Overdue Apology

Thank God there’s a 3 entry limit on these things because I can’t stop.

Dear Husband,

I’m sorry I stabbed you with my fork when we were dating, but you were stealing my olives. Plus I owed you from that time you shot a Roman Candle at my head.

Your Loving Wife


And that’s a true story. (I love you Drew!)

This weekend’s Trifecta Challenge is to write a letter of apology in 33 words (addresses, salutations, closings not included in 33 word limit).


A Scandalous Apology

To continue the theme from last week’s Scandal

I’m sorry you’re hurting, but your husband loves me, not you. I’ll make an awesome step-mother to your kids if he leaves you. Why do you put yourself through this? Let him go.


This weekend’s Trifecta Challenge is to write a letter of apology in 33 words (addresses, salutations, closings not included in 33 word limit).


This weekend’s Trifecta Challenge is to write a letter of apology in 33 words (addresses, salutations, closings not included in 33 word limit). I love this idea! “I’m sorry” already rolls off my tongue too many times a day to count. A million apologies are swirling in my head. Where to start?!

Dear angry red-faced woman who called me Jezebel,

I am sorry if breastfeeding offends you. I really do try to be discreet. But it’s difficult when you make a scene. Did you know your husband didn’t even see me til then?


Although I am a proud nursing mama, this has not actually happened to me. However, I have witnessed similar situations on more than one occasion.


This week’s Trifecta challenge word is scandal.

3   a: a circumstance or action that offends propriety or established moral conceptions or disgraces those associated with it
     b : a person whose conduct offends propriety or morality <a scandal to the profession>


I met my boyfriend’s wife today. She doesn’t know about us, but she knows. She came into my shop today, desperate to make eye contact, and she kept pressing her lips together like her lipstick was going somewhere if she didn’t hold on to it. She seemed really sweet though, and I don’t know why, but I kind of hope she liked me too.


I met my husband’s girlfriend today. I didn’t know for sure until I saw her, but I do now.

Hours later, I was still trying to process the fact of this other woman over the roar of my toddler crying angrily for another popcicle and my infant expressing himself with a spatula and muffin tin. I wandered through the house picking up scattered toys and laundry, determined the house would look nice when I confronted my husband. As I passed through the dining room I caught sight of myself in the China cabinet’s mirrored back panel: ratty gray shorts, once-white tank top, lopsided ponytail, mascara under my eyes, something orange-brown crusted on my shoulder. What was that? Sweet potatoes? Vomit? No wonder. And then I realized something – underneath all that, the girlfriend looked a little like me. Cleaner and more confident though. Me five years ago.

Minutes before my husband was due home, I decided to check his email. It was something I had told myself I’d never do, but there it was. The very first message, and it had already been marked as read:

Hey Babe! I met your wife today, and she is delightful! Lunch tomorrow? xoxo

I pointed to the monitor when he walked in, not sure what I would say. He leaned over my shoulder, squinting at the screen, then stood up, chuckled, and said, “There’s no scandal here. I’m just having my cake and eating it too.” He winked and gave me a playful pat as he breezed out of the room.

Trifextra: Week Eleven

Trifecta says: For this week’s Trifextra, we’re switching things up a little bit. The 33-word stories are fun to read, but we wanted to give you a bit more leeway this weekend. The challenge is to write a response that is between 33 and 333 words long and uses the words listed below. Use the words however you wish, but make sure that all three appear in your response. Oh, and they must appear in order.


I am numb to the outside world; and beyond not feeling it, I hardly hear it and I only see a blur. It’s this damn cacophony in my head. I occasionally hear people laugh about having OCD when their little quirks shine through. “I just have to have the lettuce between the pickle and tomato on my hamburger – if the pickle and tomato are even touching I won’t eat it! I must have OCD!” they laugh gleefully. I’d like to wash their mouths out with soap. It’s not the compulsions that make Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder such a pain in the ass; it’s the never-ending nightmare of obsessive thoughts, layering themselves over and over each other in my brain until I think I’ll just start screaming and never stop – like one of those lunatics you see in the old movies, chained to a bed and wild-eyed. If you could see in my head on the worst days I think it would look like one of those “live bait” bins at a country gas station: insects piled thick and deep, writhing against each other, not sure whether to fight the container or each other. And that’s me: the container. So go ahead and have your hamburger that special way that makes you oh-so-unique among your friends, entertain your little pet eccentricities, just keep it away from me. I’d hate to see what happens if your face becomes my new obsession.