Fifty Shades of Thrifty (a Parody)

FIFTY
SHADES OF THRIFTY

By

N.J. Harlow

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 © N.J. Harlow

Published by Accio Books

Smashwords
Edition, License Notes

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(After
"Fifty Shades of Thrifty" enjoy a sample chapter

of
N.J. Harlow's new novel "WING GIRL")

FIFTY SHADES OF THRIFTY

by N.J. Harlow

The food fight
had left me with Lucky Charms in my hair. Not exactly the look I was going for
to meet the man who was going to sweep me off my feet.

But when you're a
single mom with two brats from hell that qualify you as having more baggage
than a sorority girl on spring break, meeting a man willing to take on said
baggage is a tall order. My last date, upon spending thirty minutes in the
presence of my tattooed and pierced evil spawn, both of whom looked as though
the phone rang and they answered the staple gun, said there should be a law
called
No Child's Behind Left
as he
bolted out the door, leaving skid marks all the way down the driveway.

But timing is
everything for this intrepid lifestyle reporter. Alas, the four wonderful weeks
the kids spend with their slug of a biological sperm donor began this morning
at eight, leaving me with an empty house for twenty-eight blissful summer days.
Twenty-eight nights during which I turn into a sexual hellcat (never mentioning
to any man that I actually have children) in the hopes of being rescued.

Enough time to
hopefully use my feminine wiles and journalistic street smarts to ensnare a man
into a sexual trap from which there is no escape, teenagers be damned. Let's
face it, men will overlook just about anything if a good roll in the hay is
available on a regular basis and a woman has the ability to suck a golf ball
through a garden hose without smearing her lip gloss. (A skill set I possess,
along with other bedroom talents on my
curriculum vitae
.) If I could lay the groundwork (okay, okay, it's a
poor choice of words, but accurate) over the next four weeks with the right
guy, he'd be hopelessly head over heels for me, his common sense too
overpowered by the wrong head to notice my teenagers were future candidates for
careers as crash dummies.

Sadly, I had no
current prospects on my to-do list.

Until that sweet
marshmallow scent hit my nostrils as I was eating breakfast. (This was before
those magical clovers and rainbows took flight on a parabola over the breakfast
table and entwined themselves in my strawberry red tangles.) The smell of the
sugar woke me up. My bleary-eyed, overworked mom persona faded as I noticed a
coupon on the back of the box.

And my reporter's
radar went up.

Redeem this
coupon for a new husband.

I'd read it in
the Sunday paper. The Coupon King, yes
that
Coupon King, the one who does
those
underwear ads when he's not telling housewives how to save fifty cents on a jar
of mayo, was in town promoting his new book. I knew from his appearances on
network morning shows that he had a great personality, and, more important, was
single. Which trumped my usual standards of
breathing and male
.

The little
leprechaun on the box seemed to be talking to me. I could hear the Irish brogue
from the old TV commercial.
"Get the marshmallow shamrocks out of your
hair, Cassie. Fix yourself up. There's a pot o' gold waiting at the end of the
rainbow."

Which was better
than the pot belly of lead I'd settled for on my first trip down the aisle.

I poured some
skim milk (fantasizing that my kids' faces were on the side of the carton) over
the cereal, took a bite and let the sugar rush into my veins like I was hooked
up to an I-V of sucrose.

I felt alive
again, smiled at the leprechaun and grabbed my cell phone to call the
assignment desk.

***

"
You
want to do a story on the Coupon King?" Dave the
assignment editor shook his head. The short, portly weeble who might be best
described as an unmade bed, slid his half glasses down his bulbous red nose and
peered over them at me.

"What? Why
can't I--"

"Cassie
Jenks, thrifty shopper? We don't publish science fiction at this
magazine."

"I
know
how to shop, Dave."

He smoothed his
black comb-over and leaned his fifty-year-old body back in his chair.
"Yes, I see you every morning come in with a five dollar cup of latte' and
a bear claw from the gas station across the street."

"I can
afford it because I save money on the necessities... by clipping coupons."
I reached into my purse, pulled out the Lucky Charms coupon and waved it at
him. "See?"

Dave shook his
head. "You feed your kids Lucky Charms?"

I took one look
at the food-stained red plaid shirt that covered his bay window, noting his
stomach could actually double as a TV tray if he sat just right. "It's
better than what you had for breakfast. Let me see..." I pointed at
various stains on his shirt. "Raspberry jelly donut, bottom-of-the-pot
coffee from the break room, hmmmm, something with red sauce... leftover
pizza?"

"Pasta from
last night. Still don't think you're the right person for this story."

Time to play
my trump card.
"He's signing books at
that upscale grocery store downtown. The one with that tiramisu you can't
resist."

Dave's eyes
widened as he began to lick his lips. "Your point being?"

"A full tray
of that stuff will be waiting at the
will call
window if you give me this story."

Dave slowly
nodded, grabbed the press release off his desk and handed it to me.

***

The Coupon King,
real name Scott Farelli, doesn't really tell housewives anything they don't
already know. But he tells it assisted by a sculpted six-foot-two body and
sells it with electric olive green eyes and tousled black hair that always
looks as if some babe has just run her fingers through it. He'll go on and on
about double coupon day, searching for special codes on the web, and maximizing
your coupon's value by shopping the sales, but all American women watching him
turn into men, giving him the husband-tuning-out-wife bobblehead as their eyes
glaze over and they fantasize about a real-life pickup in aisle five.

I've got his
basic bio from the press release but the juicy details are found on
Wikipedia
, detailing the square-jawed hunk's most recent
relationships with some Hollywood notables.

All redheads.

Like me. (Of
course, those actresses didn't have to wash marshmallow out of their hair as I
did this morning.)

By the way,
despite raising two poster children for contraception I can still turn a head.
(Along with my other aforementioned skills.) Along with the red hair I'm
blessed with piercing emerald green eyes, classic high cheekbones and an
athletic five-nine body that is built for speed. I've been told I have killer
legs. Well, not
told
directly. I
overheard a conversation involving a teenage stock boy at Wal-Mart who prefaced
that with the phrase, "for a woman her age."

Which happens to
be thirty-five. Same as the Coupon King.

If only I'd been
a confirmed bachelorette like my slutty sister Rachel, I'd have a better shot.
As far as baggage goes, she travels with just a small carry-on.

Anyway, according
to the press release Mister Farelli will start his one-hour book signing at
two, with media avails at three.

Which means I've
got a few hours to put on my game face and dumpster dive, not necessarily in
that order.

***

Everyone knows
the Sunday paper is filled with special sections, book reviews, crossword
puzzles and entertainment stories.

It's also the
best place to find coupons.

Sadly, it's
Friday and my trash was picked up yesterday.

I knew I'd never
make an impression on the Coupon King with one fifty-cent discount on breakfast
cereal. So after a clandestine visit to the office's maintenance building and a
swan dive (five-point-nine from the Russian judge) into a few of those large
blue receptacles, I scored a pristine batch of coupons from last week's Sunday
paper.

On the way home I
dropped by a friend's apartment because I knew she was a coupon fanatic. After
telling her I had a one-on-one interview with the Coupon King (which caused her
to break out in a sweat), she happily lent me her dog-eared Entertainment
coupon book, which still had a few good two-for-one dinner tickets.

Got home, and
while drawing a bath I downloaded a few printable coupons from the Internet to
prove I leave no stone unturned when it comes to saving money.

Now I was ready
to meet the Coupon King. Most women head out on the prowl with a pack of
condoms and a toothbrush. I'm packing discounts all over town.

But they're
discounts with a purpose.

***

The Coupon King
did a double take as I walked into the supermarket and stood a few feet behind
the last few frumpy
hausfraus
who were
getting his autograph. Now most female print reporters look like they have a
lot of city miles on them; the attractive ones move to broadcasting, until they
develop what is known as a "good face for radio" and head back to
print. But there I was, resplendent in a turquoise halter top which showed off
my well-toned shoulders and a short black skirt designed to highlight my killer
Wal-Mart gams. The four-inch heels had me teetering at around six-foot-one. My
heart hit a speed bump as he locked eyes with me. I smiled, muttered,
"media" and he nodded and went back to signing books.

One eye on the
books, one on me.

Incredibly, I was
the only reporter who had showed up, so after signing for the last customer he
made a bee-line for me, looked right into my soul and stuck out his hand.
"Scott Farelli."

I shook his,
maintaining eye contact while trying to keep my voice from cracking as his
Polo
cologne filled my nostrils and pushed the leprechaun
to a back burner that wasn't even turned on. "Cassie Jenks. I'm the
lifestyle reporter for Stylistic Magazine." I lightly touched his forearm,
covered by a tapered turquoise long sleeved shirt that accented his broad
shoulders. "I see you got the memo."

"Excuse
me?"

I pointed at his
tight black jeans which nicely showed off his slim hips. "Black and
turquoise. Wardrobe for the day."

He gave me the
once-over, making a brief stop at my rack, and smiled. "Yeah, I guess we
do match."

"So, is
there someplace we could talk privately?"

"They've got
a back room set up. Right this way."

***

Thirty minutes
later I was done with the interview.

Of course, I had
to throw in some personal questions about his love life. (Being a reporter
gives you the license to do such things. Clever, huh?) Thankfully, he was
currently unattached, having been unceremoniously dumped by a Hollywood copper
top in favor of a ride on a producer's casting couch. Hence, he was in need of
a well-toned shoulder to cry on.

Now it was time
to set the hook. I used an old lawyer's trick, asking a question to which I
already knew the answer. "So, what's the next stop on your book
tour?"

"I've got
another signing across the street tomorrow," he said. "But this is
the last city on the tour. I'm taking the summer off."

"Oh, how
nice," I said. "I guess you've been living out of a suitcase for
awhile?"

"I can't
tell you how sick I am of hotel beds."

Well, I have a
brand new pillow-top that comes equipped with a redhead who will perfectly mold
herself to your body for a good night's rest.
"Well,
just one more night won't be too bad. So, what's on tap for the rest of the
day?"

"Free
time," he said. "So I'll probably just hang out at the hotel. But
that gets old when you're in a town and don't know anyone."

"Well, now
you know
me
," I said.

He smiled,
sending deep trenches into his cheeks and giving me a close look at America's
most famous dimples. "That I do."

I reached into my
purse. "And since you
are
the
Coupon King, perhaps you'd like to join me for dinner." I pulled out a
two-for-one dinner coupon and handed it to him. "It's one of our city's
best restaurants. And as you can see it's about to expire. A shame to let it go
to waste. I believe that
is
one
of your strategies, right?"

He nodded as he
looked at the coupon. "Yes, I do have a chapter on that.
No coupon left
behind
." He looked up at me and raised
one eyebrow. "It's not smart to let valuable.... assets.... expire."

I gulped and
tried to stay calm but my heart began to race. "So, pick you up at
seven?"

***

The Coupon King
downed his last bite of cheesecake, dabbed his mouth with a napkin and tossed
it on the table. "That was an excellent choice, Cassie."