Red Writing Hood | The Misadventures of Mrs. B

Red Writing Hood: Personal Ad

Sep 232011

Hi friends! If it’s Friday, it must be another Red Writing Hood prompt! This time, we were asked to write a personal ad for either a fictional character or for ourselves. As tempting as it was to write about myself, I decided to continue the Jill/Ryan/Kelly saga. You can read the previous installments here: Jealousy, The Email, and Heartbreak.

SWF, 25, in search of SM, 25-35.

You: Educated. Gainfully employed. Stable. Loving. Able to see the beauty in spending the night in. Energetic. Active, though you don’t exactly need to be training for an Ironman competition. Funny. Patient. Mature (in other words, I hope your place doesn’t smell like feet and moldy take-out containers). Not a Rolling Stones fan (I can compromise on many things but I just hate them). Ready to enter into an adult relationship where we can both be our own person as well as part of a bigger, stronger whole.

Me: Grad student who works full-time. Soon-to-be bestselling author. Have suffered some hard knocks but haven’t we all? Attractive, stylish but not trendy or high-maintenance. Terrific cook. I love watching football and “guy” movies – sincerely. I live to run, to read, to write, and to love my 4 year old daughter.

Yes. We’re a package deal. But I don’t expect you to play Daddy, or to even meet her unless we become serious about each other. In fact she won’t even know you exist until after the background check I run on you comes back clean. Hey, I might be a girly-girl who wears a jersey on Sundays in the fall, but I’m also a mom. And my girl is the coolest, smartest kid I know.

To wrap it up: I’m the total package. Smart, funny, driven, and attractive. You’d be a fool to pass up on this opportunity.

Take a chance on me and I’ll take a chance on you. You won’t regret it.

One caveat: If your best friend is female, don’t waste your time.

Red Writing Hood: Heartbreak

Writing 26 Responses »

Sep 162011

This week’s Red Writing Hood deals with heartbreak – and I just had to use it as an opportunity to continue the saga of Jill and Ryan. In previous episodes, lovesick Jill sent Ryan an “anonymous” email in hopes to get him to break up with his girlfriend, and Ryan reflected on how it had felt to learn the truth. Concrit is welcome, as always!

Jill slammed open the front door, dropped her things in the hallway, then slammed it shut without giving a second thought to what she was doing or why.

He’d called.

She had no idea how she’d gotten through the rest of the workday. She made a good show of looking productive even as her mind reeled from what she’d heard when she checked her voice mail.

His voice. Ryan’s voice.

Over the years she’d never changed her cell number and now she wasn’t sure whether she was glad of it or not.

She followed her evening routine in a daze – changing her clothes, turning on the TV, heating up leftovers from last night’s dinner with the girls. But it only grew cold again in front of her.

All she could think about was that final confrontation.

The look in his eyes. Everything she’d feared would be there. Anger. Betrayal. Pain. Disgust.

He’d accused her of hating Kelly for getting in the way of their friendship. Jill tried to defend herself though she knew there was no defense. There was nothing she could say to make what she’d done sound reasonable. And there was no point in telling him that he was only half right in his accusations, that she thought she’d done it out of love for him. He wasn’t listening to her.

How could you?

I don’t even know you, do I?

Are you insane?

She couldn’t tell him that she’d rather deal with the torture of seeing him with Kelly than with this fresh hell. That his reaction broke her heart twice over. First to see him crushed and distraught when he thought the email was real – and now this.

She couldn’t tell him that she loved him. That she wished more than anything to be able to take it all back.

He’d turned from her and stalked away, his final words hanging in the air.

I don’t ever want to see you again. Ever.

Then the world turned upside down. Her knees gave way and she hit the ground with a thud, though she felt nothing but the pain in her chest. Something or someone was sitting on it, making it hard to breathe. She couldn’t even cry, though the tears would come later. An ocean of hot tears, full of self-reproach.

Over time the aching eased. Graduation removed the possibility of a chance encounter. She didn’t have to see his once warm eyes now filled with emptiness when they fell upon her. But still he’d haunted her. A certain song would come on the radio. His favorite movie on TV. A whiff of his cologne in a crowd of people.

She had loved him so much. And now she didn’t even recognize the desperate, needy girl she’d once been. Time had made her a stranger.

Ryan was now a memory which Jill was careful to tiptoe around, and if she ever bumped into him it was as gently as possible so as not to stir up too much – too much guilt, too much regret.

But now? The sound of his voice brought it all back.

It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? We should talk.

He was so cryptic. While she didn’t believe that he’d call after five years or so just to give her more grief over what she’d done, he didn’t say he’d forgiven her either.

He left his number in the message and Jill had written it down. Now she typed it into her phone. Her thumb was poised over “Call”. She hesitated.

Should she?

Once again, pressing one button would change everything.

TRDC: Glass Slippers

Writing 37 Responses »

Jul 152011

If it’s Friday, it must be time for Red Writing Hood! This week, the lovely Kir chose our prompt. She’s what you’d call a shoe enthusiast (*cough* understatement *cough*) so it was no surprise to me that she asked us to write a story involving them. Concrit is always welcome.

Photo Credit

She didn’t have her dream job – in fact, she had no idea how to chase her dreams or even which ones deserved chasing.

She didn’t have a boyfriend. She’d been on a small handful of dates in her 25 years.

She didn’t have a driver’s license or a fabulous apartment or self-confidence.

What she did have were shoes. Over 50 pairs of shoes.

Lined up in two rows along the bedroom wall. The first thing she saw when she entered. The one thing friends were sure to comment on when they stopped by.

There were black peep-toe T-straps with a tapered heel – her favorite pair. Pink pumps with brown trim. Baby blue tweed with a 4-inch heel. Mint green with rhinstones. Sky-high stilettos with long, delicate straps that criss-crossed up her calves – one pair in silver, one in gold.

On and on. In every color of the rainbow but purple. Some were suitable for work, but for the most part they sat unused until Friday and Saturday night. That was their time to shine.

After much deliberation the perfect pair would be chosen. She would carefully teeter down two flights of stairs from her apartment to the throbbing energy of the street below. Sometimes there’d be a whistle or a “Look at those shoes!”. She’d strut past, struggling to affect an air of self-assuredness while praying for an empty cab to appear before she stumbled and broke the spell. And possibly an ankle.

Those shoes were her power. Her something special in a life chock-full of nothing fancy. They transformed her from a plain, quiet, lonely girl to a girl full of life and energy and maybe even a bit of mystery. The girl she wanted to be but had no idea how to conjure for more than one brief evening at a time.

Like Cinderella and her glass slippers.

Over the years, “she” became “me”. And with that change came a shift in attitude, a sense of self-worth and a lessened dependence on those shoes. I still own most of them, only now they live in bins which are stacked somewhere in the attic. Each pair has a story and a special place in my heart. I can’t seem to part with them even though I no longer have an excuse to wear them. When watering one’s garden, gold stilettos with straps going up one’s legs are hardly apropos.

But that’s okay. I no longer need to wear them, either.

Red Writing Hood: The Email

Writing 10 Responses »

Jul 012011

This week’s Red Writing Hood prompt was: You or your character find a forgotten letter or card from someone important in your life–whether good or bad. What does it say? How does it affect you or your character? What is done with it?

In part one of this story, which you can read here, lovesick Jill sent Ryan an anonymous email which accused his girlfriend of cheating on him. Concrit is welcome as always!

There was a folder along the left hand side of the screen which contained only one piece of email. One which Ryan had avoided like the plague for five years, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to delete it.

But now the cursor hovered over it.

Why not? he thought. It can’t hurt me now. Click.

The past came rushing back.

I’m writing this as a friend. You need to know the truth about Kelly before you get hurt. She’s been playing you the whole time you’ve been with her. I saw her all over another guy last Friday nite. She’s a lying whore. Get rid of her before things get worse.

First he’d sat there, stunned. This had to be a joke. Right?

He re-read. The meaning behind the words sank in. But it couldn’t be true. He wouldn’t allow himself to accept it.

He’d headed straight for Kelly’s dorm room. As much as he wanted to dismiss it, he couldn’t let it go. Had she really been sick that night?

But she didn’t answer his knock. He called her cell. Voicemail. Was she with another guy? Don’t even go there, he told himself firmly. He hung up without leaving a message.

Who else could he talk to? Jill. Of course. He called her and asked her to meet him. She’d help him make sense of this – and if not he knew he could at least cry in front of her.

She was waiting for him when he got there. Even through his torment he noticed that she looked…jumpy. He hadn’t told her what the emergency was, only that he needed her. Yet she bit her lip and bounced her legs up and down as if she was the one falling apart.

He sat next to her and buried his head in his hands. His voice shaking, he said, “I just got an email…telling me that Kelly’s cheating on me…I don’t want to believe it…but what if it’s true?”.

He felt her hand touch his shoulder. “Have you talked to Kelly?” she asked gently. He shook his head. “Good,” Jill said, “you need calm down first”.

Through the haze of pain he knew she was right. She was always right.

For a long time they just sat there like that until Jill broke the silence. “This is so tough. How can a person prove that they were really sick after the fact?”.

Her words slowly sank in. Sick? He never told her what the email said, only what it accused. Ryan raised his head and looked his best friend in the eye. There was something there – sympathy mixed with…what was it? Excitement? Maybe fear?

He shook her hand off his shoulder and stood to face her. “How do you know it has anything to do with her telling me she was sick?” he asked. And it all came out. Within the hour their friendship was over. They hadn’t spoken since.

The worst part, Ryan reflected now, was that he and Kelly only lasted another few months. What a waste it had all been.

He closed the email and leaned back in his chair. Time had blunted the pain of betrayal and lent some understanding to what had occured. And now it was his choice to hold on to the hurt or to let go and move on.

He highlighted the folder and clicked the red X to delete it.

He wondered if Jill still had the same cell number. It was possible. Only one way to find out.

He took a deep breath, picked up the phone and dialed.

Red Writing Hood: Food Hangover

Writing 10 Responses »

May 132011

This week’s Red Dress Club prompt involves writing about gluttony. This is a vague memory of a meal we shared a few years back – one which I found myself wishing I hadn’t enjoyed quite so much…

Ugh.

Rolling over in bed. Groggy. Heavy-headed. Mildly nauseous.

What happened last night? you ask yourself. You search your memory for some clue as to why you feel like you’ve been hit by a truck. You glance over at the other side of the bed but he’s still snoring away. No help there.

Is it the flu or a bug? The only time you feel this way is when you’ve had too much to drink, but you didn’t drink last night. So why this fragile, half-dead feeling then?

You went to dinner to celebrate…something. What was it? Oh. The fact that it was Friday. Right.

You remember sharing the appetizers. Closing your eyes in ecstasy over the seafood ravioli piled high with lump crab meat, swimming in cream sauce. Laughing as you clashed forks with him while fighting for every last bit of meat left on the plate. Sinking your teeth into slice after slice of bruschetta, the tomatoes so heartbreakingly fresh and the bread so crusty and moist you just couldn’t stop yourself from clearing the tray.

Then time for the entrees. He had ordered chicken parmagiana and was presented with a plate covered in cheesy chicken – easily enough for two or even three people. You got the gnocchi which you noticed the people at the next table eating, and your eyes widened when the bowl full of delicate little pillows was placed in front of you. Pink sauce and more of those gorgeous tomatoes, covered in shaved cheese. Exquisite – and plenty of bread to mop it up with, because why let something so good go to waste?

Oh, and then there was dessert. Cheesecake, of course. At least you shared it, but at that point it’s all a blur. You focused on the buttery crust since it’s your favorite part, while savoring a cappucino. That much you remember.

You both stumbled drunkenly to the car, though you’d had nothing stronger than soda all night. Your senses were dulled nonetheless. You groaned as you sank into the seat and unbuttoned your uncomfortably tight jeans which seemed to fit so well before dinner.

And now here you are. Feeling like a bag of mush with a pulse.

Burp! Oh, the acid. Those tomatoes aren’t nearly so delicious the morning after. That nauseous feeling comes back and you consider looking around for some Tums.

You close your eyes instead, hoping to sleep off this food hangover.

But it was so worth it, you think with a smile as you drift back off to sleep.

Red Writing Hood: Jealousy

Writing 28 Responses »

May 062011

This week’s Red Writing Hood prompt was to write about jealousy. This is fiction, and concrit is welcome as always!

She sat staring at the blank email form. Hot blood raced through her veins as her pulse pounded. She knew that if she went through with it and he found out, she’d lose Ryan forever. She pictured his face in her mind and saw confusion and hurt fill his eyes. “Jill…” he’d say, shaking his head in confusion, his brow furrowed. Disappointment would turn to comprehension. Followed by disgust.

But that was nothing compared to having to hold herself back, day after day, loving him the way she did but never being able to show it. Plastering the same fake smile on her face, a smile which never reached her eyes, while it felt as though a giant hand was squeezing her stomach. She would drag that smile out of storage every time he told her how happy he was. Every time Jill saw her. Even though it hurt like hell, she’d smile.

Kelly.

Before Ryan and Kelly had met, everyone thought of him and Jill as a couple. “Where’s your hubby?” friends would joke whenever Jill would show up at a party or at the bar without him. She would smirk and laugh it off, careful not to show the happiness spreading through her.

She knew they were just friends, but it felt like more. They had the foundation – communication, trust, knowledge of each other’s lives and thoughts and dreams. They had even tried at one time to take things further, but Ryan decided it would be better if they stayed friends. “I couldn’t live without you as my best friend,” he told her, “and I would be so afraid of things ending badly”. At the time Jill didn’t care – as long as they were together, somehow.

But things had changed. Ryan wasn’t single now. He didn’t have time for her as he used to. He didn’t even hug her the same way anymore.

When Jill was with the two of them she spent much of the time observing Kelly and asking Ryan questions inside her head. Why not me? What’s wrong with me? Don’t you see how much I love you? What’s so special about her? What does she have that I don’t have? I already keep your dreams in my heart, I know every line of your face with my eyes closed. I love you. Why didn’t you pick me?

“It shows how much more important you are to him than Kelly is, that he’s so careful with your friendship,” her mother told her. Yeah, right. She was so important that he couldn’t bear the thought of kissing her, of holding her the way she saw him hold Kelly.

The cursor blinked…blinked…blinked. A fake email address, set up on one of the library’s computers. Jill took a deep breath and asked herself once more if she could actually go through with this. Her fingers were poised over the keys. Finally they started to move.

I’m writing this as a friend. You need to know the truth about Kelly before you get hurt.

She took pains to make sure he wouldn’t recognize her way of speaking.

She’s been playing you the whole time you’ve been with her.

Keep it simple.

I saw her all over another guy last Friday nite.

Kelly had plead illness that night and told Ryan she was going to bed early.

She’s a lying whore. Get rid of her before things get worse.

Shaking with a mixture of adrenaline and self-loathing, Jill grabbed the mouse and pointed at the “Send” button.

“I love you, Ryan” she whispered.

Click.

Red Writing Hood: Fighting Myself

Writing 9 Responses »

Apr 292011

I’ve written this in response to today’s Red Dress Club prompt: Write about a fight. I’m not happy with it, but I know that if I wait around til I’m 100% pleased it’ll never be ready. The important thing is to throw my hat in the ring again, so to speak, since it’s been so long. Any concrit is extremely welcome!

Another email. From him.

My heartbeat quickened against my will. After all, we were just friends.

Why the sudden flush in my cheeks, then? The goofy grin which spread across my face as soon as I saw his name in my inbox? Why did the sight of his name make my day the way it did? And why did its absence disappointment me so?

I had known for some time that he wanted more. More than just emails, though we did go back and forth several times a day. More than just sharing ourselves on a computer screen.

And once again, he had managed to add a reminder that he was always available at night for a conversation over the phone. I tried to pretend that I didn’t see his meaning.

Why? Why don’t you want to talk to him over the phone? What’s the difference?

I can think about what I’m saying via email. I can read, reread, edit. I can be the best me.

The poor guy is trying so hard. Why can’t you give him a shot?

I don’t know. Everything’s getting complicated. Everything’s changing.

What’s so great about your life now? Take a chance.

I can’t. It’s too hard. I don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s too new.

You’re comfortable with being miserable and alone. Because it’s all you’ve ever known.

I’m afraid.

I know.

I came up with every excuse in the book as to why I was unavailable. Sometimes I was genuinely busy. The rest of the time I made myself busy.

I don’t want this!

Yes you do. This is exactly what you’ve always wanted.

I hate you!

Which is why you won’t let yourself be happy.

As the war waged on, a war he knew nothing about, I held him at arm’s length. He stuck around. Sharing himself with me every day, showing interest in me, wanting to get to know me better. Bless his heart.

I’ve never been a daredevil. I’ve always been afraid of hurting.

I know. I know you. I am you.

I don’t know what will come next.

Let go. Just let go.

I can’t.

He won’t hurt you.

I know that, I’ve always known that.

What’s the problem?

It doesn’t seem right! There’s no struggle, there’s no chase. He’s just…there. It’s too simple, too easy. He’s making it too easy!

There’s nothing wrong with that.

No one has ever just liked me before! For me! I’ve always had to work and work.

And see where all that work got you so far? Nowhere!

It doesn’t make sense.

That’s what makes it right.

It took a martini happy hour to give me the courage to do what was inevitable from the first. I had only wasted time letting my heart and my brain fight it out the way I’d been. My heart had won.

I’m so tired of this. It doesn’t make sense anymore.

So I put down my sword and picked up my cell. I typed and sent a text.

“You know something? I think I really like you.”

Finally.

Red Writing Hood: Finding Beauty

Writing 46 Responses »

Mar 112011

Today I’m happy to once again be sharing with The Red Dress Club’s Red Writing Hood. This week’s prompt was to write about something ugly, and find the beauty in it.

My piece ties directly to something I wrote here earlier in the week and how I’m trying to work through it. Concrit is always welcome.

I stand before the mirror, forcing myself to look. To stare, even. Fighting every instinct, every desire to turn away. I didn’t come here for avoidance. Not today.

Oh dreaded full-length mirror, I detest you. I’ve managed to work around looking into you at this time of day. Fresh out of the shower, skin still faintly pink from the steamy spray. Any other morning, I hurry about my business and focus intently on drying my hair, on using a Q-tip to pick up any mascara rings, on rubbing in lotion and applying makeup. Absorbed in my task, so my eyes don’t wander. So I can’t shift focus.

Today is different. Today I start to accept what is, instead of crafting this parallel “If Only” universe of beauty and thinness. A universe which serves only to remind me of how dissatisfied I am with the reality of things. One which does me no favors. One which, I know, only reminds me subconsciously that “me right now” isn’t good enough. This needs to change.

My eyes skim the extra flesh, taking careful note. Certain words float to the top of my consciousness like bubbles in a glass of diet soda. Abundant. There’s so much of me. Round. Even my curves have curves. Striped. I’ve never had a child but I bear the stretch marks – one less thing to worry over when the time comes, I guess.

I’m reminded of a Botticelli babe – all curves and plumpness. I tell myself that I am no worse than that. Even though I don’t believe it. I’m beyond plump. But I tell myself anyway, over and over. I force the words to come. I start to focus on positive attributes of my loathsome body.

The heavy arms? They wrap my husband and loved ones up and pull them close to me. They’re strong, they lift and carry when others can’t.

The breasts? I hope to one day use them to feed my children. And on a good day they can really fill out a sweater. As long as I’m being honest with myself.

Those plump, scarred hands? They’re strong enough to knead dough, and those scars are the mark of a person who does what they love – creating in the kitchen. They hold other hands and bring comfort where they can.

The wide hips? They’re part of what makes me a woman, what makes me capable of carrying life within me. They sway and swish when I dance to my favorite songs.

The thick legs? Strong enough to keep me moving and getting things done. They get me where I need to go, whether it be around the house or to work and back.

I gently touch each part as it is acknowledged. This body works so hard for me. This body is beautiful. It deserves my love and respect and all the care I can give to it. I can’t push it aside and pretend I don’t care about it anymore.

No longer is it my enemy. It’s the only thing I was born with, and it’ll be the last part of me to go. We have got to start working together.

We’re on the same team from now on.