Blog Shorts

Reception

We had done it. It was over. It was beginning. We were elated.

And then like the weight of a thousand bricks, it hit me— I WAS STARVING.

I made my way through the sea of people but each one wanted to stop me, congratulate me, hug me, kiss me. Precious moments that could be spent inhaling everything in sight.

I thought back to the tastings and the menus and the phone calls and the caterers— bacon wrapped figs, chicken satay, shot glasses of gazpacho. What had we decided again?

My eyes roamed everywhere.

There! Behind the bar— a waiter with a tray of... what was that? Coconut shrimp? Did we decide on coconut shrimp?

"Congratulations!" Mwah. Mwah.

Was that a cheese platter over by Aunt Rita? I think it's—

"Congratulations!" Mwah. Mwah.

Another waiter. Why was he moving so quickly? Were those vegetable spring rolls? No— chicken empanadas!

I lunged towards them but was intercepted by open arms.

"You look stunning!"

"Thank you."

Mwah. Mwah.

"When did you get so skinny?!"

"I haven't eaten in two months."

"HAHAHAHAHHA..."

My bridesmaids were sitting at a table, huddled around a plate. Uncle Scott was tossing back smoked almonds from a bowl on the bar. My dad was holding court, both of his hands brandishing identical beef skewers.

I made my way towards the door to the kitchen. Surely, a waiter would be out soo—

"The ceremony was just beautiful!"

Kathy. My mom's friend.

"Thank you."

Mwah. Mwah.

I remember distinctly ordering blue cheese pear pastries. Mike didn't want them. He wanted to get mini crabcakes instead. I had insisted.

A tap on my arm. My sister.

"They want to take family portraits."

"Now? Can I get something to eat first?"

"The photographer said we're losing the light."

"Oh. Okay."

I followed her. My heart full. My head buzzing. My stomach feeding on itself. The emptiness creeping up into my throat.

Is it possible I would faint?

A hand floated around my waist and turned me around.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"You look beautiful."

"It's becase I haven't eaten in forever."

He smiled and then presented a tray from behind his back.

"Yeeeeeesssss."

I picked up a pastry, placed it in my mouth and let it sit on my tongue— feeling the consistency change as the crispy dough gave way to the soft filling inside. The richness of the cheese, the sweetness of the pear— they complimented each other perfectly.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Then I ate another. And another. And another.

This week's prompt was "all about gluttony - eating and drinking to excess".

In The Silence

We stared at each other.

I had said my piece.

It was thought-out, rehearsed and sensible.

He had said his.

It was flimsy and ridiculous at best.

Then I watched myself like an onlooker as it escalated.

It escalated so loudly that people had gathered.

And now there was silence.

I hid my embarrassment with righteousness.

Feigned dignity as we continued to stare at one another.

My father once told me that if you are having an argument and you hit a patch of silence, the first one who speaks loses.

Silence.

It was agonizing.

Silence.

Did he know my dad's theory too?

Silence.

I think this is why my parents divorced. Neither was willing to break the silence.

He glowered at me.

I glowered back.

It was unlike me and I was afraid he knew it.

The top of my right thigh itched. I scratched it without looking.

One of the rules of my father's theory is that you can not shift your eyes. Shifting your eyes is as bad as speaking. Glance away? It's over. You lose.

How long could two people possibly stare at one another?

His eyes were dark blue. Almost gray. The whites were yellowish and dry. I scanned the jagged red lines searching for cracks. He had a hole pierced in his ear but it looked like the earring had been taken—

Crap. My eyes were shifting.

I secured my gaze.

Was I wrong? Was I being unreasonable?

I looked at myself through his eyes.

Crazy. That's what he's thinking.

My leg was shaking. I pressed it hard into the floor to make it stop but that only made it worse. I swallowed audibly.

This was it. I couldn't stand it anymore.

I opened my mouth.

Just as I did, he looked down.

I clamped my mouth shut.

And then he spoke.

"Alright, you can return the shoes. But for an exchange only."

My dad would be so proud.

This week's writing prompt is: Write a piece about a fight. What happened? Why? Who "won"? What were the repercussions?

Detour

It was early.

I looked around at the other passengers on the subway. Long black coats. Sunken eyes screaming for coffee. Each struggling for space as they contorted their arms to read the paper or play on their smart phones. How was it possible to be so close to so many people yet avoid eye contact with every one of them?

The doors opened.

I pressed my way out of the car onto the platform. People streamed left and right, funneling up to the street or further underground.

My office was in the same building as the subway stop so I never had to see the light of day once I reached midtown. 

I rode the elevator up with about ten people, some of which I had known going on twelve years. Brief nods were exchanged, then silence, then "DING"— everybody scattered to their respective desks, offices, and cubicles.

I had a 9am meeting with the new head of my department.

I dropped my things on my desk, hung my coat and went to the bathroom. No lipstick on my teeth. Eye liner smudge free. Hair parted evenly.

As I was about to leave, I paused at the full length mirror. I turned to see myself in profile. Smoothed my shirt over my post-baby belly. Almost, I thought.

Then I took a deep breath and walked over to my new boss's office.

His door was closed.

His assistant said he was in a conference room down the hall.

She'd take me.

She led me to one of the only rooms on the floor with no windows looking in from the hallway. It had a thick modern walnut door and it glided open effortlessly.

Inside sat two people I recognized. Neither one my new boss.

My stomach rose up into my throat as I took in the stony faces and the paperwork. I was frozen in the doorway, my chest caving in on itself. I tried my best to look graceful as I walked over to the table and sank into my intended chair.

Orchestrated sympathy and corporate speak.

Hotness filled my ears preventing me from hearing anything they had to say.

Through pounding heart, I said my piece too.

And then it was over.

In under an hour, I was back on the ground floor carrying everything I had arrived with that morning and a promise from my now ex-asisstant that he would have my belongings shipped home.

Home.

I looked towards the stairway leading to the subway. Then I looked past it to the revolving door that led out onto the street.

As I stepped outside, bright sun and crisp air smacked me in the face.

And then I walked.

I didn't know what this meant for my career. I didn't know why I had been let go after twelve years of receiving nothing but accolades.

I only knew it was Monday morning.

And I was heading home to my darling six month old baby girl.

I wouldn't think about anything else until tomorrow.

This post was based on this week's prompt: DETOUR. It is an event that I have wanted to write about for some time and I thank The Red Dress Club for giving me a way to tell it.

Free Swim

I undressed on the beach by the benches. Pulling off my shorts to reveal the crotch of my bathing suit underneath.

It wasn't really a beach, more like a plot of sand dumped from a truck onto the side of a lake.

I watched the other campers running half naked towards the water, pairing in twos for safety, then proudly traipsing down the dock hand and hand. Each pair got to the end, waited a moment for the lifeguard to blow the whistle and then took the plunge together.

I did not see him.

Yesterday, he had said we should be swim buddies today. It wasn't a question. More of a statement. But I had nodded vigorously.

T-shirt still on, I pulled my hair back into a ponytail. I wrapped the band once. Then twice. And then a third time. Slowly, I smoothed the bumps back into my hair with my finger tips. Then I peeled off my ankle socks. One. Then the other. I placed them neatly in my sneakers.

I did not see him.

"Come on!" shouted my counsellor, already halfway to the lake.

I pretended not to hear her. Tightened my ponytail. Decided to place my pile of clothing a little more to the left.

"COME ON!!!"

"One second!" I yelled back, a little too loudly, as my eyes flitted up and down the beach, scanning the bare-chested boys, ignoring the girls.

It had been over a week since the movie in the rec hall. We had sat in the back on the floor, behind even the counsellors. I hadn't been able to see an inch of the screen but our knees were touching and I dared not move. When no one was looking, he had turned to me. I let my eyes meet his just as his mouth met mine.

I did not see him.

I was wearing my favorite bathing suit— a black one-piece with a red cherry pattern. I had worn it a million times before but now, as I pulled my shirt off, I realized that there were two cherries placed perfectly over each of my breasts. Heat swelled in my cheeks. How had I never noticed?

"Are you coming?"

It was Kim. Her suit was purple, cut high on her legs with a racerback. I crossed my arms awkwardly over my chest, an attempt to cover the cherries. 

"Let's go," she said.

I nodded without looking at her. Tried my best to let my arms swing casually as I ambled down the beach towards the lake.

Forever searching.

The dock felt abrupt underneath my feet. The whistle blared louder.

As Kim's hand reached for mine, I saw him. I couldn't tell if he was with another boy or another girl, but it didn't matter.

He was paired, had taken the plunge and was already in the water.

This post was written for the red writing hood based on the prompt "Water gives life. It also takes it away." It is my first fiction piece.

Twelve Lessons Learned at Blissdom

1. You are not famous.

2. You can TOTALLY be famous!

3. When you listen to the opening keynote speech about insecurity and vulnerability and think— I outgrew those in high school!— know that for the next three days, you will feel like a freshman who wandered into the senior prom without a date.

4. Bring your own water. People in Nashville somehow survive on only iced tea and lemonade.

5. Use your phone and laptop recharging time wisely. Or be prepared to fight another blogger to the death for a seat next to the outlet.

6. If someone asks you for a stack of business cards, do not say "Sure! I've got a whole box in my room!" You are mistaken. That box is back in New York. You will spend the remainder of the conference squandering your last two cards on the off chance you meet Oprah or George Clooney.

7. Those freebie moms will squash your fanpage and eat it for breakfast.

8. Don't waste your time trying to talk to people that aren't interested. There are plenty of people you can learn from who are inclusive and generous.

9. Be one of the people who is inclusive and generous.

10. Always pack a pair of presentable pajamas. You never know when you might have missed the Pajama Party memo.

11. Be prepared to feel inspired, discouraged, motivated, and crippled all within one hour session.

12. On the plane home you will meet one deluded person who says— "Oh my god, you're Mommy Shorts? You are TOTALLY FAMOUS!"

Self-Portrait

The assignment was to make a self-portrait.

Even in kindergarten, I recognized it as the art project of a lifetime.

I was an artist.

I was unique.

This would combine both those crucial elements in epic fashion.

I surveyed the elements.

Construction paper, magic markers, googly eyes, yarn.

I selected my paper color of choice. Purple. Always. I cut a piece of pale pink paper into an oval and pasted it on top.

I studied my blank face.

Grabbing a bold black marker, I began with my eyes. Almond-shaped. Then my nose. I remembered how my grandfather taught me to draw a nose on the back of a napkin once. How it should be spaced in relation to the eyebrows. Eyebrows. I tried to get the arch just right. Ears. You couldn't really see my ears. They were covered by my hair.

Hair.

My hair was my opportunity.

I looked around the class as everyone glued brown or black or yellow or red yarn to either side of their construction paper heads. None of those options were right. I had "dirty blonde" hair. Part brown, part blonde. That's what my mom said.

I set to work.

I carefully glued one piece of yellow yarn next to one piece of brown yarn and then repeated, altering the colors on either side. I paid close attention to where I placed the glue, making sure that it dried out of sight.

The teacher announced that it was time for recess. When we got back, we would hang our portraits on the wall for everyone to see.

I ran out of class, proud, excited. Certain mine would be the most original, the best.

I bounded toward the jungle gym, easily climbed to the top and swung my legs over the bar. Then I threw my body backwards until my dirty blonde hair practically swept the ground.

As I dangled upside-down, I pictured my self-portrait amongst the others.

I imagined the sea of sameness and then I found mine.

I grew uneasy.

The hair didn't look like my hair at all. It looked... weird.

I had tried too hard. It was obvious.

I remained separate from the other kids, my head swimming with uncertainty.

The teacher signaled the end of recess and I dragged my heels back indoors.

I was embarrassed.

No longer looking forward to showing off my work.

It started back in kindergarten with the creation of my self-portrait.

The yearning to be different.

Coupled with the fear of standing out.

Who taught me that?

This post was inspired by the RemembeRED memoir prompt to write about a memory of kindergarten. Thank you to Kelly from Dances With Chaos who convinced me to post it.