportunity to see Miss Snarky Pants’ muffin top in the wild.

Uncategorized · Writing

Setting The Snark Aside

Me And Grandpa (Image property of Cristy Lewis)

Last night I started writing a post about my maternal grandfather, whom I called Grandpa. A nostalgic sort, I tend to sometimes dwell in my memories and the stories told to me by my family. Those places that are sepia-toned and a bit soft around the edges. Tales in which truth and embellishment have become interwoven into the same long braid.

For today, I’ve set the snark aside and offer these instead.

Ma Ma, Me-Ma And The Brood (Image property of Cristy Lewis)

the burial of older men


in the darkness

before the sky cracks dripping yolk sun

she hovers the room

the coffee maker clicks          dribbles

an appropriate dress hangs on the closet door

it is black

with sensible shoes

lined up neatly as pall bearers

***

her father scoffed at time

the today show congratulated william whitted

for inhaling, exhaling, defecating for a century

it is an accomplishment to survive

it is a failure to die

two days ago, her brother – jimmy – failed

he was three years older

***

when she was four

jimmy threw a rock at her head

on purpose

she married young

her limbs scarred as worn out nylons

she married before she reached full height

she married before her underarms needed shaving

she married so someone else could watch

for flying rocks

***

her husband, too, was older

ernie drove the fire truck

sang with velvet throat

walked like a rooster

walked like a snake

depended on the legs the whiskey was wearing

***

she grew older

ernie left

jimmy shook his head

her father just shook

she has yet to bury a man

her mother and daughter were boxed up

and sent off to god

***

she is old now

she hangs from this cliff

with one knobby hand

her husband zips her dress

she combs his hair

today she throws back her first rock

it lands with a thud

somewhere above jimmy’s head

***

Gran Gran And The Brood. (Image property of Cristy Lewis.)

The Last Days


You may have escaped me,

the marble that rolled under the sofa

hidden for years.

I knew your tanned legs and feet,

the palms of your hands –

smooth as tumbled river stones –

the watch face that rested against the inside of your wrist,

your penchant for painting all the furniture

dark brown.

Your sentences often started somewhere

in the middle.

I learned to follow along,

but failed to query

when your kidneys, your heart

failed you.

I never discovered the source of  the incessant ticking,

the wound spring

controlling your breaths,

the truths that kept you going.

What did you think about

blanched and shrunken in a hospital recliner,

cable out because of a storm?

The last time I saw you,

I combed your hair,

bought you a paper,

but forgot to ask what you were thinking

the other twenty-three hours of the day.

Maybe I was afraid you’d start somewhere in the middle,

and – sometimes – a teaspoon of water

can be worse than none at all.

***

“the burial of older men” and “The Last Days” are copyright 2007 and are the sole property of Cristy Carrington Lewis.

***

The snark shall return later this week. If you liked this post, please follow me on Facebook by clicking here.

Comedy · Humor · Literature · Uncategorized · Writing

The 11th Reason Why David Sedaris Won’t Marry Me

David Sedaris – Loves Owls. Hates Dogs And Pussies. (Image via Newyorker.com)

If you’ve read my previous post listing the 10 reasons why David Sedaris, the uber-talented writer and humorist, won’t marry me, you’ll be interested to know that tonight I met the object of my affection in person…and proposed.

Okay, I halfheartedly suggested that he enter into marital bliss with me, knowing full well that our love would be a lie and, in the interest of full disclosure, admitted to him that  if he agreed to make me Cristy Carrington Lewis Sedaris, both us would both likely be charged with bigamy – a third degree felony – by local authorities in the State of Florida. In the unlikely event that it was the fear of an unattractive mug shot that was the source of hesitation on David’s part, I was prepared to present him with a well-researched, legal defense, complete with a loophole and lots of Latin words – all of which would be written in italics to make them more intimidating. Florida law states that “Whoever, having a husband or wife living, marries another person shall, except in the cases mentioned in s. 826.02, be guilty of a felony of the third degree…” Sounds pretty cut and dry. Except that the very first exception mentioned in s 826.02 (1), Fla. Stat. indicates that the bigamy penalties shall not apply to someone who reasonably believes that their prior spouse is dead.

As I would technically be the bigamist in the relationship, it would appear that any reasonable uncertainty about whether or not my husband, Matt is dead would serve as the loophole which could permit David and I to marry without being charged with a felony. How you may ask? Am I planning to take my husband sailing, toss him overboard like in a bad Ashley Judd film, then claim six weeks after his body fails to resurface that he must have become a tapas treat for a giant octopus (Matt loves calamari and payback’s a bitch)? After all, Matt possess a nice, lean body – attractive to a wide variety of deadly sea predators. But no, that’s not the tack I would take. The idea is to avoid criminal charges – and the badly lit photographs that accompany them – not to incur a six page spread in People magazine dedicated to nothing but David’s and my mug shots. Plus, I’m a girl who wants her cake  and wants to eat it too. Otherwise, what’s the point of having a cake, if you think about it? I mean, if all you can do is look at the cake, that’s so fucked up. People like that are  masochists, salivating over cream cheese frosting they’ll never allow themselves to taste. David may be my key lime pie, but Matt is my chocolate lava cake – and both have their place in my life.

Schrodinger’s Cat Theory – Me Learn Quantum Mechanics Watching The Big Bang Theory (image via wikipedia)

No, I propose that we simply confuse the court with science. Why wouldn’t that work? If you’re a Republican, you are likely already befuddled and all I did was write the word, science.  Specifically, I suggest utilizing the Schrödinger’s cat theory, which purports that if you place a cat in a box, you can’t know if the cat is alive or dead while it remains in the box. It could be either dead or alive, and both possibilities are entirely reasonable. Schrödinger clearly didn’t use any of my cats while  proving this theory because they whine, screech, and use their cage as a litter box to signify their dissatisfaction when confined to a small, locked space (the opposite of a “dead” give away, I suppose). Moreover, the longer this experiment goes on – assuming that the cat box is not opened to provide food, water or air – at some point in the future, the odds of the cat being alive  go from 50/50 to 99.99/.01, and not in the kitty’s favor. Regardless, I suggest that we put Matt in a such a box, drug him and seal his mouth with duct tape  to ensure that I really have no idea of his status on this earth. Alive or dead? Who knows? And in that entirely reasonable moment, I could marry David Sedaris without censure. When Matt emerges alive, albeit irritated as hell that I’ve put him through this all so that I can marry a homosexual man who doesn’t know me and collects owls, I doubt there’s a court in the world who wouldn’t let me keep them both. And David has lots of room. We could move in with him. He’s apparently downsizing his owl collection – and then there’s all that space between his teeth.

In the alternative, I did propose to David that should he choose to reject my offer to become his betrothed, he could provide me with the 11th reason as to why he and I will never get hitched. The bastard chose the latter.

So, without further adieu, here is the 11th reason why David Sedaris won’t marry me:

Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk, Not A Vagina (Image via Cristy Lewis)

As David Sedaris sketched this vagina with his Sharpie, he said, “Well, I assume this is what it looks like.” Close enough, David. Close enough.