Baring Teeth

I flopped backwards on my bed. Dangling my feet, I stared at the ceiling and sighed long and with feeling.

"What's wrong with you?" my sister Parisa asked me as she walked into my bedroom.

"I need a vacation from blog writing."

Silence.

"I think I'll take this week off," I said, testing the waters.

"No you won't," was her immediate reply.

Frowning, I propped myself on an elbow so I could direct the full force of my pout at her. My pout is crazy powerful. "But I've written so many posts lately, for all kinds of different sites. Can't I just have one week off? It can be my Christmas present. I know Santa would agree I've been a good girl this year."

Parisa shook her head in the pragmatic way she has, obviously immune to my pooched lips. "You went too far with the good girl part. No one would believe that." 

Not shockingly, I didn't really believe it either. "What should I write about then?"

"Write about me." Then she laughed. "Doesn't it just crack you up how I always think you should write about me?"

"Not really."

"I think it's funny." Still chuckling, she said, "Whatever you do, don't write something Christmas-y. That'd be obvious."

I did what I needed to do: I painted tomatoes.

"I don't want to write. I want to paint." I pursed my lips. "Maybe I'll paint a picture. It'd be work, because I'm guest blogging on Pens Fatales about museums on Friday. It'd all tie in nicely."

"Oh geez," my sister muttered not-too softly. "Do I want to know what you wrote about on the other blog?"

"Probably not."

"I didn't think so." After a moment, she said, "Shall I bring you some water for your watercolors?" 

I smiled brilliantly. My smile is even more potent than my pout. "Yes, please."